So this week is our bar guide, eh? Well, what a fine coincidence. Because I just happened to be in a bar recently. It was Saturday, Feb. 20, and I was enjoying various liquid hospitalities of the Biggest Little City Club, formerly the Satellite, one of the many top notch watering holes that have popped up in downtown Reno. It was 6 p.m. and it began to snow. OK, fine. By 8, I took another look outside. Still snowin’. And stickin’. Time for your correspondent to scoot home, since my car was sporting one headlight and snow tires that are considerably past their prime.
I got to my Home in the Weeds without incident. Barely. Four inches on the ground by 9 o’clock, and it was comin’ down at a healthy pace. Twelve hours later, there was a foot of snow on the deck. By four Sunday afternoon, a total of 18 inches. Eeesh. What a mess. By this time, the storm had ceased to be pretty, and had moved into the realm of major pain in the ass, because the power had been out for about eight hours, which meant that the well wasn’t running, which meant that not only did I not have heat, I didn’t have water, either. So things were sucking pretty good. And it was right about then that I remembered something that made me feel much better about myself, my situation, and life on Earth in general.
What I remembered, as I surveyed all the wintry splendor and thinking that I really needed a bigger shovel, was “Hey. Dude. In 36 hours, you’re flying to Cancun.”
Talk about a warm fuzzy to the max. Sudden light bulb-type cranial realizations don’t get much warmer or fuzzier than that. I write about it now in hopes that the next time it dumps 18 inches at your place, you have a similar ace in the hole. It’s highly recommended. Instant smugness! And a more effective insta-therapy for the Buried in Snow Blues I have a difficult time imagining. For starters, flashing that I was going to Mexico in two days gave me the green light to blow off all shoveling. My lower back instantly relayed a message of approval.
Economic hassles must be messing with Cancun, along with everybody else. Because it’s pretty cheap to fly there right now. All of us in our merry little quartet booked tickets for about $300 a pop. But we were only landing in Cancun, not staying there. Our plan called for beaches, ruins, pyramids, jungle, cenotes, and frequent hydration techniques involving very cold, very microbially safe cervezas. We were there to live in a non-stop Corona advertisement. I’m delighted to report that this was easily accomplished. We found, for example, that bars on beaches, with hammocks instead of stools and chairs are … well, they’re quite pleasant indeed.
Go ahead. Hate me if you must. I understand. Next week: Elton meets the Mayans, and Montezuma is still vengeful.