fifth/third wheel

This weekend I went to the beach near Bayahibe with my roommates and their boyfriends. We traveled separately, and apparently nothing inspires pity more than the sight of a crippled gringa all alone. Taxi drivers and anyone connected to the bus company were all about helping me cross streets and climb stairs and such, all while screaming at each other "mira! que no puede caminar!" and other such things. Anyway, after several men helped me find my bus, and we slowly rolled down the street with the cobrador screaming our destination out the window - we would pause ever so briefly every now and then to let someone leap on - I realized nobody wanted to sit with poor little gimpy. I didn't feel like the last kid picked for dodgeball (although let's be honest, I definitely would be in this state), I felt lucky that I would have two seats to my self. Silly me. It meant the cobrador (the guy who collects money for the tickets) was to be my buddy for the whole ride. Good thing I can rattle off very believable half-truths about myself. I can't really complain, he was quite polite and helpful and even figured out I didn't want to talk, I wanted to take a nap. Did I mention the fare was the same amount I pay to take a taxi from my apartment to work? And the seats were larger and the AC was blasting. The cobrador on the way back could learn a thing or two from that dude, since he tried to cheat me. Silly little man thought I wouldn't yell at him until I got my correct amount of change - yes, 75 cents is worth it.

Anyway, after another taxi ride in which the driver simultaneously showed me pictures of his children and told me how pretty he thinks I am and how lucky my boyfriend/husband must be (is this Dominican multi tasking?) I arrived at the resort, which should be renamed "Italy, except in the DR." So even thought it rained half the time, there were always beautiful Italians to look at and cable tv to watch in the AC which could be programmed as low as 5 degrees. (I kept it at a balmy 17.) It wasn't too horribly crowded which meant I could always find an extra lounge chair for the leg brace so we could both enjoy the mid-90s revival - but this time the music was a little more "Be My Lover" and "Rhythm is a Dancer" I guess to try and replicate the techno beach clubs around the Mediterranean. Evenings were fun as my roomies and their men merengued away and I sat and sipped rum and some yummy tropical fruit juice with the other spectators, you know, the dirty old men prowling for some young Dominican thing to hire for an hour or two. I can't even find the words to describe "El Show Michael Jackson" we went to on Saturday night, except to say several piña coladas were quite necessary. Who wants to come visit and hit up another all inclusive with me?

I wasn't a total rubia for the weekend, which was nice - those crazies assumed I was from Italy (or in a few cases, Argentina, go figure). It's very tricky, this brown hair of mine, when everyone knows that all American girls are super blonde. So let's come up with a name that can go with my new nationalities since my real so-white-its-clear name gives the gringa away.