I landed in Santo Domingo late at night, in the rain. My Airbnb bed for the week was not centrally located, but at $20 a night it had a private bath and Wi-Fi, which is all I figured I needed.
The airport cab dispatcher mumbled something about "Americano" as he sent me off into the dark with a driver who spoke no English, which was OK because I speak no Spanish.
As we drove, I remembered another late night cab ride 40 years ago in Prague when I was convinced I had made the first bad move of my Summer Abroad and was in serious trouble. It was two or three in the morning, and I'd just finished a long, and downright frightening train ride (at the border, involving soldiers and dogs), from East Berlin. Alone and having nowhere to go I accepted an invitation from a passerby who reminded me of his presence on my train. In an instant we got in a cab - too fast, too easy at this hour. A setup, I thought - he in front babbling Czech with the driver, I in back with my imagination and escalating fears.
But luck was with me that night, as she has been. I spent three of the most memorable days of 1972 with Pavel and his family: shopping, meals, chores, restaurants, a wedding. I got an inside look at Czechoslovakia which was, in those days, a fairyland under lock, key and machine gun. We stayed in touch for decades, but one of us made a left.
But last night's driver, after a wrong turn or two found my spot, I knew because it said "Hotel" handwritten in permanent marker on the pink door. And the light was on. Must be home.
The room was sparse, but I was glad to find the end of my day and unload.
My gear, even though there's not much in the bag other than an enantiomer (thank you, LB), (DH, forgive me), of what I'm wearing at any moment, "One on the back, one in the pack" (a simple fellow likes simple rhymes), plus a camera, iPad, first aid kit, and toiletries, but in all, it's heavy as hell.
In the morning I found no Wi-Fi, no hot water, no toilet seat, no public transportation and no one who spoke English. The neighborhood was very poor, but didn't feel particularly threatening, however whenever I left the hotel looking for food and a way out of there, I took my backpack with me, empty, except for valuables.
On one of my late afternoon jaunts I stumbled into a place that looked like a bar, but I wasn't sure.
Three women, big, brown and (unabashedly) buxom behind the counter were smiling, primping, hair doing, making up with pocket mirrors, adjusting straps and things, shooting selfs, singing a few bars of a song pumping in the background and taking a dance step or two. Getting ready. For something.
It looked interesting, so I walked in and said "Presidente?" (the safest bet in any bar in the Dominican Republic). I stood there grinning like an idiot wondering what this place was and what was going on. "Si, sentarse," which I didn't understand until she gestured sharply with an exquisitely manicured finger that I should sit my stupid ass down. I was their only customer.
I sat obediently awaiting my destiny. Patient, because the floor show was so good, I watched in absolute amazement as the three became four, then five, six, seven from out of thin air, all in full Saturday night CFM array, except it was Sunday afternoon. These were very fancy ladies, and I was still trying to figure out what the deal was. Pleased to be there, of course, but clueless.
There was a boxed booth in the corner with a window that opened onto the street that one of the beauties occupied. Some sort of cash transactions were going on with folks on the street, but none came into the bar. The whole time I was there, nobody came in. No comprendo nada.
I got my Presidente. It came in a bottle large enough to serve three with a very small plastic cup. Sippin' brew, apparently. One of the nice ladies poured one for me and put it on a napkin coaster which she made by folding the paper in quarters, then very carefully pouring the tiniest bit of beer on one corner and stuck it to the bar. She then dragged a stool behind the bar, and positioned it directly opposite me and smiled. Rut roh!
She poured me a half cup, then took another napkin and wrapped it high around the bottle neck, and stuffed in the end. From that point forward I was not allowed to pour my own.
It was all hair and glitter and girls. I attempted pathetic bits of Spanish, just messing with them. They laughed at my foolishness, but remained warm and friendly. And I was getting a little drunk on all the beer and attention, and I was happy.
For their fine company and large beer I paid $3.60 US.
I ran into one of the women the next afternoon, ten miles from where I had seen her before. She insisted on writing her name and number on a slip of paper and giving it to me.
I haven't called.
At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.