Using a local internet cafe, I make reservations for Hotel Villa Del Mar Tradicional. Or in english, The Traditional Village By The Sea... I think... The cheapest I could find online with a price tag of 377 pesos, roughly $28 dollars american. Unfortunately my situation is still the same. I'm lost, and asking for directions is useless. Mexicans are a very helpful people, and even if they don't know where the hell you're going, they'll do the best the can to give you directions. Travelling through the tourist areas and the barrios (the hood) I ask,"Donde es la Villa Del Mar?" on every block. Regretting all those times in spanish class where I was fantasizing about the teacher instead of paying attention, I ride on.
Confused and hungry I stop by a taco stand for the best (and only) tacos durangos I've ever had. Tucked on the edge of a back road, I bite into the crunchy, salsa covered tortilla. Stuffed with what I guess is jicama or potatoes. "Que rico", I exclaim to the proprietor, a kind woman in her 50's. I know this means "holy fuck this is the best thing ever" because I had a Puerto Rican girlfriend and she used to shout this out during sex. These tacos are almost as good as having sex with me, maybe better. After getting rough directions, a man steps out of his yard and shouts, "Mota! Mota!"
I know this word; mota. Need a translation? Pot, weed, green, mauie wowie, wacky tobaccy, sticky, loud, dank, kush, cannabis, sativa, smoke. In short: marijuana. "No gracias." I say to the dealer, but only because I'm still lost and the last thing I need is to be searched by the federales with no idea of where I'm staying. However, I do attempt to remember how I arrived at the taquiria for a return trip.
Beautiful thing about PV is that though being a popular tourist destination for Mexicanos and gringos alike, it still holds on to tradicional spanish influence. Keep an eye out and you'll see it everywhere. From the artistic yet functional architecture, down to the cobblestone streets. Lots and lots of cobblestone streets. A bicyclists hell. After going up and over the hills of the rustic town, the constant vibration has taken away the feeling in my pinkie and ring fingers on each hand.
This is the breaking point. I've traveled hundreds of miles by bike. From Florence, SC to Charleston. From Charleston to Atlanta, GA. But lost, hot, and my ass quickly following my fingers, I grab a taxi and have him take me to the hotel. For loading my bike and dealing with my remedial linguistic skills, I tip him double the cost of the ride. About 3 dollars.
Showing the receptionist my card, "Jara Buchholz Travel & Adventure Writer", ensures I get a good room every time. Up the stairs, to the right, room 37. Positioned on the corner with a wrap around balcony, it's the best view in the house. If you don't mind being inches away from a live electrical transformer. Well I was never a stickler for safety and certainly not now. Especially when I'm having my first real bath in a week.
Turning on the faucet with the excitedness of a virgin at a whore house, I wait for the water to heat up. And I wait. Watch some tv. Spank it. Finally a good 45 minutes later the water becomes a passable temperature for bathing. With the smell of BO a distant memory, it's time to hit the town.
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