Happy Hour

It was a smart move coming back over to Getsemani, the tourist area, in hopes of meeting some English speakers and reconnecting. Within 20 minutes of pulling over, I had a guy find a cheap hotel, help me with my bags, then I changed my clothes and was back down to find a couple Edmontonians checking out the bike. I invited them to join me for a beer and found out Shay was Ukrainian and grew up near Forestburg, about 30 minutes away from Stettler, and her husband Dee had been an importer of Asian art for years. That night I was determined to get drunk for the first time in months, and as it was Happy Hour, it would be a hell of a lot cheaper. So, I had 4 mojitos in an hour and was feeling pretty good by the time I had to meet Fritz to give him a million pesos to board the boat. There was some doubt as to whether I was going to get on it, especially after seeing another couple and their bike waiting to meet Fritz as well. So, of course the meeting went well, and I gave him a hard time about hitting the underwater wall once and he took it in stride. You can't do much without the internet knowing all about you these days. I went back to the Tasca Marta and in walks Captain Jack. It was great to see him, and we talked about life for a while until all a group of 10 tourists came in and swarmed him, asking about the boat, and giving him their money to secure their spot. He has his moments of celebrity for sure. Sounds like the bar in Portobello is doing really well, and he has plans to start up a yacht club there too. His columbian girlfriend showed up later, and they told me about their christmas in the poor part of columbia. Poor but happy and phenomenal he said. Then a couple Aussie girls showed up later and I was pretty drunk on my 7th or 8th mojito by now. They said they were going on Fritz's boat so I teased them sometime about seasickness, and how on the way over I was so sick I puked in someone's face, that's how bad it was. They were really believing me, and never asked me if I was going on a boat, but boy are they going to be surprised when they see me and the bike come on board tomorrow! The final indignity came this morning when the police knocked on my door about 730. He asked if I knew about a black motorbike. This wasn't sounding good, although I had my suspicions they had it. Sure enough the police had stolen my bike off the street, and had taken it down to the station. The station was in the middle of the park just 200 metres down the road but it took me a while to get there because I completely passed it. When I got there, I was so damn dizzy and must have reeked like booze, so I concentrated on staying away from more than 50 cops milling around there. The whole process took about 20 minutes, as the cop wrote down what happened in his book, checked my license, and registration, and then fingerprinted me. I brought the bike back to the hotel, and tried to sleep.