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December 17. The mornings are coming earlier now, mainly because we’re adventuring so much that we fall asleep barely after sunset. About 7 we walked into town, about 8 blocks, and some fabuloso empanadas.
They were super fresh and cooked right there by where we sat; in the street. Post-breakfast we walked the market and bought all the ingredients to make a spicy pot of borracho beans for future indulgence. The smell has caused Kira, Fernando’s German Shepard pup, to become a regular fixture on our porch.
While the beans cooled, we took a quick day trip north to Tenacatita, a beach that was supposedly quite lovely. Sometimes mystery places like this can be quite a find, other times you’re a victim of hype. Tenacatita was the latter. It’s not worth describing beyond “Bleh”.
Sharon and I saw what we thought was a bar. We drove this far. Might as well stop and have a beer. We made it about ten feet from the car when a private security vato told us this was private property and to get back in our car. Really? Someone was pretty proud of Bleh Beach and its grimy end of the road. Our imaginations started to flourish with this rejection and we creatively decided we escaped a drug king-pin with our heads intact.
Back in San Patricio we hit the beach walking north. The ocean pelicans put on a show, dive bombing Kamikaze style at fish below. I imagined myself performing such a stunt and wearing a neck brace for the remainder of my life. At this point we have officially walked the entire beach as far as you can go without a boat from end to end. That’s about 4 miles and most without shoes. I’m the only one that gave in when it came to the shoe department. At this point I felt like I had gotten elaborate tattoos on the soles of my feet.
We squeezed in a nap then ended up walking back into town to search out some al pastor alambre. It was after sunset and this dusty village took on a whole new feel. It was active and a bit louder. We found what we were searching for and again sat at tables in the street. Not on the street, IN the street. In street food etiquette, if there’s a seat anyone can sit there. At our folding tables we were joined by three French Canadians. Between Sharon and I we have a combined French vocabulary of about 9 words; fondue, qui, bidet, Tony Parker and ooh la la are the main ones. We didn’t share much conversation but they we entertaining all the same. The man reminded me of Ernest Hemingway, the full beard years, and as jovial as Santa.
We were surprised by how early it was. The bell tower clock that was just forty feet above us read 6:25 pm. Weird. We thought we had been out much longer. We looked again at the clock. In a psychedelic moment the tower clock moved from 6:25 to 6:31 in about ten seconds, then slowed, then just stopped, then coasted back to 6:30. The Canadians couldn’t figure us out nor what we were reacting to. Silly Americans, (add French accent).
Mexico. Don’t cha’ just love it?
How about some pictures instead of my yacking? Plus I need a tequila.
Cihuautlán 
The Zocalo – San Patricio 
Pineapple delivery squad 
Polly wanna… 
Beach God 
Bungalow Entrance 
Inside Bungalows Azteca 
These shade the pool 
Wednesday Market 
Wednesday Market 
Another Sunset
Will you bring some barracho beans to school in the Spring semester
You and Sharon are the people I would love to meet if I would travel anywhere I would need a passport. So what was the deal with the clock? Was time moving faster or were y’all having flashbacks.
What an awesome trip. It’s been a pleasure reading and living vicariously just a bit through your stories. Thanks for sharing
Oh Donnie, I Love your narration of your travels!! LOVE IT!! You have me laughing out loud!! I would love to travel with ya’ll, what a Blast that would be. Ya’ll be safe, hope yo see you soon!