After our adventures on Saturday, I slept like a log but woke up from a vague nightmare, momentarily convinced I’d shouted a frustrated “oh for fucks sake!” out loud in the room.
Not exactly the kind of nightmare where you wake up at the point of your own death, I’d actually been dreaming that somehow I’d managed to snag a flight home and ticket for Wembley this Monday - but I was lost in a crowd, couldn’t find Daff who had my ticket, and he wasn’t answering his phone. Kick off was approaching, surely I wasn’t going to fly all the way back from Mexico and not see the match!?
Paco the parrot didn’t give a fuck. He was just interested in eating his own feet, and repeating his own name back at us. We went for our last day of American breakfast, and I realised I’m going to miss the good stuff on Monday because I’ll be in the room watching football for the entire time breakfast is served. D’oh!
As with Saturday we exploited the early hour to head outdoors. Again, everything was shut and sleepy though we did meet a very cute and excitable puppy next to the bank. Over to the Oxxo general store for cold liquids, and back to the pool. The cat was my best friend again, snuggling up against my legs as I caught some shade.
A couple of lazy hours passed, during which we made good use of the giant ice bunker. One by one our room keys stopped working, and we had to ask the cleaners to let us in before getting replacements from reception. Then we ventured only as far as the hotel restaurant for lunch.
I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, but since Mexican food is my favourite food on earth I didn’t exactly struggle. We shared a plate of fajitas, enchiladas, and flank steak with beans, rice and guacamole before tucking into dessert. It occurred to us that we’re yet to see anywhere around here which sells burritos, god damn it.
And, in came the mariachis! They performed about 5 or 6 songs for the table across the way while we glanced over and thought, hang on, those guys look familiar.
“¡Hola amigos, again!” - it was the same roaming band as we’d seen on Saturday at the rooftop place down the way, only this time with an extra man plus nervous looking child in tow, and much worse shirts. They played us one song and continued their rounds.
Prior to their arrival, I’d started making a note in my pad with just the letter M. I wonder what I was going to write?
Back to the room for a siesta, the next few hours consisted entirely of Helen sleeping while I listened to the 9 Years Podcast. Come on you Dons!
Come the evening and there’s nothing for it but to get back on the food and drink. With the temperature at vaguely sensible levels and the sun half an hour from setting, we venture up to the town square and, whoa! There’s shitloads of people about!
Apparently Sunday is the day to be out, at least for the locals. There are people everywhere, lining the main square and a couple of streets surrounding. None of the businesses look very busy, in fact “Downtown Pub” is shut, but the atmosphere on the street is great.
There are vague attempts by restaurant doormen to gain our business, and the church is really crowded - so much that not everyone can fit in, and the Mexi-gospel from inside floats across the air from the open doors.
We wander around a small area as yet unexplored i.e. beyond the brewery and find a restaurant called La Lupita - Tacos and Mezcal. No-one is on the door trying to talk us in, which is one reason the business actually wins our custom. That and the menu had craft Mexican beer on it.
Also, there are people. Every other bar and restaurant looked to have literally zero customers, whereas here there were two or three tables already with folk at them. We got our menus and ordered drinks first - a schwarzbier for me, and Mezcal cocktail for Helen. Behind me, a man wielded his blade at an elephant leg. Are we in a Mexican kebab house?
We had no idea what Mezcal was, and didn’t ask. Turns out it’s basically a smokey tequila (this description probably pisses off both Mezcal and tequila purists, but whatever). It tasted incredibly strong and Helen was quick to describe the effects thus: “I’m not head drunk, but I can’t feel my legs”
The schwarzbier was not as potent, nor nice. I mean it was OK, but basically a black lager. The food, however, was magnificent. 5 tacos between us - cheese, lamb, beef, pork, with numerous salsas and sauces and other accompaniments. You know how like what Wahaca serves, only way better and actually in Mexico.
Sensibly taking her limb-defying drink slowly, I took another cerveza, this time an oatmeal stout and HOLY SHIT IT WAS GORGEOUS. A song came on which reminded me very much of the theme tune from Sorry! as performed by Matt Berry’s band.
With Helen both possibly incapacitated and suffering Mezcal sweats, we paid up and left. She struggled up the very slight incline, and we headed back to Oxxo for another 6 pack of Dos Equis and soft drinks for the morning. After researching further eating options for the remainder of our time here, I once again dozed off still clutching an open can.
Glory beckons in the morning.
