Yucatan Cruise Journal, Aboard The NCL Spirit
Friday, February 12, 2010. Cozumel. Chicken Mole. At no point during or after the mugging yesterday did I feel fear. That was strange, because I have a well-developed set of fear receptors and worry warts. I thought it would hit me at about four in the morning, but I just went right back to sleep.
Breakfast was eggs benedict with crab cakes shoved between the eggs and the ham, with dill hollandaise over all. This was extraordinarily delicious. Adding to the joy of this breakfast was the server, who let me get away with cappuccino on the house.
I had more cappuccino in The Café, the ship's specialty coffeeshop in the atrium. They do a terrible job of making espresso variations, but I've spent large chunks of my morning there because it's an internet hot spot--one of the few on the ship. It's more comfortable to work in my stateroom, where there are truly no distractions. But sooner or later one needs a window.
I disembarked at around noon. Our ship is docked at the pier closest to downtown--a good thing if the plan is to walk around town. The other dock requires a cab ride in, although the snorkeling spots are closer. Cozumel is, I'm told, the best easily-accessible snorkeling place in the world. On our first trip here we did a bit of that and found it so.
Cozumel needs two cruise-ship piers because it's the second-busiest cruise port in the Caribbean, after Miami. Both piers have a feature I've never seen elsewhere. To get onto the street, you must first pass through a tourist mall. Not the shed full of crafts we saw in Guatemala or the hundred feet of shops in Belize City, but an enormous mall with no fewer than three dozen stores on two levels. You're forced upstairs on an escalator. Then you must walk across the main street on a bridge, and keep going for about a block beyond. At that point, you take a U-turn (or not--the shops keep on going) and cover another block of Diamonds International and electronic stores before you can finally descend to street level and freedom. Even there, the traffic pattern forces you past the craziness of Carlos and Charlie's and Señor Frog's. Those are wild chain restaurants where the drinks are absurdly large, people dance with the waiters in conga lines, and listen to really loud and not very Mexican music. I always peek inside, and never see anyone eating.
The moment I was finally past all this, I encountered Captain Peterson, the ninety-three-year-old pilot traveling with us. "I was on the way to your lunch place!" he said. We went together. He's been to Cozumel several times before, and had the same impression of the town that I did: it looks better, cleaner, and more prosperous with every visit. It's Mexican tourism all the way, of course. The shops were either selling fake Cuban cigars, Rolexes, and Louis Vuitton leather, or they were selling the genuine articles. (The prices were the immediate giveaway.)
Something was wrong, though. On the last trip, an immense Mexican flag flapped on a tall pole on the beach, directly opposite the main plaza. The restaurant where we'd meet for lunch is on the plaza, and I told everybody to just look for the flag. The one that wasn't there today. I hoped they'd notice the pole.
As it turned out, almost all the Eat Clubbers were on tours to Tulum and Chichen Itza. It was only the captain, the Richardsons, and me at Casa Denis, the oldest restaurant in Cozumel. The place dates to 1945, when it probably was the only restaurant in the neighborhood. Now it has many competitors, each of which sends its emissaries out to greet you as you walk by with their menus in hand.
We sat at the same table on the plaza we did last year, and were served by the same waiter. I didn't remember the guitarists, but I liked their music anyway. The same very spicy, chunky, predominantly green salsa was there with the chips. I recalled the sausage that Clark, the Gourmet Truck Driver ordered last time and got a plate of that for an appetizer. It was crunchy at the skin and so red on the inside that I was sure it would be peppery--but it was only mildly so. We spread that around the table, in advance of an assortment of tacos and unfried chimichangas.
I remembered my second choice from last year and got it this time. Chicken con mole poblano is a dish from far-away Pueblo. My default preference for dishes of the regions where I find myself made me get the distinctly Yucatan dish pollo pibil last time. Now, at last, the non-sweet chocolate-and-sesame-flavored mole, flowing all around the plate with the color and texture of a chocolate malt. It was unbelievably good. I figured it might be. Of all the dishes we ordered, this was the only one that made the waiter exclaim with approval.
After lunch, the captain and I headed back through the town. At some point he split away to look at something or other, and I continued on. It began raining. I had a plastic bag in my back pocket to protect my camera--but no camera. (The mugger yesterday got it.) I was almost back to the shelter of the mall, and by the time I made my way through that labyrinth, the rain had faded, and I hustled down the long pier back to the ship, getting only a little damp.
At this evening's meeting of the Martini Club, I did not have to buy my own drinks, or those of anyone else. It's about damn time. Then the four of us (the crowds always dwindle towards the end of a cruise) went to dinner in the main Windows dining room again. I began with a mushroom risotto and ended with a pair of lamb chops. They were not as good as the one on the left side of the plate when I had them a few days ago in Cagney's, but they were better then the one on the right side of that plate. Which pair was better, then? I will think about this if I awaken in the middle of the night.
Karaoke has moved from the windy deck to the British-style Henry's Pub. I was happy to find the great song list from the first night. And a pub full of good singers. One young guy with a terrific high range sang current songs I never heard of, but he also knew some from my day. I was amazed by his performance of Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit. How did he know that one? I was the next singer up, and I told this twenty-something-year-old fellow that the song he'd just finished played at my junior high school prom.
A young woman was also very listenable. I asked her if she'd join me on a duet on Unforgettable. Every karaoke operation has the Natalie/Nat Cole version of this. We did it very well, I thought.
I went to bed around midnight, by which time the highest swells on this cruise--and perhaps on any cruise of mine--were crossing the ship at a forty-five-degree angle. The winds were blowing at nearly fifty miles per hour. In a cabin as low and far forward as mine is, all this motion is exaggerated. Also catching my attention as I tried to fall asleep were the booms whenever the bow of the ship slammed back down into the water after lifting out of it in the trough of a swell. I'm glad Mary Ann wasn't here to go through this. It would have disturbed her greatly.
