We kept our heads in Acapulco

We gave it all we had. Which turned out to be 2.5 hours. I am now enjoying Acapulco from a lounge chair on the Promenade Deck. Busy city noises are almost drowned out by the lively yet incessant whistles of the waiters at the Señor Frog's Bar at the port's terminal.

Just as we were almost home free and back inside the security barrier around our ship, Rob and I were approached by a young man with TV hair and a Telemundo microphone in his hand. He spoke beautiful English and asked if he could ask us three questions on camera for an interview about tourism in Acapulco. Our big shot at international fame and...Rob and I looked at each other and telepathically agreed we had nothing positive to say so we declined and moved on towards the cold water station near the gangway. So if you have visited Acapulco and found it delightful, you might want to skip this blog entry. Rob and I won't be hired by the local Visitors Bureau any time soon.

It looked so pretty as we sailed into port at sunrise this morning. A lovely crescent beach lined with high-rise hotels and steep green and rocky mountains behind them. As the sun came up and we got closer, it all looked vaguely familiar...the mountains and the buildings on nearly every available inch of them and the radio towers and the palm trees and the smog. Rob agreed: all that was missing was a “Hollywood” sign.

David and Carolyn elected to stay on the ship today. Smart move. But with assurances from the ship's crew and port lecturer about Acapulco's safety despite the whole decapitation thing that was in the news a few weeks ago, Rob and I decided to venture out in search of a fort and some guide-book approved authentic Mexican food for lunch. We met our goals and will be having some buffet snacks on the Lido Deck as soon as food sounds appetizing again.

The Fuerte de San Diego was easy enough to find: it is literally across the street from where we are docked. However, before crossing the much appreciated pedestrian bridge, we first had to navigate all the taxi drivers swarming us, offering to take us to see the cliff divers. Remember that scene in the movie “Airplane!” where one of the characters is walking through an airport and is fending off Hari Krishnas left and right, with karate chops and suitcases? Yeah, that's how we felt. Fresh meat, dressed in walking shorts and Panama hats, carrying a stuffed pig and a camera. Interestingly, all of the buzzards were talking only to Rob. “Señor, señor!” Nobody wanted to talk to the señora. Sexist? Sure. Grateful? You bet I was.

We paid our $8 and toured several air conditioned rooms explaining Acapulco's history and role in the early trade days with China. Lots of piracy took place around here, as goods were transported to and fro the Orient. And once again, Sir Francis Drake's name popped up, once again not in the glowing terms I learned from my American text books. I'm still intrigued to learn he was a pirate. Sir Pirate Drake. Aaargh.

Perhaps my favorite moment of the day took place as we were walking around the top of the fort. Someone was playing a loud radio and a brassy Mexican song wafted from the north. We followed the music only to discover it was a live band practicing in a building across the street. They must have been something important, as the sign on the building said “Sindicato Unico de Trabajadores de la Musica del Estado de Guerrero.” (Acapulco is in the Mexican state of Guerrero.) So we stood there on the top of the fort, listening to a live band while admiring the colorful laundry that was out on the line next door and trying to decipher the graffiti below it.

We were ready to leave, so I hit the moderately clean los baños and returned to find Rob being chatted up by a taxi driver insistent that we wanted to see the cliff divers. “Ready to head back to the ship?” Rob asked me. “Yes. It is just too hot today,” I smiled apologetically at the taxi driver. Rob and I then triumphantly continued with our plans in the other direction in search of the “very clean, strictly local-style...highly recommended...friendly” restaurant to sample what we had been told was the unusually spicy cuisine of Acapulco. If you know me, you know I love me some caliente cuisine, so I was all over this.

We made our way, with a map, out of the touristy area and into a decidedly local neighborhood. I was very proud of Rob for sticking with our plan, as he really is not a big fan of international travel nor of decapitation. Frankly, the area was icky. It smelled bad, it was noisy, it was dirty, the buildings were falling apart, the sidewalks (where there were some) were an injury lawyer's dream. The people were nice enough, though. They largely ignored us and not a one of them implored us to let them take us to see the cliff divers.

We found the restaurant and were the only customers. The owner and her son (?) seemed surprised to see us. And we were surprised to learn that Señora Consuela doesn't speak English. The guide book gave the impression (“...she welcomes everyone...she is very proud of her pata...”) that we would be able to ask questions about the menu and easily communicate my desire to have something spicy. Instead, we played menu charades and ended up with two orders of “Pozole con Botana Especial” – a soup dish with all sorts of extras as appetizers. Sadly, very little of what was placed in front of us was appetizing. And not a bite of it was spicy. Although Señora Consuela might be under the impression that Rob thinks I am pretty hot.

The description on the menu had words like queso and taco and tostada and vinagreta and chile relleno and chalupita. It all sounded safe enough. And yet the first thing that was placed in front of us looked like a tongue on a bone. We both picked at it and moved it around. I ate one of the accompanying carrots and discovered la vinagreta. I liked the pickled carrot but my stomach turned at the sight of the fleshy meaty bony thing. We determined it couldn't be a tongue because of the bone, so Rob gave it a taste. Despite my proud sampling of escargots at dinner several nights ago (it was like chewy buttery garlicky chicken – not bad as long as I didn't think about it...which I couldn't not), I just couldn't bring myself to eat the tongue-on-a-bone. So much for my plans to be the eater in my fantasy of Rob and I running “The Amazing Race.”

The next dish was chile relleno and it was edible, although not all that different than what I get at our favorite Mexican restaurant near Woodhaven. Then came a basket of fried bread-like things. The homemade fried tortilla was very good; the fried chicken skin was okay, too, 'tho it could have used some salsa. Then came the vegetable plate, consisting of piles of diced onions, sliced radishes, two avocado wedges, and two quartered limes...and one large spoon. We weren't quite sure how to eat them, so I picked around and had a few slices of this and that. I also started getting paranoid about restaurant health standards, for no good reason other than I was in a restaurant I never would have considered were it not for the guide book.

Finally, the pozole showed up – the house specialty. We each got an enormous bowl of shredded beef and corny bits in a verde broth. The corny bits looked like grit versions of popcorn. They floated in the broth and had a slightly gritty texture. And very little flavor. I picked around at this, too, and realized my little voice...the one that never steers me wrong...was whispering very loudly that I should stop eating. And so, with very deliberate swigs on my bottled Coca Cola with real cane sugar, I stopped eating. I should interject here that as I am reliving this meal in words, my stomach is turning again. No promises about pictures being posted later. Moving on.

Looking at the map, we decided on a more direct route back to the port using a larger, more major street. We found Jr. Escudero very easily and hated every moment of our jaunt down it. Talk about sensory overload. It was a sweaty, dirty, stinky, utterly chaotic version of the area around the Stockton-Sutter Street parking garage in San Francisco. If you know that area, you know this is saying something. There were street vendors and homeless people and garbage and car horns and bus brakes and yelling and store music and sirens and people bumping into each other and lots of sweat. This very brisk walk of about three blocks is likely to be my most vivid impression of Acapulco; this is why you won't be seeing us and our stuffed pig on Telemundo.

We were careful not to jaywalk across the street to the port. Although we saw numerous men in uniforms and police cars and other official looking people, Rob and I both agreed that we didn't feel any safer by their presence. In fact, they made us rather nervous, for fear that one wrong move and we would be forced to pay a ransom for a bogus indiscretion or it would be off with our heads.

Several more declined invitations to go see the cliff divers and we were finally back to the safety and buffety familiarity of our dear ship. I looked at Rob and said, “And this is why I love cruising.” We hated Acapulco so after just two hours, we were able to come back to home base and enjoy it from a distance. As soon as the Tums kick in, I think I'll go get some USDA-approved ice cream up by the Lotus pool.