Vacation Day

Doing business in the United States while living in Mazatlán, I am too often stuck at my computer and on the phone for what seems like hours or days on end. Determining I need to, on occasion, get away (like any of my stateside counterparts) I have ‘vacation days.’

“Oh sure,” you might say. “You need a vacation from your short walk to the Malecón, beach, several diverse restaurants and a frappe wielding coffee shop? What?!”

And I would say, “Yes, I need a vacation from my neighborhood, pleasant as it is. I need to play tourist in this tourist town once in a while.”

Chatting about my ‘vacation days’ with a gringa friend, who lives and works in my part of town, she thought the idea was truly an inspiration. We made a date to take a ‘vacation’ from our vacation lives. Sharing the concept of my normal ‘vacation’ routine she agreed that whatever unfolded was fine with her. She has adapted to Mexico very well, better than I in many ways.

Typically, I start at the Pueblo Bonito for a swim then work my way down the beach stopping at several hotels along the way for swimming, a beer or two, a snack, or whatever I fancy. Often I lunch at Pancho´s as I have fond memories of the place from the glory days in the Golden Zone many years ago when one night at the harbor I was under ‘house’ arrest and almost went to jail and almost got deported from Mexico. Of course, mordida (the bite – a bribe) saved me.

The first leg of our trip is a bus ride from Centro out to the Pueblo Bonito Hotel across from Sabalo Country. Waiting for the bus in Centro in July is like putting your face in front of an open oven while a pizza is cooking at 425 degrees and waiting for the cheese to bubble. All that my ‘date’ can conversationally manage to squeak out from a red, dripping wet, gorgeous face is “I’mmm melllting.”

Fortunately the Sabalo Cerritos bus, although more crowded than I’ve ever seen it, is air conditioned and it offers some relief for the twenty minutes it takes to get to our first stop. We bound out of the bus, stroll across the street and through the lobby of the hotel to the pool, placing our bags on the one unoccupied chaise on the pool decking. We don’t care. We are only here for a short dip in the pool before we head down the beach. In error we remove our funky, non-hotel-issue towels from our bags and toss them into plan sight. That, plus we are the only gringos in the entire establishment make our presence very obvious to hotel security. Who cares? I think, I do this all the time. I was here with a pal from California recently and we hung out for an hour. We’re gringos, we can go anywhere and into any property on the beach with impunity.

We barely have time to get wet in the pool when a young, uniformed man politely asks us if we are staying at the hotel. Of course we are not – he knows that. Admitting our trespassing we are summarily asked to leave. I want to yell over my shoulder “I wouldn’t stay at your pinche hotel if you paid me! but, of course, we walk away quietly as I wonder what has happened to the gringo impunity that I have for so long enjoyed.

With a minor degree of trepidation we boldly stroll up the steps and into the next hotel pool area eliciting only a brief, unconcerned glance from the security guard. We’re in. Not a luxury property by any standards but, we’re in. Again, we are the only gringos. Depositing our bags, this time on the patio wall overlooking the beach, we slither into the extremely crowded pool. Immediately we perceive that the pool cleaning chemicals are fighting a losing battle with the sweat, candy wrappers and urine of the swimmers. Bottle caps, cigarette butts, and long black hairs (not short curly ones, thankfully) float by our ever-widening eyes and twitching noses. We wonder about what we can’t see in the water. We look at each other, jump out onto the pool deck, grab our things and agree that we need to get into the Sea of Cortes to rinse off some of the pool gunge.

In a stroke of luck the beach palapas at this establishment are mostly vacant so we stash our stuff on shaded chaises and bolt into the waves to scrub down. Wearing salty, sticky skin we stretch out in the palapa shade, drink our water, gaze out across the beach toward the sea and engage in pleasant, idle ‘vacation’ conversation peppered with a bit of salty repartee. An idle hour later it is time to find the next diversion as I figure we have one stop before a planned, pool side, 1pm happy hour, which is the only item on the schedule for the entire day.

I suggest the El Cid as our next gypsy stop. At the top of the stairs, the guard asks if we are staying at the hotel. What, are we that scroungy looking – two security stops in only three

places? We tell him we want to have a few beers and he haltingly allows us into the hallowed confines of a horde of partying tourists, ridiculously loud music, screaming kids, unavailable patio tables and overpriced beer, which we decide not to order. Take that, uptight security guard! But the pool is clean and a tad cooler than the sea so we immerse ourselves in the water and float and lounge and, for a vital interval, escape the relentless heat. But happy hour at the Costa is near so we grab our gear and head south.

Pleasantly, we are greeted at the Costa with welcoming smiles, an agreeable breeze and a shady beach-front table where a bucket of happy hour beers is quickly delivered. The music is not overly aggressive and the vacationing crowd here is not unruly. This is a fine vacation day stop-over so we bask in the shady ambience and our mutual appreciation for an era of Mazatlán lost in the mists of waves and time and ‘progress.’

Seems we both have an attraction for that Mazatlán that still lives in our memories. The time when the Golden Zone was the jumping, energized center of everything ‘vacation.’ I can’t visit the El Cid (remember the disco?), Costa de Oro (the old swim-up bar and an Alfonso Especial), Playa Mazatlán (ah, the original Mexican Fiesta), Los Flores (those crazy happy hours) or Jungle Juice (classic rock and roll at happy hour in the upstairs bar under the palapa) without sliding into reveries of a different, and in many ways, a more vibrant Mazatlán.

Happy hour beers, three dips in the pool and a few less brain cells later, we force ourselves onto the beach to our next nostalgic destination. Easily slipping into the Playa Mazatlán Hotel we quickly blend with the more traditional guests, if in a crowded atmosphere, a slightly more sedate environment. We enjoy the pool and once again revel in wet relief from the afternoon sun.

This vacationing can be a daunting task. Four pools, four beers, a couple miles of hot sand and we are beginning to fade. We need fuel. We need a cheeseburger in paradise.

Of course the only things the same at Pancho’s these days from the time when I had a yellow Jeepster, a red dog and an illegal charter boat, are the perfect beach-front setting and Pancho. But the cheeseburgers are still pretty damn good (if you ask for Oaxaca cheese and not that yellow ‘American’ junk) and the beer is cold – so that’s what we order. Burgers and beer. My vacation day companion used to live less than a block away and I used to eat here almost every day. Ten or twenty-five years can slip away and yet we can come back and sit at the same table and share the experience of today. We are lucky. Pancho strolls by, briefly chats, and successfully searches his memory for the recollection of my companion as we silently appreciate our history.

Now it’s time to go home, both of us fatigued from interloping through all this sun, sand, security faux pas, other ‘tourists,’ and beer and burgers. The bus back to Centro is a cool, uncrowded, relaxing ride. We stand on the sidewalk in the long shadows, hug goodbye while promising to have more fun together and while wishing for more hours in the day we wander away in opposite directions, south and north respectively.

Strolling back home I smile at the world while realizing how lucky I am to know what I know, have had all the experiences I have had in Mazatlán, and still be able to be a tourist in this tourist town. A woman, a total stranger, walks by me going the opposite direction and broadly smiles back.