July 6, 2008
Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 11
July 4th, 2002
Our independence day is spent independent from decided action. From beginning to end, it is a day spent in following whims. After our traditional escapade to George's for coffee, where a group of southern mission teenagers have descended and thrown George's restaurant and his wife into harried chaos, we breakfast at home on ham and cheese eggs, bagels and peach nectar and watch CNN, car chase standoffs and celebrity fluff until we become motivated to seek out reality in our island paradise.
Our attempts to rent a golf cart at CARS-R-US are foiled because, while they are half price, they are all rented long ago. We jaunt to the grocery store for more water, chatting withe cashier who has been there every day all day and is beginning to regard us as regulars. Later we wander to a ramshackle place on the beach called Estel's, where the menu is written on a chalkboard and the table inside is clogged and stacked with games of every sort. We lunch on conch fritters with a special sauce that tastes remarkable like McDonald's Big Mac sauce. On a chair next to me lies a wooden bowl, wooden sailboat and a big conch shell we bartered for next door with a sleazy brown skinned old man with rotting teeth whose dirty salesman routine didn't work as well as his bargain basement prices. As the day continues to move toward the horizon we decide to drink our way down the beach. Having begun with rum drinks at Estel's, we move to Mango's where George and I impetuously order doubles of the most enormous, yummy exotic drinks I've ever had. Slightly tipsy and mellowing, we find ourselves at BC's, ordering Pina Coladas and chatting with Jim from Texas. We linger there for nearly an hour, shooting the shit before moving on.
We're pretty slammed when we reach our own Crazy Canuck's and suck down a few Mango Tangos. The conversation gets lively and we leave with some reluctance to finish our mission at Coconuts where we drink solo and watch the bar wenches, thick with jewelry, clumsily try to reconcile the cashier slips. I am solicited by a local woman who, like many here on the island, work on the beach offering handmade jewelry and hair braiding. It's hard to say no and I end up buying a black and white beaded necklace.
Quite drunk, we come back home and dress for a late dinner. Recommended by the barflys at Crazy Canuck's, we decide on Margarita's, a Mexican restaurant up the street only open for dinner. When we arrive, we are escorted through the building and seated on the upstairs patio where the dark is rapidly descending. Intrigued by the sound, we order armadillo eggs for an appetizer, which turn out to be the most delicious poppers I've ever had. The margaritas are so tart with lime and salt that they are nearly undrinkable and the entrees are merely mediocre. But dessert is huge, fluffy, flaky, sweet sopapillas dripping with honey. Stuffed with sweet alcohol and spicy food, we can barely finish up no matter how delicious and end up carting them home for breakfast.
Relaxed, tired and sun burnt sore, the afternoon that began so wildly ends quietly and we find ourselves without regret about our lazy independence day.