PLAYA LA ROPA

The beach was filled--no, filled is not the right word . . . sparsely occupied by retired Americans and Canadians staying for months at a time. We watched as pot-bellied old men ("don't ever let me get like that," said el sr J) and 60+ women in bikinis strolled/paraded/waddled/limped by. I was pretty gross myself, having resisted the voice in my head that told me to shave my legs. I even imagined the peddlers on the beach saying to each other, "hey, go take a look at that gringa peluda."

The beach was lined with small hotels and restaurants. We rented 2 lounge chairs for the day from a restaurant (on the near right in the photo just below) and then could people-watch, take a dip, and then order snacks and drinks without bestirring ourselves. I finished my two novels and a lot of my crocheting project.

We soon stopped eating on the beach because the portions were huge, often included bake (sic) potatoes, and a lot of stuff made with catsup (ceviche in catsup, yuck!). This was probably the influence of the people staying there. So we went to the municipal market and ate there. Pozole. Fish. I ate two whole fish during the week (whole meaning with tails and heads). The one that came in my chowder along with unpeeled shrimp with heads on was particularly tricky to eat. But tasty. I needed a shower afterwards.

The sunsets were beautiful.