Papa he say Holy Moley!

Papa he say Holy Moley!

Filed under Blog Notes

Jun 13

Oh dear. Beach vacations have historically had the ability to cast a spell that drenches the lowest rung of service workers in sex appeal, transforming restaurant sailors with fish sticks on a tray into navy seals and fishing guides that wear bathing suits as underwear into rock stars. That’s just the way the beach is, and although, with the wisdom of maturity, I am mostly immune to the condition these days, (inoculated, no doubt, by the dozens of unsuitable love affairs that made my youth so much darn fun ) given the right conditions I can still feel symptoms. Going to Puerto Vallarta with two dazzling brand new college graduates constitutes the right conditions. Celebrating their achievement with a sunset ride on a pirate ship that has an open bar and boy dancers doing sword fights, well, all I can say is that the wisdom of maturity has no place on a pirate ship.

Some years ago, my older step daughter was shopping for a formal, an event which inspired the first of many moments of the vertigo that comes from aging ungracefully, when you realize civilization has actually made some dramatic advances in your lifetime. It occurred to me that neither the fabrics that prom dresses were being made of, nor the lingerie to go with them, had been invented when I was in high school. I had the same sensation on the pirate ship. Boy, there was nothing like that around when I was looking for it, I can tell you that! Good looking Mexican twenty somethings swooping around with daggers in their teeth and a deejay spinning Sex on the Beach (with it’s compelling chorus; ” Champagne! Mojito! Tequila! Boom Boom!”) while the sun sets in the Pacific and fireworks are sent up off the bow. If you can imagine a higher goal than getting one of the swashbuckling staff to run your panties up the mast along with the Jolly Roger in a situation like that, I defriend you. Not my panties, obviously, because I’m past all that, and also because my foundation garments are made of stern stuff these days.

It turned out that my darling girls are themselves made of pretty stern stuff, and had no problem whatsoever keeping their wardrobe in place . They don’t have anywhere near the degree of toxicology required to get up to shenanigans like I did back in the day, and it turns out, they have wisdom of their own. But they still felt the love! By the end of the week the three of us were exhausted from falling in love with ATV drivers, zip line tour guides, waiters at Senor Frog’s, jet ski rental clerks, time share salesmen, and of course pirates whose English vocabulary consisted of the word “Yar”. Which, looking back, they may well have thought meant “Nice to meet you.” My husband watched all this with amusement. And amazement, I’m sure, that his middle aged wife, charged with chaperoning his precious daughter, could regress so horribly into her own round heeled and rum soaked juventud.

Luckily, the girls didn’t travel back to my village home with me. The first week of June is when my village celebrates its fiesta patronales, the nine day hootenanny celebrating St. Anthony de Padua,the saint for whom our pueblo is named. And although I hate saying good-bye to any of my step-children, I admit that I’m relieved not to be gambling with my precious baby’s virtue on some of the characters that are loitering around the village square right now, especially not if she’s got margaritas and pirates on the brain. The enchantment of our week at the beach is powerful enough to make even the wretches who operate the tin tilt-a-whirl that travels from village to village for fiestas look kind of sexy, and if there’s an animal out there more raffish and uncouth than a Mexican carnie, I’d like to meet it. But only in broad daylight.

I’m glad the fiesta is here, although these parties are normally a hideous thorn in the Gringo side, with their 15 piece bands cranking up at 11:00 at night and drunken cowboys napping on the sidewalks. But I know what it’s like to rejoin the real world after a vacation like the one we just had, to cry all the way home on an airplane, to wake up surrounded by responsibility instead of ocean. I didn’t have to suffer the shock of re-entry because I live in Mexico, and when the band took a break to allow the stage to be set for one of the endless beauty contests or raffles for pick-up trucks that go on night and day during fiesta time, the DJ took over. With his help, on my first night home, I was lulled to sleep by the catchy rhymes— “Mama, she say roly poly, Papa, he say holy moley,”— of this song, number one on the pirate ship hit parade.

11 Comments

11 Responses to “Papa he say Holy Moley!”

Steve Cotton said on June 14th, 2010 at 4:03 am

“By the end of the week the three of us were exhausted from falling in love with ATV drivers, zip line tour guides, waiters at Senor Frog’s, jet ski rental clerks, time share salesmen, and of course pirates whose English vocabulary consisted of the word “Yar”. ”

I understand your husband’s bemusement. What is it with gringas? They fall in love with the same guys who they laughed at during the senior prom.

But I am not complaining. I have discovered that even I, the guy who cannot get a date in Oregon, am a highly marketable commodity in the Mexican sun.

Don’t understand it. Don’t need to.
MichaelM said on June 14th, 2010 at 9:13 am

Foundation garments??????

You just continue to shock me!
Elliott said on June 14th, 2010 at 10:01 am

Steve, it’s an illness, I swear it. Speaking of illnesses, hope you’re feeling better. Sounds like you had a pretty grim cold, or whatever it was.
Elliott said on June 14th, 2010 at 12:30 pm

Haha, Michele, you must see plenty of knucklehead tourists swooning over local boys! Good Luck with T.O.P (For comment stalkers, Michele organizes the Taste of Playa. Click on “Lifes a Beach” in my blog roll.) And yes, missy, they can’t be called anything other than foundation garments. Except when I’m wearing one of my bathing frocks.
Anita said on June 15th, 2010 at 11:00 am

HOOOORAH!!!!

Thank goodness…I just miss y ou bunches. How is the knitting together of the stories going?

Just back from Texas shopping trip, never need to go north again unless its for obligation trips….can get it all over the internet. Texas is terrible, the onlyl thing worth buying was a Dillards and it wasn’t on sale, Macy’s was giving the store away and for the first time EVER I found nothing in Home Depot that I needed to buy. While we were eating Vietnamese food a fellow was shot dead just to the left of the front of the Barnes and Noble – we went in anyway since the crime scene tape didn’t go that far to the door of B&N. Thankful that I picked up my Kindle. Don’t ever have to go back north. Thank GAWD!! It’s a good feeling.
Elliott said on June 15th, 2010 at 11:13 am

Anita, I’m using this comment for the forward to the book. “While we were eating Vietnamese food a fellow was shot dead” Jesus. Welcome home, darling!
TW said on June 16th, 2010 at 1:43 am

Where I called home as a young man, we had the same thing. Tourist girls would fawn over us when we were out water skiing, drinking beer, and having a good time.

None of us would “go steady” with a girl during the summer, because we always had these young ladies who needed to be shown a good time hanging around.

I know it’s chauvinistic, but at the end of the summer, we’d tally up who had the most “flings,” and the winner held the crown ’til the following summer.

I’m not bragging about it. If anything, I find it unsettling that I was such a tool.
Elliott said on June 16th, 2010 at 2:11 am

I love the word tool. But listen, using “young” and “tool” in the same paragraph is redundant. God, weren’t we all?
Viki said on June 20th, 2010 at 5:12 am

Wish I’d know you were in Puerto Vallarta the same week we were, I’d have bought you and the girls a drink, just to get to meet you in person!

Five of us ladies took a “girls only” trip there and spent the week at a lovely (but much more “family oriented” than we’d desired) resort timeshare. Strange to take a vacation from Mazatlán to Puerto Vallarta, but it was there, and a good chance to get away from the husbands. Apart from Kiki, our activities director, there wasn’t much to look at, at the resort, but our trips into “Old Town” were fun and interesting.

Leaving the husbands home unsupervised exhibited extreme bravery on our part. When I got home, every stich of clothing, every sheet and towel we owned needed laundered, and my house smelled like a petting zoo! So I’ve spent the past week getting things back in order, but very glad to get back to Maz–home sweet home!
Elliott said on June 20th, 2010 at 12:51 pm

Viki, I would have loved it! I haven’t been to Maz yet, but I’m dying to visit, and I’ll take you up on that drink then.
Viki said on June 22nd, 2010 at 5:00 pm

You’ve got a deal, Elliott! You’ll love it here!