I’ve been getting my reptilian education. It seems those aren’t gators, but crocodiles, and they estimate that 2,000 of them lurk in the lagoon. Also, the restaurant captains throw chicken parts into the water at a certain time, ensuring that the crocs hang out to help draw the crowd, which joins the crocs in going out to dinner.
I’ve bet a woman who kept shrieking “Go, Cowboys!” a drink that the Patriots will beat them. She gave me her room number and phone on a cocktail napkin. “Good thing I’m here, huh?” observed the lovely Maria.
A humungous hot dog delivered to me on the beach along with a drink called a “ghost” which gave me the first ice cream headache I’ve had in ten years. How do dogs chew on cold ice cream? For ten seconds I though my brain was splitting.
I’m reading “Day of Battle,” Patterson’s new “You’ve Been Warned,” “Indian Summer,” and “Ike.”
Late afternoon showers, but I was able to watch the Patriots win my bar bet! Dinner at Puerto Madero, overlooking the water, an outstanding escolar accompanied by a Mexican Casa Grande Reserva cabernet.
The wait staff gathered near our table to look over the balcony, and I glanced over to find two marina police officers shining flashlights on a 12-foot crocodile of substantial girth, and right out of the late Cretaceous Period. The water was about three feet deep, and he simply lazed about, unperturbed, a wonderful dinner companion.
© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.