Within seconds, after some of the fog cleared, I vaguely recalled getting up in the middle of the night scratching myself raw from mosquito bites. The best I could do was grab an ice cold beer from the mini bar and hold it against some of the worst spots to numb the itch. They say everything happens for a reason; I suppose I've been nibbled half to death so I will be better equipped to handle the transition back to reality. Such as it is.By tomorrow, I'll have traded the morning wake-up call of crashing waves for the gentle snoring of a smelly dog. Beach yoga, beach volleyball, beach walks -- they will be but distant memories. Me posing for a photo with a huge python wrapped around my neck? Not so distant, I'm afraid. My daughter has been stalking the photography office to ensure we don't leave without that picture. She has assured me that nobody will notice the sagging flesh of my middle aged body in a bathing suit; my wild eyed look peering through the loop of the snake's muscular torso will detract from all that. It was a pretty big snake.
Last night, we bid adios to Puerto Vallarta with a final trek into the center of town for a traditional Mexican dinner of bruschetta and pasta. Yes, even I have had my fill of guacamole and tortilla soup. We wore our favorite sundresses, every ounce of silver we had purchased from our new best amiga Lupe, and even put on makeup. I cheated a little, leaving the oil from the late afternoon massages we had enjoyed in my hair, thinking it might help to counteract the weeklong beating it had taken from the sun. So what if the pieces I couldn't quite stretch into a pony tail hung down the sides of my face like sauteed linguine?
The beaches and the restaurants were noticeably uncrowded this year; no doubt, news reports of rampant kidnappings and random murders scared many Americans off to tamer hot spots. Maybe we're brave, maybe we're just reckless, but we took taxis and wandered the streets without fear. We sort of got kidnapped last night by some overly zealous nightclub employees who physically grabbed us by the arms and dragged us into their bar and sat us down in the zebra upholstered booth by the front window. My protests were ignored, my feeble attempts to get up and leave were met with gentle but emphatic escorts back to the table. Most people get bounced out of bars. We seem to do everything ass backwards.
I am happy to report they didn't kill us. They did, however, give us free margaritas (which of course my daughter could not drink) and we, in turn, did them the favor of staying for a bit so other passers by might think the place was popular and worth checking out. Charity may begin at home, but there's no reason to leave it behind when you cross the border.
We leave today a little bitten up, a few pounds heavier, a few shades darker, and filled with memories of a much needed mother/daughter vacation in the sun. My daughter leaves with a few new Facebook friends. I'll just stick with the memories, and adhere to the words on the tee shirt I won the other day: What happens in Mexico stays in Mexico.
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