Our Trip to Puerto Vallarta - Eric

With Marge still battling influenza, our blog has been slightly delayed. I thought I would fill in the lull on Facebook with more true tales from the road to Mexico. When I last posted a long time ago we were buying underwear at J. C. Penney’s in L.A. to replace what was stolen in Salem from our car carrier. After saying goodbye to Brian, Gwen and Charlotte we headed southeast into the desert. Reading the billboards along the way, we deduced that washed-up old rock stars never fade away—they just play the casinos in Palm Springs and Palm Desert. We crossed the border into Arizona where the speed limit is 75. Those Arizonians are such libertarians. We decided to stop that night in Tucson instead of trying to reach the border at Nogales. I would drive and Marge would make a motel reservation via cell phone. Tucson is a pretty big city and it was January. What could possibly go wrong? By the time I got to Phoenix, Marge was frantic. It turns out Tucson hosts a giant gem show the last two weeks of January. There was no room at the inns—especially for a couple with a dog. We pulled into Tucson with no place to stay. It was time for me to man up and personally find us a room. I strode into the motel lobby. The clerk was handing a keycard to a guy. “If you got a room for him, you’ve got a room for me,” I declared. “Yes, we do,” she replied. Now the $64,000 question: “Do you take dogs?” “Not unless it’s a service animal. Is your dog a service animal?” I couldn’t pull it off. My poker face let me down. Just then a little old lady came down the hall with a little doggy. “Is that a service dog?” I asked darkly. “Why, yes it is,” she said sweetly.” Anyway, the motel clerk called a Red Roof Inn, they had a vacancy and they took dogs. It wasn’t that great a place, but considering the circumstances we were happy to get it. Uneventful border crossing--they just waved us through. No stopping until the immigration office 21 km. down the highway. Navajoa was a mixed blessing with a nice Mexican dinner next to a shimmering pool but lots of mosquito bites. A nice older couple clued Marge into an ex-pat way station in Mazatlan on the road to Puerto Vallarta that allowed dogs. One of the motel clerks even speaks English, they said. However, that clerk wasn’t on duty and the other clerks couldn’t communicate with Marge on the phone. So Marge in Mexico called her sister in New York to ask her to call Mexico to make a reservation. But her sister wasn’t that confident about her Spanish. Janice teaches at a high school in New York but this was late Friday afternoon and the teachers and students were long gone for the weekend. Of course, Janice was still working. She found a Freshman Hispanic student hanging around and convinced him to call Mazatlan and make a reservation for a couple with a dog. Of course, they hung up on the 14-year-old. Janice called back and tried her best. But when she had to ask her freshman tutor, “How do you say king bed in Spanish?” it turned out the English-speaking clerk was now on duty and the reservation went smoothly! But the ex-pat way station turned out to be a Spring Break flop house right on the highway and across from the beach boardwalk. There was a giant statue of a garish snail with a pixie on its shoulder out our window. Fifty years ago we might have been thrilled. Otto and I did manage to cruise the boardwalk a bit and he had his eye on a foxy terrier. (OK, that was an alternate fact.) I woke up early in the morning to the sound of Marge quickly packing up the car. It was on to Puerto Vallarta!