Page 58 of Harper's Holiday Romance
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The resort had been transformed into a Mexican wonderland. Barefoot shirtless men strolled around dressed in eagle feathers and vibrant body paint. Their face paint varied in colour, but each was as spooky as the next. We made our way through the cobbled streets where the essence of an old Mexico seeped from the makeshift buildings. We stopped to observe a native dance; women in long black skirts carrying giant guitars sangGuantanameraat the top of their lungs. I knew the song, but I didn’t know the origin.
“I wonder what Guantanamera means?” I asked Julia.
“I think it’s actually just a town in Mexico.”
A woman enhanced the song with a trumpet solo right before the chorus. All five women in unison did their version of the Hokey Pokey dance; it went surprisingly well with the beat of the Cuban song. They tried to involve the queues of guests filing past to get to the different food stalls.
The daytime snack shack had been transformed into a dive bar filled with spooky wooden masks and an array of colourful spirits in unlabelled bottles.
“They look like potions.” Billie lifted a large dark bottle and almost dropped it when the clatter of the saloon doors bashed against the frame of the shack. Each person that entered threw back the swinging wooden doors with force in a comical fashion. The whole experience reminded me of an old western movie Iwatched as a kid with my grandparents. We each took a turn pushing our way through the doors. The award for best re-enactment and for encompassing the spirit of a western cowboy went to Sarah who fully embraced the character, so much so, I almost peed.
“That was the best thing I have ever seen you do,” I said between short sharp breaths.
We walked on a little further through the resort. There were street vendors galore offering a variety of food, from soft shell tacos, to tamale, to churros. Stalls packed with souvenirs lined the sidewalks. They offered everything you could imagine: authentic Mexican dresses, embroidered handbags, and locally made textiles, including pillowcases and blankets. I spent a moment by the sombrero stand, but Sarah reminded me how impractical it was to haul a giant souvenir sombrero home, so I refrained. The kind gentleman who owned the stall allowed me to pose for a picture with a sombrero big enough to act as a parasol, so I was content with that.
There were palm readers, cigar sellers, peanut vendors, and a gentleman with a small stall offering out chilli snacks hot enough to melt the inside of my mouth. He didn’t understand my question regarding the heat, and the red chilli signs I swore by at home were nowhere to be seen. Everyone else found the snack to be tasty. I spent the next five minutes breathing fire like a dragon in between catching my breath and dowsing my tongue in lemonade.
We grabbed a drink from a bar serving ice cold drinks in clay cups. The small wooden sign indicated they were serving Cantaritos, made with lime, orange, tequila, grapefruit, and rimmed with chili lime powder. The citrusy drinks should’ve been my worst nightmare; chili rims and tequila spoke to the deepest darkest depths ofmy soul. The waiter informed us the clay added a mild earthy flavour; the tequila was too overpowering to taste any earth, but I took his word for it.
“Salud!” Julia clinked her glass with mine; her eye contact didn’t waver. God, she was beautiful.
“This clay cup is so cool!” I took a sip and scrunched my face so hard from the sour taste I probably reversed all effects of my new anti-wrinkle cream. I snapped a picture for what would be tomorrow’s daily Instagram post.
“Do you think we can take one home?” Sarah asked, suggesting it wouldn’t be the first time she stole an item of crockery and probably wouldn’t be the last. I could live with that. We wouldn’t have had the extremely sharp steak knives or the fancy shot glasses in our apartment if she hadn’t slipped them in her bag from the bougie overpriced restaurants we’d been dining in. However, I suspected the Mexican law to be more stringent.
“Don’t risk it,” said my voice of reason.
“You don’t want two years in a federal prison, trust me,” Julia added.
“Why do you sound like you’re talking from experience?” Billie said.
“My dad’s brother is part of the Mafia; why do you think we vacation here so much?” Julia said straight-faced. I instantly wanted to laugh, but she didn’t falter. “He’s coming with a few of his friends to the hotel tomorrow for dinner. I hope he doesn’t cause a scene like last time.” She drank the remainder of her Cantaritos without another word.
“Oh.”
“Erm, okay.”
“The Mafia is totally cool, right? I mean I’d love to meet someone who works in the Mafia. Do you work inthe Mafia? Or are you like born into it? Is it a job, or does being an international criminal not count as a job? I’d love to know. Maybe we could sit down with him; that’d be fine, right? He doesn’t like carry guns or anything, does he? Or you know, want to kill innocent people?” I nudged Sarah in the ribs to stop rambling.
“Ow.”
“You’re talking too much.” I scowled.
“Guys, I was joking.” Julia smirked.
“Oh, thank God! I was just trying to be polite, but inside I was terrified,” Sarah blurted.
“No shit.” I laughed.
“You hide your feelings about as well as I hide the extra pounds I put on after an all-inclusive holiday.” Billie patted at her stomach. “The food baby is already developing.”
“Julia, will you tell me a fun fact about the brain,” Sarah asked.
Julia considered the question; she sipped her cocktail, and the chili rim left small speckles of flakes on her lips. I resisted the urge to wipe them away or lick them off. Both options would’ve been inappropriate.
“It has over one hundred thousand miles of blood vessels and other transport systems carrying one and a half pints of blood per minute,” Julia replied.
