July 8, 2008
Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 13
June 6th, 2002
The sky is already a little gray with light when we go out to the beach at 5 am. Amazingly, there are scattered figures moving about already, walking to unknown destinations to start their day. I lay in George's arms, surprisingly awake but relaxed, in a chaise lounge ten feet from the lapping waves of the shore and watch the sky grow pink tinged and blue illuminated in the growing sun. Despite the intensity of the light here so close to the equator, sunrise is still a gentle thing and delightful to watch as the world stirs. A woman from the hotel comes out to sweep the bar floor, open to sand and wind and sea all night.
We go back to be for a brief piece of shut eye since we must wake for a golf cart by 8:30am. Rousing at 7:30, we drag ourselves to breakfast at George's. We are not there long before they are besieged once again by droves of teenage missionaries and their chaperones, who by coincidence are staying at the Playador. We wolf down our food, mine a spicy Juevos Rancheros, George's an omelette, and try to depart ASAP. One of the group leaders next to us, obviously from the South by his loud, irritating accent, is beginning to rhetoricize.
Most of the morning we rumble around in our golf cart, a big, green thing with enormous mud tires that looks like a golf cart on steroids. A bit of shopping and a lot of waffling on how we should spend our day finds us at the Jambel Jerk pit for lunch, a deserted restaurant where the waiter watches TV and seems to be a favorite of the locals. George orders curry and I order jerk and we share. The chicken is spicy but good despite the skin and bones but the best part is the fresh coleslaw, crisp and vinegary.
We decide to parasail again since Tony offered us a two for one special for our second time. We go back to the dock and find the boat out for a long run with about 10 parasailers and not due back for an hour. Wandering about town again and touring the southern back roads, we waste some abundant daylight and return to Fido's dock. The guy who works for him says he is already out again and when we find out he plans to charge us full price, we decide to bag parasailing. It's a long, casual stroll back down the beach and after a bit of air conditioned boredom, we decide to take a dip in the pool.
Our swim turns into a romp of teasing, dancing and playing for an hour or more, with George swimming underwater between my legs and holding my bikini bottom for ransom. After so much activity, we are hungry early and decide to try a restaurant off the beaten path called Casa Picasso.
It opens at six and we drive up in the golf cart just as they swing open the picket gate door. The restaurant is in the bottom part of a white, clapboard house and is ironically situated right in front of the tail end of the airport runway so that planes shake the room and drone out conversation when they land every 20 minutes. But other than this small inconvenience, the place is charming. Run by a young, hip couple trying to make a go of it in Belize's island paradise, they have been open scarcely two months. There is only one young local man who serves as a waiter and whether because of his nervousness or genuine interest, he keeps up a running conversation with us about the ins and outs of the island off and on through dinner. It seems as though he might have missed his calling as a tour guide and his enthusiasm often leaves him searching his English repertoire to find the right word.
The restaurant itself is like someone's back screened porch, surrounded by a sparse but growing garden. Inside it is lit by candlelight and a bit warm, despite several ceiling fans. Eclectically decorated, it reminds me of a Pier 1 with it's tin deco, wildly colored tables and chairs and mix and match pottery. The best part is the music, pipped in from the back room, and it is a mix of oldies, classic rock and jazz. They have cinema Wednesdays here where one wall becomes a screen and they do dinner and a movie TBS style. The movie this week will be Breakfast at Tiffany's and I find myself sorry not to be here.
Dinner begins with a small plate of olive oil, in which the waiter swirls spicy, herbed vinaigrette accompanied by a basket of fresh, soft sourdough french bread. We order two appetizers or as the menu called them, tapas. Our tapas are cool, tomato gazpacho that George claims is like eating salsa with a spoon and shrimp with a tomato dipping sauce. I think both are scrumptious and I'm beginning to be a bit tipsy from the colossal wine glasses, half filled with the burgandy tones of Cabernet Sauvignon. Quite full already from our tempting tapas, enormous bowls of pasta arrive, laced with creamy sauces red or white and liberally garnished with additives like chicken, olives, onions, mushrooms and sun dried tomatoes. Warm and happy with wine, we insist on boxing up our large, uneaten portions and move onto dessert. We sample delectable tart, lemon squares and fresh fluffy carrot cake that's a bit too warm and just slightly dry. A large party has arrived and as we leave, we congratulate the couple on their lovely, unique restaurant and assure them they've done all right.
We return to our home, 3A, with every intention to keep ourselves up until 12 pm when the PSU intern from the front desk of the Playador tells us the noisy nightclub across the street called the Barefoot Iguana really gets hopping. We briefly ducked into the club after hours during the beginning of our stay to get laundry tokens and saw the elaborate jungle decor, lighting and large dance floor. George promised to take me dancing at least once on our honeymoon and this was our chance.
Thelma and Louise, which George has amazingly NEVER seen, is running on one of the cable channels and we settle in to watch it as a way of passing time. Analysis, symbolism and philosophy run thick and we are attentive and talkative. It is only ten thirty and my eyes are heavy, exhausted from our early morning. I decide to give in and after watching ALIVE with George for awhile, turn into bed where I hope he will join me. I have been fighting a freak cold since we've been in the tropics and the nasal drip and sore throat is getting the best of me.
When I begin to doze off and he does not appear as promised, I venture out to the couch to retrieve him. He is surly about me bothering him to come to bed and I get upset and everything escalates from there. It ends well enough though and we hold each other and sleep directly through the night.