I´ve spent my days in Puerto Vallarta mostly stoned off my ass and looking out from my wrap around balcony. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little like a Latin American drug lord. My Closet is constantly filled with smoke and my tv is stuck to cops. The only show that's in english. Apparently an American acting like an idiot is amusing in any language. Make no mistake though, I continue to explore the surrounding area, catching eyes with any of the chicas who look my way.
The culinary selection in the coastal village is vast and a true temptation for the adventurous palete. From the tourist centered dine in restaurants that I desperately avoid, to the streetside stands with questionable health practices that I love. Unfortunately with the influx of American culture, so too come the food chains that cater to overweight vacationers.
Mickey D's, KFC, Churches Chicken, Dominoes.
Don't get me wrong, put me in anywhere USA and I'll have a pizza with stuffed crust and an order of breadsticks at my front door. Here, it seems to mar the exotic flavor and spanish colonial influence that the town is known for. So a few days later, I decide to head off to somewhere a bit more culturally unique.
Puerto Escondido. Surfer's Paradise.
A complication: I still have enough wacky tobaccy to bake a highschool marching band. With my level of police paranoia I decide not to travel with such an obvious package of mexican grown good times. So I come up with a clever plan. Taking the mota I put it in my water bottle, cover it in oil, and set it in the 5903274 degree Mexican sun. Any extra I smoke by emptying cigarettes and filling it with my high spice. Why cigarettes you ask? Because in the cannabis capital, they don't sell papers. Weird right? I went from shop to shop asking, "fubar papel?". That's probably the incorrect terminology, but the motion of pinching my fingers and putting it to my lips gets the point across. My nonverbal communication skills have become exceedingly efficient. Alas, the answer is still no and I'm forced to smoke out of the hollow carcasses of Pall Mall death sticks.
24 Hours later my mota oil is ready and I'm on my way to the first stretch of my journey to District Federal.
BONUS POST!!!!
While I was in PV, in a state of stonage I left my bike chained outside completely strapped with goodies. The next morning all gone. Fishing pole, flashlight, batteries, even my trash. Which kind of confused me that some theives would go through the trouble of actually cleaning my bike. Now that's kind of a pain, but I really wasn't mad. Maybe it was the tropical paradise, maybe it was the quarter pound of pot, but I just wasn't angry. Besides, I had commited the mexican equivalent of parking a Bently in certain parts of Harlem.
Finally checking out of my hotel days later, there was the biggest surprise of my life. 12 mexicans came out into the street with a bag filled with all my crap. They had taken everything off because this stupid american was setting himself up to get jacked. Many graciases and a few manly tears later, my faith in humanity had been completely restored.
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