The three of us—Barbara and I, plus son Jim visiting from
Calgary—tied the dinghy to the ramshackle community dock in Tucacas, Venezuela,
and stepped ashore. Maruba was anchored several miles away among the
mangrove channels in Morrocoy National Park.
“Just in time for lunch,”
I said. “There’s a place to eat, just across the street.”
Barbara frowned. “I’m
sure we can find someplace better than that.”
When I’m hungry the best
place to eat is the nearest restaurant that’s open for business. Barbara is
more discriminating.
We walked the length of the main street, about half a mile,
searching for a suitable restaurant. We looked into many establishments, but
none won Barbara’s approval.
“Okay,” she said, after another rejection. “You two stay here
and have a beer. I’ll keep looking. There must be a nice restaurant somewhere,
maybe on one of the side streets.”
Jim and I agreed. Instantly and without demur. We sat down and signaled
the waiter. Buenas tardes, Senior. Dos Polars, por favor. Barbara continued
her quest.
In a few minutes she was back. “I found a really nice place. It
looks brand new. It’s on the next street over, just a couple of blocks away.”
The food was acceptable, predictable, and served in generous
portions, standard Latin American fare.
The service was prompt. The waitress was attractive. The
ambiance was much better than eating along the street with pedestrians and
vehicles passing by. Except for two men drinking at the bar, we were the only
customers.
A few days later we were talking with cruising friends, a
Norwegian family that had been anchoring in the area off and on for several years.
“Oh, you had lunch there?” Inger asked. “What was it like,
Barbara?”
“The décor was nice. The service was good. The food
was...well...okay. About as good as can be expected.”
“Did you notice anything unusual? Did there seem to be anything
different about the place?”
“No, it was okay, a cut above average, but nothing special. Why
do you ask?”
“Just wondered. They opened recently. Someone told me it’s the newest
brothel in Tucacas.”
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Why Latin American Busses Always Run on Schedule
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