Oh yes I di-id just make that pun. So I went on another press trip to Mexico, this time to sunny Acapulco. It was f-in' sweet.
Our resort, Las Brisas, was right up my alley, midcentury-girlie-cuteness style. The 50-year-old resort is all done in pink and white and labeled whereever necessary with a darling round '50s script font.
Las Brisas consists of numerous bungalows on the hills overlooking Acapulco Bay, and nearly every one has its own pool. My casita was luxuriously spacious, but definitely intended for two. I was basically in a honeymoon suite sans honey, just the moon.
Still, can't complain. (Though someone else on the trip found a way to complain about most everything, which as always was awesome.)
Acapulco's main strip of activity was not my cup of tea. (Can you still call it honky-tonk when honkies aren't the natives? Honkies were certainly in abundance there, anyway.) It features such exotic attractions as El Rey del Hamburguesas, Los Estarbucks, y Manzana-bees.
However, just beyond that in the downtown, stuff for the real Mexicans is sold (as are certain legalized services from female and male providers). You can find merchandise like Uruapan, which apparently means, "a muscular pig who is so eager to be eaten that he marinades himself."
Of course, this area was way more fascinating and picturesque, but slumming wasn't really part of our tour skedj, so we only got a few tantalizing peeks.
I love that we experienced the swankiest properties and restaurants, but also brushed with the less seemly stuff. Three of us who became buds on the trip were taken to a club by a young restauranteur whose mother is a prominent figure in Acapulco society (and an all-around amazing, accomplished woman), and in addition to a chauffeur driving us, we had a silent goon stationed in the back, presumably making sure our man wasn't kidnapped. Awesome!
Like our host that night, all the Mexican people I encountered were just so sweet and friendly. And I guess they don't even mind when there are souvenirs all over the place like this:
Yep, a wee sombrero with a little bottle of Mezcal on it. (Not to mention the ever-present image of the oh-so-tired Mexican under the sombrero with the poncho taking a siesta against the cactus.) This seems about the equivalent of selling a tiny Paddy cap with a pony bottle of whiskey, or...well, let's not even take that analogy much further.
And just what in the name of the Lord is this.
You cannot tell me the religion I was raised in is not creepily morbid to the max. It's no damn wonder I turned to horror movies. Speaking of horror:
One of the best group events was our yacht ride to watch cliff diving, though three less hardy souls couldn't handle the choppy waters and we turned back early--ARRRR
The diving scene totally reminded me of that Woody Woodpecker cartoon where they're going over Niagara falls in barrels and the specators are going, HOORAAAAAY!
The other highlight was when our grand dame society lady took us on boat rides through the Lagoon of Tres Palos, in waterway paths through mangroves where we saw herons and endangered pelicans and dessert-scented lotus lily-pad flowers and all kinds of real stuff. Not to mention the true Mexican food we got afterward at the lagoon-side eatery--picaditas and fried bananas con sweet crema for me, as well as pescadillas, spicy shrimp soup and red snapper for the others. I majorly chilled in a hammock, and everything was a photo op.
This poor guy could've used some of that food we'd stuffed in our maws.
That is some National Geographic shit right there. Not pictured: previous photo, where he appears to be sporting a woody. It's good to know that he still has himself a good time.
And then, of course, there were the addictive snacks
. Just as here in America-land, food mascots in Mexico seem to be growing increasingly more urgent and manic and EXTREME until they are almost punching you in the face.
This delicious example IS trying to punch you in the face.
And they're all flavored with delicious chile, cheese, and lime, so I stockpiled. Doritos come in Pizzerola, Diabalo, and what looks like Rolling Stone flavor but is actually Salsa Verde.
Back in Brooklyn, my cab dropped me at the corner, I got honked at while struggling perhaps a second too long with my six bags and parcels. Inside, my small bedroom became an instant mess as I unpacked the bags, and as it rained I could hear bits of my ceiling and wall crumbling and falling inside the walls, but also occupying some of the real estate was my sizeable bf, and everything was back to normal.
Labels: beasties, creepos, travels