Toodlepip, I'm almost done with recapping the first two days of my vacation last week. If I weren't dead-set on finishing up this quasi-story, I'd set my computer on fire, change my name, and get a job in Estonia as a ferry pilot/driver/whatever the correct terminology is. Okay, so let's get this crap out of the way so I can talk about the good stuff.
We made our way into La Opera Bar. I made an interesting discovery at this point. Apparently, in Mexico, opera doesn't mean 'fat lady singing arias', but 'deafening, horrific karaoke attacking my mind from all angles'. I fashioned two ear plugs out of corn tortillas and sat down, intent on enjoying myself. Due to the abundance of corn in my ears, I had a hard time following what was happening before me, but it looked like my cousin and the waiter were performing some old timey Abbott and Costello routine involving a menu and salsa. Then again, she may've been asking him to point out the best food in the joint. Really, who can tell? Whatever the case, the end result was that a great deal of food was brought to our table. Before breaking the bread, I made a silent prayer that the karaoke dj be incapacitated. JC must've got the message, because before I knew it, the karaoke was off and a mariachi was strumming his ass off in front of our table. Ahh, Mexico!
The food was incredible. Really, it was just extraordinary. If my enemies ever conspire to have me thrown on Death Row, my last meal will be the garlic shrimp from La Opera Bar, along with a Mr. Pibb and a jar of pickles. In addition, the mariachi knew a thing or two about strumming his banjo. The entire affair amounted to a delightful meal. I briefly considered trying to construct a cabin under my table where I could live until my death, but I couldn't find any caulk OR insulation, so I followed my family back out to the streets.
One of my favorite things about Mexico is the people on the streets trying to sell you stuff. In their version of the world, us Americanos are positively insane about yarn hammocks and hair weaves. I normally abstain from purchasing anything in these instances, but on this particular trip, something piqued my interest. On the sidewalk in front of the bar, someone had set up a table that was full of Star Wars statues. Since I'm both an idiot and a nerd, I wandered over and inquired about the price of a certain Darth Vader statue. After all, if there's one thing bordertowns are known for, it's the high quality of their Sith Lord figurines. The man told me it was $15. Now, I'm no jiveturkey; I know how these games are played. Although I would've gladly maxed out my visa card to get Darth, I snorted dismissively, and walked off. When I reached the corner, the budding entrepreneur yelled out, "Okay, only $10 for you!" Before I knew what was happening, my wallet was a few grams lighter and I was striding through the streets with a sack full of the Force.
A few minutes later, we came across another vendor selling some straw cowboy hats. Maybe it was the Vader talking, but I wanted one badly. However, I had already spent roughly $18,000 in this brief foray into Mexico, and no matter how outlandish the hat was, I'd have a hard time justifying it to the court in my bankruptcy proceedings. Luckily, my uncle is no stranger to taste and wanted one for himself. He managed to swing a package deal for the hats and a pair of sunglasses. If I'd been keeping a tally at this point, it would've been lik ePowell Family 234785, Mexico 0. After this, we slowly made our home, pausing long enough for me to buy a bottle of gin.
High off of Mexico, the ride back to our hotel was silent. Between the hat, Darth, and the beer, all I could do was sit quietly and ruminate on how much I loved our neighbors to the south. Eventually, we made it back to our lodgings. We'd loaded up on goodies on our trip, so all hands were full on the elevator ride up. Crowded into an elevator, everyone packed down with goods, I wasn't too surprised when a bag slipped from someone's hands and hit the ground. However, this nonchalance evaporated when I saw Darth Vader's head roll out of the bag. Vader had been dropped, and decapitated due to the impact. It took all of my effort not to pull the Emergency Stop on the elevator so that I could sit there and weep for the loss of my friend. Rationality then took over. How much can one expect from a $10 Darth Vader statue? And really, once I got a little super glue, no one would know of his brief flirtation with headlessness. Even if worse came to worse and I couldn't get the head attached, I knew exactly where to go for a replacement.
Click the Continued link for selected photos.
Our hero at the bridge.
Turkey Leg, the Jeweler, Van Halen, and myself, cradling our tour guide.
The hat. May its glue never dry.
