First I sit for a bit in my home restaurant at Cabanas Copal.  There are never too many people in the restaurant but it is a wonderful place.  It adjoins the reception area so that the whole thing is a sort of open-air lobby under two large thatched roofs.  People are passing through on their way to and from outside actives and sometimes new folks arrive and are showed to their cabanas.  At night the artificial light is so tasteful that I can forget what year it is and choose to imagine that I am a character in some Hemingway story, traveling through a place that is rough and rugged but can also be accommodating, and where you can always find a drink.  People come in off the hot and dusty road, some from long journeys, have a drink and talk to each other or the bartender about the next day’s activities, and retire to their cabanas.  It’s always rather quiet and when someone sits up at the bar, on one of four swing-seats suspended by ropes from the ceiling, you can hear their entire conversation.  There is always just one server who waits on tables and the bar, and one lady who stands by the register and does nothing.

The first stop on my social expedition is crowded as usual, full of groups carrying on drunkenly over bad Mexican pop music blasting from a stereo.  No one sits with me at the bar, and it is too loud to read or write with attention, so I quickly move on.  My next stop is quiet and pleasant as I expect.  The man behind the grill and the proprietress both indulge my attempts at Spanish and the proprietress even gives me a few pointers.  We talk about the beautiful garden in the back of the property and the small hotel of four rooms, which she hopes to expand.  They serve only one type of beer, and I order one along with an octopus tapas.  There are only two other people sitting in the restaurant, a pair of British ladies also eating tapas and drinking beer.  They are apparently rather social creatures, and quickly strike up a conversation.

The Brits are Sam and Debbie, and they do a great deal of traveling together.  They have just arrived in Tulum, having flown into Cancun a few days prior, and find it quite lovely.  Last night they stayed in Playa del Carmen (about halfway between Cancun and Tulum) and did not particularly care for it.  “Packaged” is the word they repeatedly use to describe both Cancun and Playa del Carmen.  It is a well chosen word.  (A more cynical and less descriptive traveler might call these places hellish, if that traveler were particularly averse to loud obnoxious American tourists parading around drunkenly.)  Once they worked together at a refuge for battered women and children.  Debbie was promoted to be in charge of a particular shelter in Manchester, where she now lives, and Sam got a new job in Brighton, combating blindness in third-world countries.  Their travel alliance has endured, and they tell stories of adventures in Thailand, India, Morocco, and all over Europe.  For ladies who work full time, they certainly do get around.  In Britain, they explain, they are afforded six weeks vacation per year, and they are sorry for working Americans who only get two.  (I explain that I take as much vacation time as I want, whenever I want, limited by what I can afford financially.  They are not as impressed as I want them to be.)

Both the Brits are single without kids, and older than me (nearing forty, perhaps?).  Debbie seems the older of the two, but I would not be surprised if this is not the case.  It is partly her personality that makes it seem this way.  She squints and frowns when she is trying to think or understand something.  She talks less and thinks more than Sam, who is more the free spirit of the pair.  Sam is more likely to abruptly introduce a new topic of conversation, and also more likely to take charge of a situation.  Overall, though, they are more similar than different.  Both are very intelligent, proactive, and seem to be on the lookout for a good time.  Both are more naturally social than I am, and both capable of a pretty sharp joke now and then.

As we finish our tapas, the Brits invite me to join them in checking out some live music that is happening at a beachfront bar down the street.  The bar is removed from the street by a passageway that opens up to a patio overlooking the beach, so that I had failed to notice it earlier while wandering the street.  The Brits are nosier than I (in the most endearing sense) and sniffed it out immediately upon their arrival in town.  The band turns out to be playing their last song as we arrive (Tulum Playa shuts down around 11), but the Brits have nonetheless correctly identified the best party.  The mood here is festive, but the scene much more tasteful than the other happening bar I visited earlier (which we nickname “the Load Bar”).  The clientele spans a broad range of nationalities, which somehow legitimizes the experience for me, foolish as that may be.  We are able to have a couple beers each before the place closes down.

Their hotel is just a few doors down in the thick of Tulum Playa.  (They read about the eco-resorts like mine but its not their speed, really.  “That’s all well and good, but we need to charge our iPhones.”)  I bid them good-night and suggest that we have dinner again some night.  They suggest tomorrow and I am happy to agree, but as I walk home I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.  The Brits are great company for sure, but I want to keep a lot of my time here for myself.  Quiet alone-time is my main goal on this trip.  Meeting people is great, but I don’t need drinking buddies; I have plenty of those at home.  In any case, I figure, it’s just a question and not a problem.  Anything I choose to do here will probably be good; whether it’s the best possible option isn’t work losing sleep over.

From my first full day here, I have been thinking a bit about the idea of “clothing-optional” beach and my own reaction to it.  Presumably most of the beaches around here are clothing-optional.  In any case, our home beach at Capanas Coapl is.  Many people obviously enjoy this feature.  As for myself, I am not used to the concept of a clothing-optional beach, and I opt to wear exactly what I normally would wear at a beach.  Immediately I notice a rather attractive young lady frolicking topless in the surf, and at the same time two much older gentlemen walking completely nude nearby.  I would not exactly say that I find the scene disconcerting, but I am not as nonchalant about it as I would prefer to be.

First of all, I generally enjoy gazing absent-mindedly at the ocean (as I assume most people do).  But the presence of naked people, and in particular attractive women, makes me hesitant to do so.  In fact, hesitant is not a strong enough word, as I specifically go out of my way to not look in the direction of naked folks.  I realize almost simultaneously that this is foolish and particular to a person who is less than fully comfortable with public nudity.  Presumably most folks here are used to this and they gaze wherever they please without concern.  By the same token, the naked folks are probably not self-conscious enough to worry about who is looking at them any more than a person in a bikini is.  I am reminded that it was only a few generations ago when a bikini on an American beach was considered scandalous.

Next I realize (as a relatively minor aside) that I should not bring my camera out on the beach so as not to run the risk of being misunderstood.  I assume at first that using a camera on a clothing-optional beach is poor etiquette.  Later, however, I see several young couples taking pictures of each other (not naked) on the beach and I realize the same concept applies in this case as the above.  In other words, if everyone’s cool then everyone’s cool.  Still, I’m a man here alone, and I’m not going to take my camera out on the beach.  I’m not quite cool enough to be cool.  Not yet, anyway.

Lastly (and still in my first hour on the beach) I begin to notice more folks walking onto the beach, and it seems that most of them are naked.  Now I begin to feel self conscious of the fact that I am clothed (wearing a bathing suit) and wonder what people will think when I go in the ocean with my bathing suit on.  (After all, it is a clothing-optional, and not a nude beach, so it’s not as if I’m some sort of free-gazing freeloader or what-have-you.  Indeed, as the days go by I realize that just as many people are on the beach in full bathing suits as are nude.)  I do not let these thoughts bother me too much, but I give them plenty of consideration before jumping into the ocean and (mostly) forgetting about the whole thing.  I am adaptable, and I will adapt.  Within a few days I hope to be fully cool.

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.

I wake up as the sun is just barely rising, something which never happens to me in regular life and which I find very pleasant.  My business for the day is to rent a bicycle at a nearby location I noticed last evening and ride into the town of Tulum Pueblo, the name given to the real town of Tulum where the locals live, which apparently boasts much cheaper shops and restaurants than this tourist encampment (called Tulum Playa).  Once I see what is available in town I’ll figure out my strategy for buying food and whatever else I might want.  First, I have breakfast and spend a good long time on the internet learning certain Spanish phrases.  By the time I get to the rental spot around 10am there are no bicycles left to rent.  I am not particularly bothered by this setback since my time here has intentionally very little focus.  Instead, I walk further down the road than I ventured last night and stop at a beach past the hotels and restaurants to watch some pelicans fish.  Pelicans are pretty neat.

Later I swim in the ocean and read for hours before returning to the restaurant for several margaritas that I enjoy despite their being pretty terrible, as margaritas go.  While imbibing I plug in my laptop and decide to begin typing these accounts.  Writing such travel journals (or accounts of any true events, really) is always an enjoyable but confusing task as I am torn between indulging my inclination to record everything and the implicit hope that someone might actually read and enjoy what I am writing (which argues for the omission of a good portion of events).  On top of that there is the constant editorial pressure to restrain my often absurd verbosity, which can be a turn off to potential readers as well as myself, and which verbosity is clearly demonstrated in the previous sentence, not to mention the current one.

That said, I only indulge in such travel journals on a small fraction of my actual travels, and always while reminding myself that my own amusement should be the main goal of these endeavors.

Following signs that point toward transportation, I walk outside with a horde of other tourists, mostly American, most of whom I find extremely annoying but most of whom also have a better idea of what they are doing than I do.  This seems to me a particularly stark instantiation of what I suspect will become a theme of the trip.  That is, I wish to differentiate myself from the average American tourist but I have come to a place I know little about, expecting my surroundings to accommodate my vague intentions of recreation.  I believe I possess a certain savvy as regards life in general and I suppose this will be tested against my lack of savvy as regards traveling in Mexico.  As our horde of gringos is greeted by a horde of aggressive transportation agents of all sorts, this thought is crossing my mind.

I eschew the taxi drivers, the most aggressive of the transportation solicitors, looking instead for a bus.  No signs (that I understand) help me find one.  I am quickly recognized as a confused American tourist and confronted by an agent of a shuttle company, who informs me that I can only take a bus to Playa de Carmen, where I can catch another bus to Tulum.  (But will it stop at my exact destination?  Who knows?)  For forty-five American dollars, however, I can take a shuttle straight to my cabana resort in Tulum.  My acute life-savvy alerts me that a shuttle service agent has every reason to mislead me about the nature of bus travel.  But forty-five dollars is within my transportation budget, and it is clear that regardless of this man’s honesty the shuttle service is legitimate.  (editor’s note: I decide later that he was probably correct about the bus situation.)  I agree to the shuttle and am told to stand by and await instructions.  My shuttle agent converses with some associates.  Other tourists group together and board shuttles to different locations.  My acute life-savvy kicks in again and notes that probably I am waiting for a certain number of travelers to the same location to be gathered.  An hour later, I leave Cancun in a taxi, alone.

Mexico Route 307 from Cancun to Tulum should be rather scenic but is not.  The whole trip is very near the coast but I can never see it.  It is mostly through a sort of jungle, but either the jungle-view from this vantage point is not very interesting or this is not a very interesting sort of jungle.  My driver is very pleasant.  He is mildly surprised that I speak no Spanish.  He makes some small-talk in English for about five minutes and then doesn’t speak for the remainder of the 90 minute trip.  I begin to feel sheepish about coming here without speaking any Spanish, but I also appreciate the quiet.

I am staying at Cabanas Copal, an “eco-resort” in Tulum.  This is how it is referred to by its owners and operators, and this seems appropriate.  There is electricity on the premises, but none in the cabanas.  My cabana is made of large sticks and branches, an inch or so apart, and some solid plaster around the small bathroom that is attached.  The thatched roof is impressive and presumably well-constructed, but it remains to be seen what the consequences of a serious rainstorm might be.  My estimation is that the floor would easily be soaked; my hope is that the bed would remain dry.  In any case I am pleased that someone thought to call this an “eco-resort” as I dread telling anyone that I am staying at a “resort.”  This distinction is both legitimate and questionable at the same time.  After 7:30pm I navigate my cabana by candlelight, but at any hour I am free to charge my electronics in the reception area, which also features wireless internet access

Before it gets dark I walk down the road toward what I know to be a minor tourist concentration.  Within a half-mile I find this cluster of small hotels and restaurants.  I am glad that the hotels are all very modest and pleasant and the restaurants are mostly outside, with some areas under thatched roofs.  The tourist traffic also seems pleasant, a small and desirable fraction of the gringos who presumably gush obnoxiously from the Cancun airport each day.  Still I am happy not to be staying right in the midst of this concentration.  I return to my cabana where it is very quiet, have dinner in our on-site restaurant where only one other couple is dining, and retire early.

I hope and expect that life becomes quiet and pleasant for the next eight days, and thus my comments will be more pithy as my vacation continues.

(editor’s note: obviously the editor is myself, adding insights that come to me only as I write this account hours or days after the events.  I think editor’s notes are funny.)

I felt great physically and mentally, and I also felt great because I was proud of having achieved ten days on the fast. People congratulated me, and I felt deserving of their congratulations. I will have some more meta-comments sometime over the next few days. I’m not in the mood right now.

My friends who did the cleanse all started on soup a little earlier than the Master Cleanse book instructs, and they all did okay, so I am going to push the easing in process along just a little bit. I am going to go for broth tomorrow, even though you are supposed to drink only juice for one full day. In fact, since it is 3:21am and I can say with all honesty that I did fast for ten full days, I am going to drink a glass of juice right now to get things moving along. Get that “gut flora” rebuilding. Whatever that may mean. Wish me luck.

The prescribed easing in period calls for one day of juice, one day of juice and broth, and finally one day of starting to add veggies to the broth…then you’re good to go.  Some of my friends that have just completed the Cleanse are hurrying this schedule along a little bit, and based on their experiences I’ll decide what to do.

Other than that, my feelings are the same as Day Eight.  See below.

Technical details:
I skipped the laxative tea for the first time last night, and I did not get the gassy cramps that have been bothering me in the morning. I did the salt-water flush first thing, and it was more effective than it has been yet. Before this I would wake up at ten and drop some crap from the laxative tea, then go back to sleep and do the salt water flush around 2, and not crap out much else. I have concluded that the saltwater flush is sufficient for me, and it doesn’t cause stomach pains. But for the record, as a laxative, Senna Leaf tea does work.

Meta comments:
Yesterday at work a customer came in to buy two six packs of Heineken and when I told him it was 12 bucks each he balked a little and claimed he’d gotten them for 9 each earlier in the day. I cut him right down, coldly and effectively, and continued to coldly cut him down after he gave me some attititude. “They’re twelve, I don’t know why they’d give them to you for cheaper, but my price is the right one” …attitude… “I believe you. I don’t care. They’re twelve.”

Now this is no extraordinary tale, but I was very happy with my cold directness because I tend to get flustered in confrontational situations and often get overly confrontational as result of being upset. I guess I am not a very confrontational person and when I get put in that position I have to try too hard to conjure up my authoritative side so it comes out a little over the top but also a little nervous and agitated. But yesterday I was feeling very sharp and I was completely confident about what I was saying and didn’t have to get upset about it or give attitude back. I projected confidence and pulled the rug right out from under this guy’s attitude.

After years of bartending I’ve learned how to do this more or less effectively, but yesterday was a beatiful example of how to handle such a situation. A minor example, obviously, but I attribute it totally to my sharp mental state.

Tonight I hosted the Open Mic night, as I do every Monday, and was able to conjure up a lot of the goofiness that I usually use alcohol to find. I created a character that I become on Open Mic night, and usually the character is fueled by alcohol, but tonight I got into the character just by feeling good.

Lastly, I average about 1 and a half pimples at a time, even though I am 27. Before one is totally gone from my face, another one has usually appeared. It’s not enough to matter. But no new pimples have formed in the eight days since I started the fast. I have only a small trace left of the last one I had that was born about 12 days ago.

Wheee!