Prostitution Day at the Beach

Well, I could tell you that our loopy Congress (gonna have to rethink those caps) has once again voted against the will of the American people, and decided that it’s perfectly OK for government to spy on us. Or how about Syria—over 100,000k have been killed in the civil war there. Or really to rain on your day, how about the fact that in the same day that we all hung by our screens to see British kid named George Alexander Louis, 440 women died in childbirth across sub-Saharan Africa?

“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….