“It’s
Prostitution Day,” I told Gustavo, the sexy guy from the café, “you’re not
going to the bank…”
Nor were we
going to the bank, but rather to the beach, and a very good day it was for it.
We snailed along at Mr. Fernández’s glacier-in-reverse pace, caught some rays,
and sampled some local color, of which there was a very full palette.
We do some
things very well, down here, but going to the beach we do either very badly
(seen through gringo eyes) or superbly (don’t have to tell you….).
On this
particular beach, there are signs posting the rules of the beach. To a gringo
mind, one would get to a place, look for a sign, read it, absorb the rules, and
follow them. To us?
What sign?
It’s almost
a competition—which group of people can violate the most rules. There were the
people picnicking outside of the picnic area (1), grabbing beers (2) out
of the cooler (3), as their dog (4) chased after a tossed cigarette butt (5).
But they were pikers. Most people were scoring at least eight.
There are
no barbecues allowed except in the picnic area—of course everybody has a grill.
There is no drinking allowed—hey, wanna beer? There is no music, but of course
a guy had a boom box in a little red cart—remember them from childhood?—and was
blasting reggaetón to half the beach.
“Free
music,” I told Mr. Fernández. You gotta go with the flow….
Mind you,
nobody is actually swimming. Most people are bobbing in the water, chugging
back the beer or the gasolina—a
rum drink that comes in a pouch. Men will have 15 extra pounds per decade over
20; women will have 20. Everybody will be shouting, children will be running
between your legs, and the smell of charcoal and grilled food will be
intoxicating. And yes, people will bring everything to the beach—chairs,
the baby crib, the baby, Mamita, large umbrellas, tents, tables to hold the
food.
It’s
wonderful. We strolled home, bumping into homeless and now toothless Gale, who
told us the horror stories of the community—Puerta de
Tierra—just next to ours. We gave her some money, chatted for a bit, and
moved on.
And now, do
I want to read about Syria, contemplate death rates in the developing world, or
allow the United States Congress to dampen my psyche?
Forget
it—here’s a little known but wonderful cello sonata, by the curious French composer
Charles Valentin
Alkan….
