Thursday, Tulum Pueblo

Today I walk to the bike shop before breakfast in hopes of renting a bike, and I am successful.  Along with breakfast there is some e-mail to read and write dealing with logistical matters of my real life in Philadelphia.  I don’t find this to be an infringement on my mental relaxation.  I like the idea of connecting with my usual world for a little bit once a day and then disconnecting completely.  I also like the idea of doing a little business (just a little) while sitting under a thatched roof by the beach drinking coffee.  Maybe if I didn’t have a few e-mails to write or some business of this nature I would want to contrive some just for the sake of being this particular character for a few minutes.  Anyway, I’d like to avoid my ostensibly relaxing vacation becoming a contrived affair, so luckily I had some e-mails to write.  When I am finished I ride the 3km to Tulum Pueblo.

Tulum Pueblo is the actual town of Tulum.  It is centered, as towns are, around the main street, which is also Mexico Route 307.  In town there are side lanes, separated by grass and brick dividers, for bicycles and slower moving local traffic to use.  The cross streets stretch four or five blocks to either side of the main street before dead-ending or becoming paths to small homes on the outskirts of town.  On the main street there are “mini-supers” (tiny convenience stores that sell mostly sunscreen and flip flops), numerous cafes and restaurants, and clothing/art/souvenir shops that sell anything and everything in what I will call the “mayan motif” for want of a properly encompassing description.  Obviously this street caters to the tourist traffic, but there are some locals eating in the restaurants and the proprietors are less likely than those of Tulum Playa to speak English to us American tourists.  On one end of town there is a 7-11, on the other end is a Subway, but everything in between has at least the appearance of being locally operated.

Along the side streets, among residences and the kinds of small businesses that all towns have, are more restaurants, mostly smaller, many of them as simple as a grill and several tables.  It would be lazy writing to say that these are more “authentic” but the reader would probably understand what I mean.  (I will resist the temptation to ponder the concept of cultural “authenticity” in the era of hyper-globalization, and suggest that those interested in such a discussion instead pursue a graduate degree in sociology.)  My first choice for lunch is a very small restaurant of three booths whose sign advertises simply “Paella”.  My pronunciation of certain menu items is apparently good enough to confuse the owner about the extent of my fluency in Spanish.  He tries to explain something to me.  My bewildered expression is enough to alert him of the truth.  “Mi Espagnol es moy pobre,” (“My Spanish is very poor”) I say, exhibiting the only full Spanish phrase I have mastered so far.  “Estoy aprendieno,” (“I am learning”) I add weakly.  I would rather have said “I am trying to learn” but this is beyond my ability.  The owner shrugs and waves his hand in a friendly gesture of “who cares?” but the rest of our conversation is carried out with each of us speaking a combination of our own language and improvised sign language.  He manages to indicate that they only make the paella once a day and it will be ready at two o’clock.  (Presumably they are open now to sell soft drinks and explain to people when the paella will be ready.)  It is now one-forty and I am a hungry American, so I move on.  I’ve already noticed a good backup plan just a block away.  (editor’s note: Only now as I write this am I beginning to regret my decision, thinking that perhaps this place represents the kind of “authenticity” so greatly sought after by a certain type of tourist, myself being of that type.)

Upon returning from Tulum Pueblo, the rest of my day is spent reading and swimming in the ocean.

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