Addendum Baja, Mexico: Cabo (Day 7: 12/27, Saturday, 2 of 2)

Of course, the coda to the previous, Stranded in Civilization entry is that Eric was not disappeared, and we returned to the hotel together.

Which was the Hotel Mar de Cortez.

The name of which I took care to remember.

Mar. de. Cortez.

Baja, Mexico: Cabo (Day 7: 12/27, Saturday, 2 of 2)

The evening's spent chasing elusive (and we find out later, shuttered) gay bars: Rainbow Room and the Hangover.

Traipsing around town, up and down dark alleys, in and around tourist hordes, past restaurant promoters and "street merchants" peddling their soft and hard drugs, I'm hating on Cabo.

Cabo's a horror show.

Cabo is for spring breakers and ugly Americans in cargo pants and polo shirts, bleached blonds and black polyester and that particular kind of ugly orange that some white people get when they're too tan.

Cabo's for club-crawling, and saying yes to overpriced merchandise in brightly-lit storefronts on the strip; yes to muttered proffers of ganj and coke and what have you, yes to Cialis and yes to hillibilly heroin.

Part of it is my already dimmed mood, I'm sure, but I can't imagine enjoying, even on a good day, this Cancun 4 Grown-ups.

But I've been feeling guilty that Eric hasn't gotten laid on this trip--can it be that I'm not only my own best cockblocker, but for others as well?--so it's chin up and legs in the air, metaphorically speaking.

An hour or more, trudging the strip, the empty back alleys, rear entrances of hotels, looking for a gay bar, which, as it turns out, is actually the gay bar because, apparently, a provincial, isolated town the size of Cabo can only support one watering hole for homosexuals? I funno.

My feet are tired from flip flopping up and down dark streets, but my impeccable and implacable sense of duty (to Eric's sexual gratification) keeps me going, and it's only until Eric tires that we turn back to the hotel. Let's get the car, I offer, and give it another shot.

And there it is. We've given up, and there it is: a mere five blocks from our hotel. Goddamnit.

Las Jarras, yes, the same name as the one in La Paz (is it a chain of Mexican gay bars? Like Blimpies?). Chagrined, we get up in there, and try to make up for lost time. I have whatever Eric's ordering at the bar, and I dunno what it is about dudes and their need, regardless of who they prefer to sex (hehe), to get me fucked up.

One thing leads to another, and we strike up a friendship with a London transplant to SF, Paul, who's there with Omar, who fills me with chills of apprehension in his pathetic and frenzied attempts to be sexy by rolling the "r" in his name. O-marrrrrrr, he says, swaying ever closer.

Drunkeness. Time telescopes. We step outside for cigarettes and a breath of fresh air (yeah, yeah, ironic), when I experience the luxury of my first time being gay-bashed. A pick-up lurches past the bar and someone throws a full can of beer at us, shouting, "Maricones" (faggots). I'm lucky enough to be in the line of fire and am drenched. Fortunately, I'm just wearing a teeny tunic over my bikini, and all I do is shrug it down to my waist.

This, apparently, is Miguel's "in." He's been eying Eric, and smooths on over with inquiries about my state of semi-nudity. Conversation ensues.

More time passing.

Eric's made a new friend, and Paul's using me to get away from his "little pet" (Omar), so I'm bopping on the stage with Paul and couples that are feeling sexy (even if they're not).

On another break, I go out to find Eric's disappeared.

Which is unfortunate.

Because he has my ID.

My money.

The keys to the hotel.

And.

I have no idea what hotel we're staying at.

Which is great.

Being in a country where you kind of don't speak the language that well. Not having any identification. Or any idea where you are staying.

I return to Paul and relate my state of affairs, and he promises me a place at his bungalow should Eric fail to appear.

I'm fucked, I think to myself. Fucked.

My Anti-vacation

I like this girl's website as a general, superficial, mind-numbing, consumery rule.

But the following entry is my idea of The Horror: an all-inclusive vacation.

Gah!

I mean, let's be real, it's not that I wouldn't take it over working. But still.

Maybe I'm just jealous. [grin]

Baja, Mexico: La Paz -> Cabo Pulmo -> Cabo San Lucas (Day 7: 12/27, Saturday, 1 of 2)

The early morning drive to the hotel dock doesn't bode well for Eric's planned dive. I'm to drop him off, then make my way back to the hotel, a day putzing around town, then spent in sun worship at Tecolote, a day gloriously alone.

But, no.

The water's choppy and shark-gray. Eric's not optimistic, though I'm bullishly sanguine, as if my insisting that diving conditions might be okay will make it so.

Nope.

I hide my disappointment and we're off for breakfast. Eric's been obsessed with a place called Baja Biscuits, so that's where we head. There, he has the eponymous biscuits and gravy, and I the breakfast burrito of eggs, potato, avocado, and salchicha, topped with a creamy chipotle sauce and a Mexican-style Minute Maid Orange Juice that is essentially sugar water and orange flavoring that would never fly in the U.S., let alone California.



Eric's eager to be out. I'm less so--a vacation without Rancho Viejo is no vacation at all--but tacos are hardly a (socially acceptable) reason to take up residence in a place, and the man's insistent. As a result, we're migrating south again, down the Transpeninsular, busting a left at Buena Vista to take the scenic route to Cabo Pulmo in the hopes of scallops at Nancy's, essentially the only reason to come to Pulmo, besides the coral reef.

Alas, for the coral reef, the weather's shite, and alas for Nancy's, its lunch hour and the offerings are, shall we say, meager compared to the dinner menu.



The scallops are still soaking in a bowl of water (should I have asked for them though they weren't on the menu? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?), so Eric and I both settle for the shrimp, which, though nice, are diminished by the stale-ish (or maybe just not freshly made) tortilla that comes with.



While we wait for the check, I manage to break the door window on my way to photograph the restaurant signage. Granted, it's a piece of cardboard propped in the sill that's simply flopped to the ground, but I'm racked with guilt nevertheless. Clumsy American.



I'm still mourning my tacos de arrachera; the dirt roads rumble past, the playas a distant, green-blue.



Finally, San Jose del Cabo, and the corridor to Cabo San Lucas.

The evening's a blur. This is the night a friend tells me, over the internet, about the untimely death (aneurysm, Arteriovenous malformation, AVM) of a guy I knew, fleetingly, in a past life. I'm bewildered and unusually quiet, and attack my meal at Lolita's in a pale imitation of my customary vim and vigor. The chicken mole, the beef burrito, the chile relleno, the chicken taco arranged on my plate go down without photographic archiving, ditto the Pacifico.

Everything's dust in the mouth.

I am, in truth, mostly jealous.

Nevada City Weekend, 3/13 - 15

Spent weekend at the house of an ex-lawyer, current farmer.

Along with one New York-based masseur/sex worker (happy endings), one current office furniture saleswoman (previously worked with Connecticut Public and had received an Emmy for a documentary), one nurse fresh out of nursing school, one SF English teacher, a couple who own a farm and rent out goats for landscaping, and another area couple.

Seven of these folks were gay men. (And I wonder why I never get laid. Fuck.)

I got to:

1. sit in a hot tub and gaze at the stars
2. get within a foot (no fence) of an ostrich
3. hug a baby emu
4. hug baby goats
5. play with a tiny kitten

I also was:

invited back for harvest season at the rate of $200 a pound (of work)

Potentially more to follow.