ChickenKurry and I are enjoying our vacation immensely.
And by "immensely," I mean we're engaging in acts of alcoholic debauchery I've note witnessed or been a part of since, oh, 1985. Last night we decided, having settled in to Puerto Vallarta, that we'd let our hair down a little and, after dinner, visit some "barras homosexuales."
We had an incredible dinner at a Puerto Vallarta staple called Cafe de Olla, at which we each drank a magarita the size of my head. Personally, I'm not the biggest fan of margaritas, as I like my alcohol to sneak up on me, and the tequila in the aforementioned concoction is generally too much for me. These, however, were like drinking a frothy yummy, and the sneaking tequila was nowhere to be tasted. Felt later, yes. Tasted, no.
After polishing off our big-headed margaritas, we decided to stroll the "Zona Romantica," as Old Town is euphemistically called, and check out the 'mo establishments.
The first one we happened upon was a dark little outlet called "Los Amigos." The publican there made us -- you guessed it -- giant margaritas the size of my head. I think we only had one, but at this point, we'd had, like, five of the margaritas we might get in the States. Lovely as "Lost Amigos" was, we were driven out into the night once again by the smoking patrons.
They smoke in bars here, you know. When you live in paradise and most of the inhabitants are tanned tougher than old shoe leather, you don't really give a second thought to lung cancer. I'm just sayin'.
Anywho, our next stop was Plazma, an interesting little establishment that, frankly, could have been plucked out of the seediest corner of New York's gay hoods. To reach the "restrooms," one has to brave the darkened labyrinth known as "the jail," wherein all sorts of behaviors of a wild and wooly nature could be witnessed. I had joked when we arrived that when Plazma billed itself as a "video bar," I wasn't expecting VH1 to be playing on the monitors. Literally, we were watching vintage George Michael videos while we played pool.
Little did I know that a whole other world awaited when ChickenKurry and I went to the men's. Suffice it to say that the owners of Plazma are fans of Colt and Kristian Bjorn.
Again, just saying.
Now thoroughly trashed, we refused to give up for the night until we'd sampled a neat-looking little piano bar near our hotel named "Garbo." It was, frankly, kinda dead by the time we rolled in (nightlife in PV is done fairly early, in my experience).
Still, that didn't stop us from slapping down another drink. I had yet another head-sized margarita, and CK had switched to Corona at this point.
Having finished that last drink and resolved to go home, we staggered out and decided to detour onto the beach to look at the stars. That's pretty much all I remember until waking this morning with a hangover. I do remember insisting that I swallow a fistful of aspirin, so it wasn't as bad as it had the potential to be.
And yet I still managed to drag-ass out of bed today, and go for a nice walk around town with the camera. Glory be.
And by "immensely," I mean we're engaging in acts of alcoholic debauchery I've note witnessed or been a part of since, oh, 1985. Last night we decided, having settled in to Puerto Vallarta, that we'd let our hair down a little and, after dinner, visit some "barras homosexuales."
We had an incredible dinner at a Puerto Vallarta staple called Cafe de Olla, at which we each drank a magarita the size of my head. Personally, I'm not the biggest fan of margaritas, as I like my alcohol to sneak up on me, and the tequila in the aforementioned concoction is generally too much for me. These, however, were like drinking a frothy yummy, and the sneaking tequila was nowhere to be tasted. Felt later, yes. Tasted, no.
After polishing off our big-headed margaritas, we decided to stroll the "Zona Romantica," as Old Town is euphemistically called, and check out the 'mo establishments.
The first one we happened upon was a dark little outlet called "Los Amigos." The publican there made us -- you guessed it -- giant margaritas the size of my head. I think we only had one, but at this point, we'd had, like, five of the margaritas we might get in the States. Lovely as "Lost Amigos" was, we were driven out into the night once again by the smoking patrons.
They smoke in bars here, you know. When you live in paradise and most of the inhabitants are tanned tougher than old shoe leather, you don't really give a second thought to lung cancer. I'm just sayin'.
Anywho, our next stop was Plazma, an interesting little establishment that, frankly, could have been plucked out of the seediest corner of New York's gay hoods. To reach the "restrooms," one has to brave the darkened labyrinth known as "the jail," wherein all sorts of behaviors of a wild and wooly nature could be witnessed. I had joked when we arrived that when Plazma billed itself as a "video bar," I wasn't expecting VH1 to be playing on the monitors. Literally, we were watching vintage George Michael videos while we played pool.
Little did I know that a whole other world awaited when ChickenKurry and I went to the men's. Suffice it to say that the owners of Plazma are fans of Colt and Kristian Bjorn.
Again, just saying.
Now thoroughly trashed, we refused to give up for the night until we'd sampled a neat-looking little piano bar near our hotel named "Garbo." It was, frankly, kinda dead by the time we rolled in (nightlife in PV is done fairly early, in my experience).
Still, that didn't stop us from slapping down another drink. I had yet another head-sized margarita, and CK had switched to Corona at this point.
Having finished that last drink and resolved to go home, we staggered out and decided to detour onto the beach to look at the stars. That's pretty much all I remember until waking this morning with a hangover. I do remember insisting that I swallow a fistful of aspirin, so it wasn't as bad as it had the potential to be.
And yet I still managed to drag-ass out of bed today, and go for a nice walk around town with the camera. Glory be.
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