The body builders of the community tend to have the mindset of low fat, low carb and high protein and apparently one way to onboard some protein and heal muscles is whey protein powder drink mixes.
No whey, you say?
Why yes whey!
Whey is the leftover cloudy substance dairy farmers scrape off the milk barn walls after each and every cow has left its own “scrape” marks and then boil it vigorously until tastes distinctly of the north end of a southbound wildebeest.
Adding approximately 3 1/2 other ingredients including amino acids, (ACID!!!!!) creatine, (instant cretin) horse rectum (kidding…I think) and vanilla flavoring, a quite palatable substance is obtained.
Well, this morning I decided to add a whey protein drink into my workout regimen (yes whey!) because I’m a FINELY tuned athlete and dammit, I deserve it!
After careful consideration of the directions, I spied the words “add to your favorite beverage” so I immediately snatched up the vodka and commenced to gettin’ healthy.
After three protein drinks and about seven protein shooters (vanilla whey with some oj is highly recommended) I was ready to make my way onto the treadmill and show these (incredibly sculpted) Jackwagons…
HOW. IT. WAS. DONE.
Swaggering up to the treadmill I tripped on the cord and barely caught myself on the foot rail before mashing my forehead in onto the rubber floor.
Gathering my dignity I stepped aboard and turned it on, not noticing it was set at 207mph.
Both feet shot out from under me like they belonged to The Flash while the rest of me belonged to Fat Albert.
The wet smack I made on the belt sounded like a raw brisket hitting floor on a hot day and the screeching sounds coming from my legs as I held on to the heartbeat measuring handrail were delightful.
The racing Nordic Track was busy doing me a favor and trying to sand off my cellulite (who needs liposuction when you can just scrape it away at the gym?)
Anyway, picking myself up one again I glanced at the readout on the treadmill screen and saw that I’d traveled just under thirty miles in a few seconds and burned 3400 calories so I figured that was enough.
I was headed back to the weight room.
I was pretty thirsty at this point so I knocked back another Tito’s and protein tallboy on the way and smashed the cup on my forehead to show my dominance in the weight room. I’d seen rednecks in movies smash beer cans on their foreheads to prove their manhood so I was improvising.
Waking up back on the floor I was surrounded by the concerned faces of people I’d obviously impressed with my cup smashing technique.
They helped me up and several bowed and genuflected (away from me though. I’d never seen that.) I thought I might have heard some laughter but I wasn’t sure as my vision kept greying out and my ears were buzzing.
Anyway, just a word of advice here.
For those of you who don’t know this already, vodka isn’t a good idea in a protein drink.
This morning was leg day and certainly easier than Monday. I’m sure that in the next couple days my legs will feel like walking on columns of fire so I’m quite excited.
Having learned my lesson from the last episode I checked the speed setting on the treadmill and lo and behold some funnyhole with actual fitness had set it back in the warp speed range with Mount Everest incline so I dialed it back to my comfortable range, which I like to think of as “Rameneater” pace.
A brisk saunter one might say.
Several of the people around me had what I’d refer to as a Greek statue physique and were running on the treadmills like they were being chased by a flock of rabid chickens but not one of them was wide eyed and looking over their shoulders, screaming like horrified women.
Like me.
Yet there I was, briskly sauntering, screaming yet again with flecks of foam spraying from my lips, straining to look over my shoulder for the nefarious fowl.
Checking my speed, knowing full well I had to be around 65mph, the display read…
“IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?”
So not only was I putting in my finest treadmill performance in eons (three days), the MACHINE WAS MOCKING ME.
2.8mph.
This.
This is what had me all foamy and screamy.
I can’t imagine what will come out of my open face hole when I actually jog.
Being surrounded by pretty people with their chiseled abs, square jaws with just a hint of stubble, shaved chests and designer water bottles is intimidating.
The guys are attractive too.
I’m going for more of a Pasta Physique down from the current Whipped Mashed Potatoes look I’ve come to carry around.
I’m quite fluffy.
Anyway…
The weight room calls.
Leg day consists of:
Leg extensions
Leg curls
Leg lifts
Legs burning
Legs falling off
Leaving legs in the weight room because f&$# the legs.
Finishing up, I pulled out my ear buds and looked up to see everyone standing straight up and staring directly at me.
Although I’d learned my lesson and didn’t use vodka for my protein beverage, that stuff makes you quite…
well
…windy.
Apparently I’d been cracking off squeakers the whole time I was listening to my gangster polka song list (much like Amish music but off the chain) and couldn’t hear a thing.
I had wondered what the smell was but I figured that’s just what sculpted people smell like.
Not meeting a single gaze lest someone recognized me out in the world, I slunk out and down to the locker room.
The hot tub was calling.
Donning my swim mumu, I stepped into the indoor aquatics center and made my way into the hot and soothing waters of the eighty person hot tub and sank blissfully into its depths.
After about ten minutes I was boiling nicely and getting pretty comfy and hot when I glanced over in the corner and noticed a sign that read “Cool Plunge”.
Now, I don’t know if they meant temperature or temperament but I was intrigued.
While there was a set of stairs leading sedately into the Cool Plunge, my sense of Indignance was immediately incensed because it has the word PLUNGE in the name.
It’s not the Cool Dip.
It’s not the Tepid Tiptoe.
No, it’s the COOL PLUNGE.
So I jumped right in.
To my immediate regret.
The water in the Cool Plunge isn’t cool at all.
It’s FRIGID.
Imagine there’s a pool at the bottom of a rapidly melting glacier with an iceberg in it.
Now imagine yourself willingly leaping in with your head to toe skivvies on.
I was an instant mansicle.
I instinctively reached down to protect the cash & prizes but there was nothing there anymore.
The Cool Plunge had a hidden surgical secret and I now had what I could only assume was a mangina.
Every cubic millimeter of the pride and joy had turned themselves inside out in a sense of self preservation.
I never knew I had a 53 inch vertical leap but I guess muscles can contract pretty vigorously when they’re chilly and suddenly I was standing flat footed, back on the pool deck and rushing back to my hopeful re-manning in the warmth of the hot tub.
It all started with a suggestion that we try making our own moonshine and subsequent moments of pure genius.
***
My pal Zeke and I were enthusiastically sampling the corn squeezin’s of Kentucky on a Saturday afternoon and were about 3 jars in when he piped up and said “yew no… wee kin mayk thisstuff” and the unbelieving philistine in me said with all my heart “Pffffft” and promptly said it again with my relaxed fundament.
“No serrissly, mi unnnnnkle’s bin maykin it fer yeeeers back in his grarrr… his grarrr… his… shed.”
With my eyes still shut and a flaccid tongue I replied “Arright, less doit”, promptly fell asleep and fell out of my lawn chair.
In my defense, the chair was pretty old and missing all but seven straps.
I’d been perched precariously with two straps supporting a cheek on each side and leaning a bit to the left because the other three were all on the right side in the back.
When I completely relaxed in sleep, my balance gave way (as did my fundament once again) and I rolled over, face planting in the grass, dangerously close to some soft serve Zekes dog had left for us to find in the yard.
Waking up mid morning on Sunday and opening my eyes to the dew glistening on the folds and creases of the now even more rancidly emanating mini mountain of canine delight, I retched a little after breathing in then sat up, the grass sticking to my cheek and lower lip where the drool had dried during the night.
My head felt swollen.
My tongue felt swollen.
My fundament…
Never mind.
Zeke was still in the chair with his head hanging over the back at a weird angle, snoring louder than my unmuffled and majestic ‘77 Maverick and when I cleared my sticker coated throat he sat up, winced and said
“Muh heads on fahr” while I nodded my assent.
Moving slowly we made our way into the cool confines of the house and got ourselves some water to wash away some of the fog we’d pulled over our vision the day before. After some breakfast and a long nap on the couch I felt like a real human again and was remembering Zeke’s comment about “maykinthisstuff”.
Having been unemployed for a fair bit but still wanting the finer things in life (like corn squeezin’s you know) I thought this might be a good idea.
I knew that good shine took a few things like:
Corn
Sugar
Water
Fahr
Yeast
A still
Gumption
Sugar I had plenty of and I’d been down to the dollar store the week before and the scratch & dent cans of corn (sweet, creamed and whole kernel varieties) were on sale so I’d bought em all.
Now I may, or may not have been sampling some corn in one form or another at the time but when I drove away from that store, the trunk, backseat and passenger seat of my aforementioned majestic Maverick were PACKED with canned corn.
I even had some tied onto the trunk with some bailin wahr I’d found in the ditch next to the highway. I may have lost a few in traffic but I made it home with most of em.
My wife was:
Im
Pressed
(and mad)
“What the $&@#’r we gonna do with all that corn, Silas?!?!
I replied “io-kno” and giggled a little at my own idiocy but at that point it was too late.
The Dollar Store don’t give back dollars.
I jus throwed em all into the shed and forgot about em until my shining epiphany on Sunday afternoon.
Having nothing to do on Monday but find somethin to do, I told Zeke, “Lessgo, we gon make that moonshine yoo’wer talkin bout yesterday” to which Zeke replied wisely, “huh?” and we hightailed it for my mobile abode.
I knew where the sugar was because I’d stashed it myself. The wife’s got a fierce sweet tooth (in fact it’s the only one left in her fool head) and I had to hide it lest she grab her spoon and commence to shovelin’.
I had 25 pounds of pure off-white sugar (well what can I say? It was on sale too!), 3 packets of yeast left to me by my great uncle Chet in his will four years ago, around a pallet of canned corn and the tub up on cinder blocks that we built our fahrs under and filled with water so’s we could bathe afore church whenever we went.
This was gonna be our cookin vessel.
Zeke set to opening every can I’d bought and dumping em into the tub until he realized he hadn’t put the plug in and after that it filled up a lot quicker.
After about 300 cans Zeke’s hand was plumb give out but the tub was lookin pretty full so I added my bag of sugar, a bucket of water and lit that fahr.
Zeke was a-stirrin with a big stick we’d found while the tub started to bubble and I thought the whole thing was lookin a mite thick but what did I know? I’s just follerin my instincts as a man of the mountains and figgerin I was doin it all right. We come from moonshinin people so I ciphered we’d just come out lookin good at the end.
After a while though we started to smell somethin kinda off.
We’d built the fire too hot and the corn was too thick (they’d had quite a lot of the creamed variety) and it turned out the”stick” we’d found was a dried up deer leg that had been ejected from a bit of misfortune on the highway. When the leg started to soften, the rotten road jerky stench mixed with the scorch of burnt cream corn and over caramelized sugar at the bottom of the tub and the acrid smoke coming from our “mash” made our eyes water.
“Uh think thets done Silas” said Zeke and I blinked as his face cleared through the smoke.
I agreed.
It was time to let it rest and so we did, forgetting about it for about four months.
Deciding to head for church one crisp morning Crystal (muh blushin bride) and I got up for a quick bath so I went out to get the tub ready only to find the now almost solid tub of “mash”
I laughed out loud at my “fergitful nayture” and yelled for Crystal to “fergitaboutit” then ran over to the hollow tree we used for callin Zeke and started a-whalin on it to git his attention over at his house across the holler.
About 30 minutes later Zeke came crashin’ out of the bushes out of breath and says “What in blue blazes in goin on?!?!”
“The mash is reddy” I says.
The look Zeke gave me was pure mountain man dee-lite.
“Uh cain’t wait!”
Now, we hadn’t figgered out the still yet but since everythin’ was already in the tub I figgered we’d jus put a top on it with some roof tin that blowed off the shed, add the copper coil on top I’d gotten from an old air conditioner I found at the dump and set to boilin.
And thet there’s what we did.
Fashioning the top was a bit tricky and the cast iron tub was a mite rusty so it got a little loose in places but I’d heard if you plug it up with a flour and water paste, it’d hold so I snuck in and grabbed up Crystals 50lb sack of biscuit fixins then mixed it up in our bucket.
It got a little thick.
Smearin that muck all over the edge of that tub was disgustin and it got everwhar. How in tarnation it got up my nose I cain’t say. (Later, I found a hunk in my skivvies but I’ll never tell Zeke cause he’d never let me fergit it.)
I’d splurged at the hardware earlier in the week and got the REAL duck tape (you know it’s good cause they boil a whole buncha ducks to make it real sticky) and taped my copper to a nail hole in the roof tin then hung a bucket on the end to catch our magic juice.
It was time to light the fahr.
I’d saved the old gasoline we were using to clean the grease off of some go cart parts we were working on for a swamp buggy (Don’t ask me why. There ain’t no swamp within five hundred miles of here but it seemed like a good idea at the time.) and gave the brush pile under the tub a good soaking.
I knew better than to just reach in and light the fire after a mishap with some high octane and another (fresher) deer leg last November so I ran inside and got my last pack of Roman candles from ‘Merica’s birthday and lit one up.
The first ball of fire caught me off guard and I shot myself in the foot then stupidly looked at the end of that flamin’ hell tube and promptly shot myself again.
This one got caught in my hair and later Zeke said I looked really patriotic a-runnin around with my hair alight and screamin.
Crystal peeked out the door with that same look (you know the look. “WTH are you two doin now?!?!”) just in time to see the third shot go off.
This one made it to the target and the flame that shot out from under the tub was spectacular.
I’d had more gas left than I’d previously remembered and I used it all just to be sure.
The tub launched off the cinder blocks with a BOOM and the sound of a smacking wet piece of meat as the “mash” was flattened into the bottom on its way into the heavens.
As I was swatting the flames out of my hair I saw Zeke looking skyward, mesmerized.
I stopped swatting and looked up to see the cast iron tub hurtling toward the ground with the hulk of mash following about eight feet above it.
I could hear it whistling through the now unplugged drain hole.
Crashing into the ground on the other side of the yard, the tub EXPLODED into uncountable pieces and the mash landed immediately on top of the now scrap pile, blowing apart.
Turns out the inside of the formerly yellow now sickly green mash was still gelatinous and it not so gently COVERED Zeke and I on the side facing the grisly scene and leaving a perfect outline of each of us on the shed wall.
We never saw the air conditioner coil again.
Turning to Zeke I could see his eyes were still closed against the horrors we’d just witnessed upon ourselves and he turned to me, eyes still shut and said “Mebbe we shoun’t be mekkin shine after all” in a dull and subdued voice.
As some of the rancid mash dripped out of my now mostly burned off hair I had to agree.
Crystal was still leaning in the doorway of the trailer with her mouth clean open, and I’m just guessing here, staring with pride at our amazing feat of rocketry.
She slowly turned away with her shoulders hunched and shaking while wiping tears from her eyes (tears of pride and joy of course)
and I saw her reach into a cabinet there just inside the kitchen.
She came outside holding what looked like a bottle with an old timey picture on the front.
“Hunny, I been savin’ this fer a special oh-ccasion and I think this jus might be it. I knowed you was a-tryin to make some shine so I got this from cousin Uriah down in Kentucky. He came across a great big stash of it somehow a few years back and brought me some at the First Second Coming Baptist Church of the Resurrection revival last summer.”
That be-yootiful wummin handed me the purtiest bottle of Kentucky corn liquor Zeke and I’d err seen.
As my eyes cleared of burning hair an wet, stankin mash and I’s able to commence to readin’ the sticker on it, it said…
“Aftermath” insinuates there’s a “math” and today’s math, unlike geometric or algebraic conclusions, was more along the lines of elementary math.
Kindie Garden.
Fetal even.
Point the truck south. Mash the gas pedal to the floor. Drive for what feels like…
For. Eh. Ver.
What ensued was a Japanese game show style drive of stopping, gassing, weaving, meat stick eating, caffeine hoovering, pothole avoiding, leapfrogging (I’ll pass you, now you pass me, then I’ll pass you again. We’ll do that for FIVE HUNDRED MILES, ok? Sounds like an excellent time…), narrowly avoiding already road mashed animals and a lot of good conversation.
After approximately 800 miles on the road Brant booked us a hotel and we pulled over in Atlanta.
Booking.com is usually pretty good when it comes to finding a deal but when we arrived at our prepaid, preconceived oasis in the Georgian desert, we felt like Joe & Mer Mer on Christmas Eve cuz they wuz no room at the inn.
They’d overbooked and the waitlist was full but no $&#%ing way was I staying in the freakin horse barn so off we went to hotel II.
The Sheraton.
Where Covid restrictions prevent you from even looking up into the clerks eyes.
You must wear a mask at all times. (Sensible)
Seriously. (Ok, I’m pretty sure I understand)
Even in the shower. (What?!?!)
Between bites at breakfast. (WTF?)
Medical grade filtering underwear in case you “fluff”after Mexican dinner. (I DO NOT “FLUFF”!!!!! …I’m far too manly for that. Noxious clouds hover over cities with less ominous threats than my post Mexican dinner creations)
Leaving our precious scooters on the trailer and parked under the back of the building we made it up to our room and into the welcoming arms of a glass of Kentucky’s finest corn squeezin’s before approximately eleven minutes went by and I was uhhh-sleep.
Goodnight moon.
Unfortunately my travelin’ companion wasn’t asleep before me and the windows rattling due to my tumultuous soft palate kept him awake long after blissful relaxation had claimed me.
When I was awakened much later, I found a Richter scale tipped over on the nightstand next to me with a broken face and my pal sawing his own logs across the room.
Medium sized ones in my view compared to the sequoias I’d been obviously making minced trees out of.
Four cups of institutional coffee and a trip to “see a man about a gator” we’re on the road to Tampa.
Hijinks. Will. Ensue.
***
AVD2 The Olympians
If drinking like it’s your job was an Olympic sport we’d be sporting gold medals.
Instead, we’re sporting colossal hangovers as we hurtle towards Naples with the wind in our hair. (Kidding honey, I have my helmet cinched on)
The bartender “pretended” to be our best friend.
She “reeeeaaaalllly” liked us.
The fact that it was a slow night and we were two of the very few people in the bar had NOTHING to do with it.
She saw an easy mark and took us for a ride like a master.
“Want another?”
“Something else, maybe?”
“You guys must be professionals.”
“Oh, are you done? Pansy…”
“If you were a real man you’d finish that.”
And so forth…
I was unaware that a bar tab for two people could get that high.
Seriously.
Like mountaintop high.
Whatever that guys name is that jumped from the balloon in the stratosphere high.
SNOOP DOGG HIGH.
The credit card was hot to the touch after that vigorous swiping.
***
Anyway, after my head ceased its swelling and my roiling entrails calmed down, I rolled my scooter off of the trailer for a ride across what turned out to be a pretty tall bridge.
I now understand why they call it The Skyway.
(See the Snoop Dogg reference above)
It was only about 20,000 leagues over the sea but at least it was really windy.
I was being pushed around like a nerd in a circle of school yard bullies and I had to concentrate to keep my already delicate balance. If you have some coal and need a diamond, put me on that bridge again on a windy day on two wheels.
My traveling companion had wisely made the decision to drive the truck and trailer to our parking spot in Sarasota because he’d been there before and wanted nothing to do with the Bridge of Eternal Puckering on a motorcycle.
Donning our gear and ready to hit the road we roared off only to turn around because I’d forgotten something in the car then roared off again.
Brant, having not had a lot of highway experience on a big ol’ harley, got a trial by fire on this day and emerged as a Phoenix from the flame.
That man is:
Bad.
Ass.
That’s right. I said it.
I looked down a couple times and I was cruising about 85-90mph (I highly recommend the Harley Road Glide. So smooth) and he was right there. I did notice new finger marks in the grips at the end of the day but he didn’t say a word.
The man is legend.
***
Stopping in Naples for a quick bite (grouper, every meal we can get) we looked and found our spot. A beacon shining brightly in the already bright sunshine that said EVERYTHING we needed it to.
“GROUPER & CHIPS”
We pulled over immediately.
Grouper sandwich.
Grouper burger.
Fried grouper.
Boiled grouper.
Broiled grouper.
…and some conch fritters.
I needed a nap.
Instead I got the Everglades.
If you’ve only read about or seen the Everglades on tv, you’re missing out.
There’s an incredible stark beauty about the Everglades and I want to definitely go back.
About every 8 feet or so there’s a sign advertising an air boat ride:
“Best air boat ride ever!”
“Don’t ride on that guys sinking airboat…”
“New-ish airboat rides!”
“You may, or may not, get cannibalized on this airboat ride!”
And:
“Live alligator show!” (Because the dead ones just lie there like pre-wallets or a giant boot with legs still on ‘em)
“Have unwanted relatives? Bring ‘em to the live alligator show!”
In reality the Everglades was one of the prettiest rides I’ve been on and I’d like to do it again with just that stretch in mind. There were lots of picnic areas but no warning that they were right ahead and with cypresses and mangroves on one side of the canal and walls of brush on the other they went by quickly with no chance to stop. We’re hoping that a fully floating and non cannibalizing air boat ride may happen on the way back.
More to come…
***
AVD3 Key West
The ride from Key Largo to Key West was epic.
I didn’t realize there were so many keys.
Marathon Key (short ride)
Long Key (short ride)
Smuggled Marijuana Key (I made that up)
Cocaine Key (that too)
and my personal favorite that must have taken much thought and gnashing of teeth…
No Name Key (I didn’t make that up)
800 keys (much like my high school janitors key ring) make up the archipelago with 180 miles and 42 bridges connecting them. One really cool arch bridge and the famous 7 mile bridge which has the old 7 mile bridge rotting away next to it. It’s been left there to show you what you’ll look like if you stay too long in the keys without sunscreen.
Traffic wasn’t too bad and we kept a good pace up.
The local constabulary cleverly put a police car in the driveway of an abandoned lot and just left it there on Marathon and the ruse worked. We all slowed right down but muttered under our breath unkind things when we realized it was empty.
I revved up and took off like a shot because I’d been duped but slowed right down when I saw another cruiser up ahead, the officer pointing a hair dryer at traffic.
I’m guessing they’re underfunded.
We stopped for lunch at a seafood restaurant (so weird right?) and had beef and chicken with a mutton appetizer.
(not true)
GROUPER AND SHRIMP
and some good calamari with a Caesar salad. I don’t actually think I’ve had beef this whole trip. There something about having seafood by the sea.
The smell of low tide and seagull poop really gets you in the mood for feasting.
The little cheeto birds (aptly named by my then six year old son at the pool when the sparrows would hop around looking for chips) cruising for a handout and looking too fat to fly.
The last time I was in the keys it was with my good friend John and my late brother Luke so I rented a Corona Light in his honor. I miss that guys laugh and man did he know how to have a good time.
Screenshot
Back on the road it was nice and easy and we made good time getting into Key West.
Once we got checked into the hotel and freshened up (a spritz of motor oil and grease in our hair. A funny thing because there’s not one hair on my friends head) we were off to Duval Street to make our mark on the town.
By “make our mark” I mean hand them a great deal of our money in exchange for surly service.
It. Was. Excellent.
I will say this. Their vodka works the same as it does in Kansas City.
You know how the saying goes, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”? Well, what happens in Key West stays in Key West but mainly because you can’t remember what happened in Key West.
Stopping wherever they served alcohol, which meant a lot of stopping, we made our way down the street and enjoyed the debauchery of the bar scene.
At one point we stopped for dinner and can’t remember what we ate but at least it was expensive.
I’m gonna have to sell my son off for medical experiments when I get home in order to finance this trip.
MANY more drinks later we wound up at Sloppy Joes, a favorite hangout of Hemingway and an estranged sister to the Sloppy Joes in Havana that I had the chance to visit a few years ago. This one was a lot more boozy than the Cuban version and by the time we were finished with our drinks, we were finished ourselves.
It was time for pizza and a ride home.
The Über driver was kind enough to wait while the pizza place milled the wheat and cultured the yeast for dough (it seemed that way ‘cause it took for eh ver) and we were off.
Back at the hotel it was pizzafest and once we were done, the bottle of bourbon I had so lovingly packed was staring at us from the tabletop so we dove back in.
The last thing I remember was Brant saying something to me and I just turned over and checked out but upon awakening this morning, my glass was empty so apparently autopilot had taken over.
My liver is grateful (a lie)
I feel pretty good (another lie)
I think a Bloody Mary is in my near future (truth)
And some seafood.
***
AVD4
Guess what we had for breakfast?
SHRIMP and grits.
Guess what we had for lunch?
That’s right, more seafood. GROUPER and of course some shrimp and conch fritters.
I’m 100% certain that I’m going to smell fritterly with a hint of fried fish parts when I get back to Kansas City.
I’ll be irresistible to the females of my species (if indeed you can figure out what my species is. I’m a bit “unique” as most of you already know).
They broke the mold when they made me. In fact, the species was forever changed upon my arrival.
Generally, this isn’t a good thing.
Being inappropriate at the most inopportune moments is ONE of my superpowers.
The other is laughing uncontrollably at funerals.
If you have a loved one that needs a sendoff sans stoicism, I’m your guy.
We’ve come back to Irish Kevin’s for the third time this trip and the second time today because they’re having church services and we are DEVOUT.
The bartender was delighted to see us and muttered “…oh, you’re back…” almost under her stanky mask breath but we paid her no mind because WE were delighted to see her. She possessed something we WANTED and it was liquid encouragement.
Three more shots and several vodkas later we walked out and wandered Duval yet again. What was about a mile was now around four.
The difference was staggering.
In fact we were.
Even the drunkest guy I’d ever seen asked if I was ok.
Turns out I’d gone into the men’s room and was looking in the mirror and the drunkest guy I’d ever seen was me.
Soooo…
Back at Angelinas Pizzeria we ordered a whole pie without calling the unsuspecting über driver first and waited while the guys threw one together for us.
I looked in the oven a couple times and those guys were masters. Every square inch of the pizza stones were in use. In between each pizza was a slice of pie heating up. They were in there side to side covering every available spot.
I’m surprised they don’t advertise pizza slivers just so they could use even more of the space in that 500 degree hellbox.
A short über ride and three giant slices later with some serious heartburn on the horizon we were ready to hit the sack but once again…
The. Bottle. Was. Looking. At. Us.
We heard the siy-reen song of the sayouth (sound it out with me: sigh-reeen and sayyy-owwwth) so off to the ice machine my coconspirator went and soon we were sipping on some of Kentucky’s finest mountain dew, feeling fine.
So fine in fact that neither of us finished even half of it judging by the still sweating recycled paper coffee cups sitting on the coffee table and nightstand when I woke up to get some water.
Water which smelled slightly of the whiskey that was formerly in the cup but it was all I had.
(On a side note I’d like to give a quick shout out to my liver. That’s one tough sumbitch to have made it through the last several days and I’m a proud owner. I’m gonna look into a system flush when I get back as a thank you for dealing with my inebriated *ss all week.)
Today has been a short but windy ride back up the coast, stopping briefly at Mrs. Macs Kitchen in Key Largo for some spectacular seafood (Hogfish on the menu today. I’ve only had ones I’ve speared myself so I was excited to hear about the specials) and we’re currently at a little dive called Sams Hideaway in Homestead (after getting a room secured at the Floridian Hotel that looks much like a motor lodge from 1957 but with very nice updated rooms) where I swear I just saw a patron use the hand sanitizer to scrub his armpits. These people are being pretty serious about their safety and since I got a whiff of that guy as he walked by, I’m thankful he’s killed whatever bacteria he was harboring in those hairy havens.
The bartender is super nice and welcomed us right in, doing an excellent job plying her wares on two willing consumers.
The night is young dear readers.
Homestead may be a diamond in the rough…
***
AVD5
This morning is brought to us by the letter “C”.
For coffee.
Because once again we went cray cray.
And “C” is for Cuban.
Because our late night munchies took us to a Cuban sandwich shop and we went cray cray there too.
It’s funny because while in Cuba I didn’t see any of those sandwiches but I certainly love and make them here.
We hustled everything back to the hotel and didn’t even sit down. We just leaned over the credenza shoving bites of whatever was handy into our open maws, marveling at how good everything was then passing out once again.
I think I’ve gained about 64 pounds since last week having eaten late night food on many occasions and fried everything seafood related so don’t be surprised if you do a double take because you don’t recognize the new acreage I’ve acquired.
At the hotel in Homestead I saw a lizard that can only be described as “The Business”.
I say business because without their little lizardy legs they’d look like… well… “the business”.
After working for the local farm vet all through high school I saw plenty of animal “businesses” and I can’t get the image out of my mind so regardless of what they may actually be called they’re now aptly named “The Business Lizards”.
An excellent band name should anyone be searching.
The ride back to Sarasota was mostly uneventful but this time rolling through the Everglades I saw MANY of Florida’s famous residences. Alligators in the wild are pretty amazing and look prehistoric. If dinosaurs looked anything like them I’m excited to be well on the far side of their extinction.
Some of the ones I saw basking on the side of the canal were HUGE.
Here’s what I equate them to:
If you took a Dick Cepek 50” monster mudder truck tire and unrolled it then gave it four legs and a 2000psi mouth grip with Sabre tooth lizard teeth, it would be about half of the actual animal.
They even looked like rubber.
Rubber sunbathing meat eating death machines.
They were incredible to see.
We did make a stop in Ft Myers to have lunch with some friends, Pierre and Jennifer, who happened to be on vacation and had been reading of our (mis)adventures on fb.
We met at a hole in the wall place called Cowboy Crab & Seafood and ordered sandwiches and goodies but I saw something that looked like a combo plate for about the same price as a sandwich and it was meant to be mine.
When everyone’s food arrived it was in normal styrofoam to go containers except for mine which arrived in a 2 inch aluminum half hotel pan with a lid on it and some real heft.
Inside was blue crab, what looked like a half pound of shrimp, red potatoes and two half corn cobs in a truly delicious broth and approximately four pounds of industrial minced garlic.
I think I need to be taught how to eat blue crab because judging by the sidelong glances, cracking the legs with your bared teeth is a tad disconcerting but wow, I just couldn’t help myself. The shrimp and crab were delicious and the potatoes dipped in the broth and garlic were ridiculously tasty. I’m certain I looked like a bugs bunny cartoon where you can hear the old manual typewriter sounds when he’s eating corn.
I may be the only one who heard that…
If you’re in or near Ft Myers, definitely go there.
The rest of the ride was good and smooth and Sarasota, along with my comfy suburban seats were welcome sights.
We had ridden 350 miles back to the truck, been rained on a bit back in the keys and had an adventure to incite a lifetime of memories.
I hope you’ve enjoyed making the trip with us and if you think some of these stories border on insanity, you haven’t even scratched the surface
We got up and took Todd to Luperón to meet his ride to the airport in Santiago, stopping off to return the motorcycle he’d rented and to confess to a mishap with a meteor sized crater in the road.
The owner of the moto let him off cheap and we made it away fairly unscathed.
Saying goodbye to my co-50 year old birthday trip buddy I’ve known since we were both 26 year old children was bittersweet. It had been an excellent week but I think we’re both ready to see familiar sights and to sleep in our own beds.
John and I headed back for the house but on a whim took a turn and had breakfast at Marina Las Velas, apparently the best place to ride out a hurricane in the Northern Hemisphere.
Also the place where I had internet and got to discover something I’m going to have on a regular basis for years to come.
Mangú.
Mangú is boiled and mashed plantains with butter and pickled red onions.
It’s the closest thing I’ve had to mashed potatoes without being mashed potatoes and I’m in love with it.
It comes as a side dish with the Dominican national breakfast.
Basically 2 fried eggs, 2 slices of “salami” that’s the consistency and flavor of fried balogna and a heapin’ helpin’ of mangú. (and in the case of the Piergiorgio Hotel, 1.5 bottomless cups of coffee.)
Dennis stopped by while we were there and was headed out sailing for the morning to Playa Isabella.
He asked if we’d take his motorcycle back to his place and we agreed.
His bike was a bit taller, did amazing wheelies and landed a lot softer than the rental when jumping over particularly large vehicles.
The extreme off-roading I did around Playa Grande really put it through its paces and it will pull a back flip just as well as any X Games bike.
It definitely bounced off of the road cows a lot better for sure.
It unfortunately does not float.
(Just kidding Dennis… or am I…?)
Back at the house, John and I got to figuring out the little washing machine we’d first come across in Cuba because I didn’t want to offend my fellow aircraft passengers the next day.
We rigged up a clothesline and did some laundry.
Now, on this day, with just a bit over 50 years on this earth, I realized why we have lids on our washing machines at home.
It’s not because of splashing water.
It’s because we are disgusting beings and we put a lot of dirt into our clothing, especially when we ride motorcycles across arid landscapes in foreign countries and in smoggy towns behind (tagged) tour busses and delivery trucks.
The water was disgusting.
It was a weird shade of dark blue/gray and as soon as the machine began to agitate, became opaque with the grime we’d been introducing and happily covering ourselves with every day.
The wash cycle took about twenty minutes.
The ensuing rinse cycles took approximately eleven years.
Once the water cleared enough I put the clothes through the spin cycle.
This was a little centrifuge off to the side which spun the clothes at dangerous speeds until they were almost hot.
I think the washing machine is made by Vitamix and I was attempting to make jeans & underwear soup.
Anyway, upon hanging the clothes, I came to the conclusion that every person who’s ever hung clothes on a line has come to.
You don’t wash light colored towels with dark colored T-shirts.
Ever.
My black T-shirt is now sporting a brand spanking new white five o’clock shadow.
It’s like a reverse George Michael on the Faith album cover only not cool.
All of my clothes however, have a LOT less of the five day sweaty road kill smell that they had a mere eleven rinse years ago.
I’m beginning to think that smell is me.
After the drying took place, during which serious things were happening, including:
The drinking of rum.
The making and eating of fried mystery meat sandwiches with cheese. (It’s shelf stable meat which I found hanging in a plastic wrapped tube in the unlit and scary colmado in Luperón. I had to. It DID make a pretty tasty grilled cheese/mystery meat sandwich.)
we headed back to Playa Isabella for some beer drinking, cigar smoking and hopefully after the sun went down, lobstering on the reef.
The local cruisers were there and we ran into Dennis once more along with Peter, Bob (faithful steed rental guy), his wife Sue and a couple other locals including a Scotsman named Alistair who I got to discuss the clan Graham with and who had been reading my dailies.
It was an excellent afternoon.
As the sun went down and the cruisers left I asked John if he was ready to get in the water and he replied…
“Let me know what you see!”
And with that I was on my own.
I donned my mask, flippers, snorkel, speargun and inflatable unicorn swim floatie and walked the 50 yards from the car to the water amidst the snickers of the locals.
My friends, swim fins are hard to walk in but dammit, I was determined.
Once I hit the placid water I turned on my light and became the great white hunter.
Or, as it so often turns out back home…
Just plain white.
I was neither great, nor a hunter. Merely a mouth breathing searcher.
I saw one major fish in the murky water and by major I mean over four inches long.
Much like being in the woods, the undersea life senses my “huatamaleness” (brazen manliness) or “calor masculino” (projectile sweating) and vamooses.
Do you know how badly I at least wanted to flounder ashore with even the tiniest shrimp skewered on the end of my four foot spear?
Oh well. I’ve learned to buy my wildlife at the store like everyone else.
I’m beginning to think they really do harvest seafood already shrink wrapped in those little styrofoam plates.
Back at the bar/hut the cute bartender was cry laughing at my unicorn which I promptly shot with the speargun to show her I meant business and asked for our beer tab.
Me: “En cervezas de perro solo he tenido una. ¿Cuanto por eso? Cuanto cuesta eso?” (In dog beers I’ve only had one. How much for that?)
Her: “910 pesos”
Some people have no sense of humor.
John and I headed back to the house in the dark for one more nights rest before my journey home, keeping an eye out for black road cows in the night and that was the end of my week in the Dominican Republic.
It’s been fun telling you about it
***
It’s been one amazing week here in the DR. I’ve met so many fun and friendly people and been told many stories, shared meals and seen sights that normal vacationers won’t ever see. From riding the little motorcycle through the riverbeds and streams to running across the deserted beach to the ocean, I’ve experienced the DR known to only a few and I’ve been honored to do so.
Thanks John for being the as always consummate host and Todd for being a good travel companion. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.
Thanks to Dennis and Peter for riding the back roads of the DR with us, Bob & Sue for the rental of the motorcycles, Ken & Edie for letting us stop by your amazing beach house, Gordon for being a super happy hour host and to the people of the Dominican Republic, thanks for being patient with my Spanglish and being friendly even when I sounded like an idiot.
Yesterday we rode to Puerta Plata to see the Brugal rum distillery and a local chocolate factory called Del Oro where they make mostly organic chocolate from local cacao farms.
The ride there took quite the toll on my now tender derrière, who has gotten used to a cushy custom Harley seat, and about a third of the way there I felt like a little kid.
My sore *ss was snot crying “WHEN ARE WE GONNA BE THERE?!?!” and my response as ever was “Do I have to turn this *ss around and…”
I had to stop because the answer would have of course been a resounding yes.
Arriving in Puerta Plata was a lesson in defensive terrorist school driving.
Little motos were everywhere, weaving in and out of traffic, beeping their horns like little toys among the cars and trucks roaring by, belching black smoke and lurching out into traffic with little or no notice.
Traffic lights are a mere suggestion and vehicles are driving pell mell around the town.
This was like an aggressive Sunday drive where everyone wanted to get the hell out of the car as soon as possible, all other drivers beware.
You could normally tell when they were coming out because they’d edge out from the side street or driveway about halfway through the right lane and stop until traffic cleared a bit then they’d honk and start pulling out.
We’d just weave around them and continue on our way.
Btw, speaking of weaving around, domesticated animal tag has taken on a few other aspects. I’m now up to: 11 cows 1 horse 1 almost chicken (wiley little suckers) 1 almost pig (the owner raised his switch at me so I veered away) 1 dog 2 tour busses 2 semi trucks 1 Daihatsu pickup filled with limes And… 2 high fives. One from a street vendor and one from another passing motorist.
It’s been a pretty fun made up game.
The trucks, busses and high fives were added on the way to Sosuà just because it was hilarious and aside from one irritable tour bus driver, no one seemed to mind.
Puerta Plata started with a trip to the parts store and installing a new trunk on the back of Johns bike which turned into finding and fixing an oil leak on Todd’s bike which led to me spending too much time at the parts counter where I made an amazing discovery.
Little. Bitty. Cargo. Nets.
We’d been buying and losing bungee straps the entire time we’d been in the country, stopping in the middle of the road to pick up our backpacks and search for the strap.
I’d taken to tying mine down with a piece of rope I’d found at Johns house but now we were in BUSINESS!
I could ride now without reaching back every four seconds to see if my bag was still back there although it took me the entire day to stop doing it.
I still do once in a while though.
It made riding in the traffic a lot easier because you really need both hands on the handlebars in that city.
I’m a seasoned rider (SPG for me. That’s salt, pepper & garlic for the unseasoned out there.) and even I was still a bit nervous.
Hence, fewer pictures of this particular excursion.
Traffic there was like watching one of those videos of Taiwan or New Delhi where every car in the city tries to make it through the intersection at once.
It’s a lesson in opportunity.
Once we were away from the parts store we stopped once again at the storefront for the omnipresent Predisdenté grande at the Tam Tam club.
A very nice lady rushed out and escorted us to a table and we eagerly swilled cold beer like there wasn’t going to be cold beer anymore.
I got a few pics and looked around where I spied something egregious.
The Harley Bar.
Having not seen a single Harley in this land of sweet mini bikes I couldn’t believe that such a thing existed but once I got closer I saw what they’d done.
Some nefarious mofo had stolen the Harley name, opened a bar, PUT A MINI BIKE ON THE SIGN then promptly closed the bar.
Presumably some toughs from the Sons of Malarkey had shown up and given the proprietor the what for.
(Point of fact- the closest thing I’ve seen to a Harley was a Kawasaki Vulcan Classic I saw roaring down the street in front of the honorable empanada guys shop.)
I laughed, snapped a pic for the record then giggled off.
Deciding to rub my protesting hiney the wrong way once again, we got back on the road, looking for the boozery and the chocolatier.
Which we never even saw.
When the town suddenly ended we realized we’d missed both of our stops and pulled over where John announced…
“Let’s go to Sosuà.”
So we went.
And immediately pulled back over because I had a flat tire.
There’s a ubiquitous place in the DR called a Gomeria and all they do is fix tires.
They’re everywhere.
They’re like the Dunkin Donuts shops on the east coast. You can see one from the front door of another like flies on a (tagged) cows patty.
Anyway, while we waited for the gentleman to fix my flat ($3 US) we walked across the highway to another local joint and bought beers from what looked to me like a twelve year old bartender and relaxed with a cigar then, getting a wave from el mechanico, we were once again back on the road.
Sosuà, as it turns out, is a super touristy town where shopkeepers will hold you down and pile stuff on top of you until you hand over your child’s college money.
They also have some amazing (and old) hotels and some pretty good places to sit with a drink and people watch.
If you’re out later in the evening, the streets fill with younger people out for a rowdy time and, as with most Island countries I know of, women of negotiable affection. (Thank you to Mrs. G for that wonderful phrase)
It was fun to watch but I wanted nothing to do with that version of fun and I was ready to get back to my room for some air conditioning and a soft bed.
We’d found the Hotel Piergiorgio which looked amazing and were promised air conditioning.
After walking around the hotel grounds earlier, I told the manager we wouldn’t book unless I could jump off the hotel balcony into the ocean and he readily agreed so we handed him our money.
$35 whopping US dollars each.
The room came with breakfast and what turned out to be a bottomed out bottomless cup of coffee.
1.5 little cups to be exact.
It was enough though because the beer, hot Mamajuana shot, hot Jaegermeister shot, hot tequila shot, vodka drinks and misc other liquids had left me a bit, how should I say…
Barphy.
Speaking of barphy, let’s talk about Mamajuana for a minute.
Here’s my take: Some medieval genius was out chopping wood and decided “Hmmmm, I think I’ll take these wood chips, shove them down the neck of this throwed out Martini & Rossi bottle then pour last years cranberry juice I found behind the seat of my donkey cart and some of the cheapest rum I could buy at Wallmart (pic attached) over it then microwave it until the glass bottle begins to melt then forget it on my shelf for 68 years.
Then I’ll share it with everyone.
If there’s one word I could use to describe this amazing elixir it would be…
Don’t drink this.
Ever, ever, ever, ever.
(Ok seven words.)
The hair will fall out of your scrotum (If you have one. If not you can probably find one at Wallmart.)
Am I painting the mostest, horribliest picture yet?
We have yet to scratch the surface of that liquid freak show.
At Flip Flops, the tourist bar we stopped at, after the woody, hot liquidy horror shot, I had a damn fine mohito and we ordered some chicken wings and fries from the fun and sassy bartender (one of my favorites so far) and it turned out that the wings were pretty good.
We got bbq and buffalo.
I asked for as hot as I could get and from what I could tell so far in the DR, hot sauce isn’t a big commodity.
The wings however, had a nice burn and would be considered “hot” but not “really hot” in the US.
We then roamed the town seeing the sights and if you squinted your eyes just right, you’d have been in any tourist beach town in the US.
Lots of tchotchke shops, restaurants and actual bars instead of beer closets, hotels everywhere and a brisk trade in taxis and rental scooters.
Whenever we’d asked about “all inclusive” at any hotel we were informed that indeed no, the room rental does not include breakfast.
Apparently in Sosuà all inclusive means you get toast.
In all, it was yet another excellent day in the Dominican Republic.
People all over the world are friendly and most have a good sense of humor (thanks high five guys) and are ready to laugh, especially with eager, fun loving and inquisitive visitors, at any given moment.
Sometimes a smile is all you need but a little gratuity helps.
La Isabela, Fricolandia, Little Beach and a rest day
A slow start today. After a few days of travel and constant rumpus beatings by the Dominican “roads” we laid around the house not ready to move just yet.
John made his $&#%ing perfect omelettes (seriously, after years of cooking I still can’t make a decent omelette) and some French (Dominican) toast and we had an excellent breakfast then, really motivated now, frantically laid around the house some more…
Finally packing up we decided to make a run down to La Isabela, the settlement where Italian explorer Christopher Columbus established a Spanish foothold in the Americas.
Apparently in the 1950’s then dictator Trujillo ordered the settlement restored but the orders were misunderstood and most of the settlement was bulldozed into the sea.
I’m guessing the guy with the bulldozer was then bull whipped into the sea but I can’t seem to find that information.
Currently it’s an interesting place where you can see where buildings once were and the remains of the admirals house.
Mangoes grow wild there and the one we tried was small but delicious.
There’s a museum complete with artifacts such as an ancient axe head, some nails presumably from the Spanish ships, some cannon balls and a couple of cannons reclaimed from the sea.
Descendants of Columbus’ chickens can be seen on the site as well as “authentic” treasures from the local gift shop made with “way better wood” than other gift shops.
I was totally convinced and walked away with a pocket full of nothing much like the other gift shops.
I would have gladly eaten one of the descendants though…
Riding away, we followed John looking for a restaurant or bar where we could find a drink or two.
Many signs dotted the road advertising for amazing restaurants but we discovered that the sign maker was way better than the restaurateur and the signs seemed to last much longer than the establishments.
Rambling a bit further we happened upon a place with a name so awesome that stopping was no longer an option but an absolute requirement.
Fricolandia.
Turns out the place was an amazing oasis and we spent the next hour marveling at the view and swilling Presidenté to the sounds of whoever imitates Enrique Iglesias the best and some fresh beats.
One cigar and two cervesas later we were back on our way and headed to “Little Beach”.
We didn’t know the actual name but that’s what the locals call it so that’s what we’re going with.
There on the beach was another snack shack but this one was different.
Of course they had the omnipresent beers and some bags of chips but this one had pizza.
AND ICE CREAM.
Now, pizza and beer are wonderful siblings but after days of breathing hot and stifling roads, ice cream was like a shining beacon in the storm of rocky and dusty earth.
We all had some as well as a pizza each and I was in whatever place is between earth and the heavens.
A bit of playing around in the ocean (No, mothers, I did not wait the required 45 minutes after eating) and we were once again off.
Exactly 40 yards away.
The local ex-pats get together every Wednesday for a happy hour and although many were on holiday, today was no exception.
A gentleman who turned out to be the brother of the wife of the man of the grandparents of the owner of the dog I’d been petting a few days before was hosting and the man lived in an oasis.
Gordon has a rambling hacienda that reminded me much of a home in an exclusive gated community and his house, his pool, his pineapple juice and his rum were all lovely and the man himself was a consummate host.
All in all an excellent day was had and the low key vibe was much needed by all.
This morning began as have the others with a recap of the day before, highs and lows, much coffee, a wonderful cigar and plans for the day.
Johns friend Dennis, a local expatriate from Florida was leading us to an obscure beach called Playa Cambiaso and we were taking the back way.
It wasn’t far in miles but much like a sh*tfaced bar patron,a few steps can actually make up a mile when you add the staggering.
We met at Dennis’ house that he’s owned for a couple years and was actually a failed restaurant that he bought and turned into an amazing bed & breakfast with one incredible view.
We were joined by Peter, another transplant who turned out to be originally from Wales. I commented that I was surprised because I could actually understand him and found out he’d lived all over the place and came most recently from Australia.
He also said this is the last place he’ll ever live and after just a couple of days here I can see why.
If you have even a modest income you can live pretty nicely here. If you can’t afford to own a house, rent is only $30-$40 a month for a decently sized place. So many structures are abandoned but still owned by people looking for anything they can get out of them.
After some pleasantries and a fill up on water we were once again off to the races.
Dennis has been a prolific explorer and was excited to show us the back ways and secret spots on the way to Playa Cambiaso so he led the way.
Once again the boulder roads proved rough but drivable and like drunken sailors we weaved our way along, stopping occasionally for a chat or a picture.
Once in a while I’d race ahead and get some shots of the pack coming up the road. It reminded me of when I was a kid and my neighbors Todd & Ty taught me how to ride dirt bikes in the pastures of central Kansas.
In all honesty, the faster I went, the smoother the ride but I knew at any given moment I could hit a crater and it’d be lights out for moi.
It didn’t happen though and I got some great shots of the group.
Our first stop was an abandoned golf community where the developers were trying to carve out a high end exclusive golf course and housing project but were thwarted by local environmentalists and then left behind.
The road to the communal “hut” was a bit tricky and steep but we made it with minimal fanfare.
As we arrived at the top, the road opened into a wide flat area that looked to me to be a helipad with a gravel palm tree inlaid into the dirt and nothing else.
The view though was incredible so I could see why they wanted the land and the project.
We walked through the woods to the community center where apparently there’s still a group of locals taking care of the property and conserving the former project for some unknown reason. The thought by my companions was that it had been turned into a nature preserve.
We had gotten in through a small gate in the barbed wire fence with a small tip and a handshake by the “guard”, an older gentleman with gnarled and calloused hands from years of obvious labor.
Heading down the path to the lower section of the property the path was a little more challenging with some sandy spots that frankly made me a little incontinent.
You’d never have known though since it was so freaking hot that any liquids leaking out of me would have evaporated immediately.
On second thought, maybe I should have peed on my own feet like the vultures do out on the Kalahari to keep cool.
Kinda gross though and measures were not that desperate just yet.
Some of the sandy spots were deep and most likely are filled with quicksand when the rainy season comes around.
As we made it past the last of the deep sand, you could see the ocean through the trees and what was once a tee box for the golf course. It looked out over what I can only assume was a challenging par 3 and I’m positive there are MANY golf balls at the bottom of the sea there.
What was an ancient lava flow has turned into some amazingly sharp rocks and some of the best fossils I’ve seen in a long time.
There was one spot where you could see the backs of the fish that had been caught in the tidal pool then frozen in time in the sand, the remains of their dorsal fins still sticking out of the rock and the impression of sea flora still embedded for millennia to come.
With the cry of “MOUNT UP!” Coming from back in the woods, Dennis was ready to move on so we got back on our bikes and headed out.
Now, back in the states I’m a prolific motorcycle rider and I don’t know about Todd but my fundament was getting pretty tender with the beating it had taken over the last couple days and I was a bit reluctant but as I had no freaking clue where I was, I had no choice but to either die in the rocks and become a fossil myself or get my tender *ss in gear and get a move on.
I opted for the latter and we were off.
Arriving in Playa Cambiaso approximately four hundred *ss beating years later, we gladly dismounted and glanced around for an open bar.
We were the only ones there.
Being greeted by a gentleman who very nicely put a flat stone under each of our kickstands so we wouldn’t find our motorcycles flat on their sides when we got back, we went in search of cervesas frias.
Another kind man put out a table and chairs for us and ran approximately seven light years away for cold Presidenté as apparently everyone had given up on visitors for the day until we happened upon their little burg(o).
Seeing John emerge from one of the little buildings on the beach I sauntered over to change out of my shorts and skivvies only to be met at the doorway by a husky and irritated woman who’s house it apparently was so I hustled back to the table and changed once more out in el pública, this time making sure my friends weren’t subject to my glowing posterior.
Walking sedately to the shoreline, my pace quickened and became an outright sprint once I figured out that what looked like sand was actually beige flames and the soles of my feet were becoming blistered empanadas only not so nice this time.
Finally making it into the water I waded out, turned around and was treated to one of the most pristine sights of my (very few and youthful) years.
Palm trees waving in the wind, sandy beach unmarred by footprints, beautiful aquamarine water and a local riding his horse down the beach.
He was carrying an armload of pure white towels with a glowing smile on his face.
As I splashed happily out, he rode up and without a glance, rode right by me and into the woods.
Sometimes I’m an idiot.
Sometimes I’m not though and remembering the sands of pure hell I jumped back into the sea and waited for the garçon to arrive with our beers.
We only had one there at one Playa Cambiaso as it was more about the journey than the destination and we were off once more.
Turning off of the blissfully paved road, Dennis led us up a hill to yet another spectacular sight where we could see Luperón, the golf community where we’d just been, the marina where the sailors berth their boats and the amazing shoreline as far as we could see.
Far below were several resorts and incredible beaches and the view (and the wind) could literally take your breath away.
The landscape of the Dominican Republic is dotted with abandoned projects and empty houses and the local expatriates know it as the land of broken dreams.
Riding back through Luperón and down by the beach at Playa Grande there was an empty 400 room hotel that was apparently open as recently as 2012.
Fenced off and empty is was a lonely sight and I could see in my mind families enjoying the beach and meals being prepared in the restaurant, plans being made for excursions and children excited to build castles in the sand.
With Dennis leading the way, we went back to his place by yet another rough riding route down a road I had previously wondered about but hadn’t gone down then jumped in his pool to cool off with the ubiquitous glass of rum, looking out over the valley that seriously looks like the Serengeti with acacia looking trees and cows that from that distance could have easily been wildebeests.
A few giraffes and a rhino or two would have made the landscape perfect.
All in all it was another incredible day. Thanks again to John for the opportunity and Dennis for the good sense of direction.
It’s like Ron Burgundy in Anchorman is prepping you for an end to his wonderful newscast sporting a cheesy smile on his face and reading the Teleprompter. “Have a great night, and f#%$ you Kansas City!”
As I prepared to plunge into the icy waters of Lake Brookside (aka “the pool”) I opened my gym bag in the locker room to find my swimming trunks FROZEN SOLID.
I unfolded them from a crumpled position and cracking sounds came from the material. Little hunks of short pants were falling away with ice crystals attached to them.
Putting them on was a bit of a challenge and I ended up looking like I had acquired a pair of black rumpled aluminum foil shorts from the greasy diner alley show in New York’s Fashion Week.
They say you shouldn’t hide your light under a bushel basket but my poor “light” could have easily hidden under a thimble.
Good times my friends.
Ps. I find it odd that I’m perfectly willing, if not eager, to jump into an icy pit of despair TO WARM UP on a delightful winters morning.
Getting up at 3am when your life has been filled with going to bed no earlier than 4am for many of your short and youthful years is interesting to say the least. Chatting with my wife until about 1am, I finally fell asleep to the rustling, screeching and biting sounds of our wrestling cats.
What felt like three seconds later, my alarm was blaring and I was angrily swatting away the condor sized mosquito in my short lived Jumanji jungle dream.
After what was a long, but at least bleary and swervy drive to the airport, I rushed in and made it to the TSA line under the recommended two hours early timeframe to find I was the only one in line.
I breezed right through.
None of that taking your shoes/belt/pants/underwear off for me. It was all “Come on through, can we get you a beverage? Would you like a magazine to read while you’re here? How about a nice warm cookie? Is there room in your morning for a hug?”
Total and utter forking bullshirt.
Obviously I was still asleep.
As I woke up again, being forcibly strip searched by what looked like a kindly old granny with a detention fetish, I was sharply rapped on the forehead with a crochet covered baton, told I had a little pee pee and shamefully dismissed with a tiny, liver spotted hand to go put my clothes back on.
At least there was no coffee to be had in the detaining/boarding area. It was far too early at KCI for that sort of nonsense.
So, with my head lolling back and forth as I tried desperately to sit upright and remain awake, I waited for my flight.
As we were called to board, I realized that months ago when I booked this flight I had opted for first class as a present to myself for my 50th birthday and man, was I right.
I was treated like royalty.
As soon as I sat down, Kelly LaBrock (or at least her look alike) asked me if I wanted anything to drink and I opted for coffee since although it was the first day of my vacation, it was still 5:45 in the morning and I didn’t want Kelly thinking I was a raging alky.
Three coffees, a bag of mixed nuts and a sly, sleepily wiping of the slobber off of the side of my chin later, we landed in Miami.
My buddy of 24 years and fellow 50 year old birthday boy Todd was waiting there to head to the DR with me.
We shook hands, gave a warm hug and headed to the nearest Irish pub for Irish coffee, Irish bangers, Irish whiskey, and Irish drinking songs.
A man in a leprechaun hat and with a beard drinks beer in a bar. He celebrates St. Patrick’s Day.
Once the singing began we were promptly escorted to the plane and asked delicately but firmly to “never come back” followed by a mumbled “what the $&#% is wrong with you two…?”
The flight was delightful and filled with real glasses and gen-u-ine Woodford reserve along with warm snacks, back rubs, offers of precious stones and a hula show.
Being unaware that hula was a tradition in the DR I was duly impressed.
As it turns out, it’s not.
One of the passengers had just been to Kona and was showing off his new grass skirt and coconut “Bro” (Had me totally fooled)
Upon arrival at Santiago I made It through immigration (Stopping to put my clothes back on. What is it with these guys?!?!), picked up my luggage and walked outside to the wall of heat.
I immediately regretted putting my clothes back on.
My friend John was there to greet us and we loaded up his 1927 Mitsubishi Montero and headed over the mountains to his new place.
Now, some of the roads in the DR are fairly similar to the offroads in the DR so you need to keep your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road.
After just a few minutes of this John said “Could you two get in the back and take your hands off the wheel? I’m trying to drive here, the wheel’s only so big and you’re crowding me.”
About halfway to the new homestead we stopped for beers at the local gas station/bar.
Much like Cuba, In the Dominican Republic if you have a broom closet that opens to the street or a tin shack with a removable front wall, you can also have a bar.
There was the gas station bar, the barber bar, the mechanics bar, the laundromat bar, the church bar, the police station bar, the local DMV bar and the bar bar (this was a bar with another bar in it. Very avant-garde. I believe construction was underway on another bar just outside.)
Back on the road we continued our sightseeing tour of the mountainous area leading to Luperón and the view was spectacular. Asking what all of the giant boulders were on the side of the road I was informed that when it rained, apparently it also rained Volkswagen sized boulders and the water washed them right onto the road.
Seriously, there was heavy equipment right there standing by to move them off the road.
I plan on keeping a close eye on the sky while at Johns house.
Finally arriving at la hacienda we unpacked the bags and promptly toured the grounds. John is obviously and rightfully proud of his new place.
It is spectacular.
An amazing house, a guest house, a six foot stone and stucco wall the surrounds the property, fruit trees of all kinds (wax apples, almonds, limes, bananas, papaya, avocados, cashews etc.) and of course John is working on it every day to see his vision of the property to fruition. He talks about the land like a proud papa.
Drinks in hand. We walked back to the veranda with its panoramic view of the ocean and settled in for the night.
…”
The Daily Exorcise 