Sometimes, Vin and I will splurge. We'll have a leisurely five hour dinner at a nice restaurant or we'll fuel several rounds of laser tag with mozzarella sticks. Other times, often arbitrarily, we'll be frugal (read: annoyingly stingy).
The bus to MB, an innovative Martin Berasategui restaurant, took us along the mountainous coast, exposing its exceptionally manicured highway islands and the clear, sparkling waters on the horizon. The restaurant was inside the Ritz-Carlton in Abama, but, oddly, no one who worked at the Ritz-Carlton knew where the restaurant was. We asked about four or five people before ultimately pulling out our Google Maps gps. The restaurant was in an artificial cove, its otherwise silent interior peppered by the soft sounds of trickling water.
After five hours of gastronomic (and artistic) delight, we finally, begrudgingly left the restaurant. It was midnight; the last bus back to Playa Las Americas, where we were staying, was either at 11:44 PM or 11:52 PM - we were not entirely sure how to interpret the online schedule. We went to the bus stop, which was on a shoulder of a highway; there were no lights, except for the sudden flash of headlights from oncoming, speeding cars. We waited. There was no bus at 11:44, no bus at 11:52, no bus at midnight, and no bus at 12:15 AM. Vin commented that we were probably the only patrons to leave MB, or even the Ritz-Carlton in general, and wait in pitch blackness for a public bus, rather than take a taxi. I said it was not probable, but certainly a fact.
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| oh, we look good. |
Like, we took a cheap flight to Tenerife, Spain - one of the Canary Islands - that required us to leave our apartment after 3 hours of sleep around 4 in the morning, flew first to Gatwick Airport in London, stopped for eight hours overnight, when even the bars were closed, before finally arriving on the beautiful island. Passengers disembarked wearing wide brimmed hats and floral dresses; to avoid paying for another kilogram, we wore sneakers and sweatshirts that matched the deepening grey underneath our eyes. We had used a $50 Olive Garden gift card the night before to buy several bags of their famous breadsticks for our budget flight, which did not provide free food; we thus ate cold, oily breadsticks in Queens, in Southeastern London, and even in the Canary Islands, as we waited for a bus to the hotel.
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| loosened the purse strings |
Once we kicked off our bulky sneakers and washed our sallow faces in Tenerife, we suddenly decided it was appropriate to seize the day. We shopped at Zara (sale section), bought bottles of wine (one), and even dabbled in some (ruthless) rounds of mini golf. The wise words of Bobby McFerrin followed us as we pranced through the bustling streets, discarding our Olive Garden breadsticks in favor of mojitos on the beach.
That is, until we had to deal with transportation. We were flying to Marrakesh from Tenerife, but our flight was not from the airport near our hotel, but the one on the other side of the island (for similar reasons that motivated the selection of our inbound flight). We had a couple of options: take the bus at 4:05 AM (yes, again)- well, two public buses, with a 25 minute transfer in an unknown part of town before the sun came up; take a 100 euro taxi, allowing us to sleep in another two hours; or, rent a car for 50 euros (and the additional parking and gas expenses), which would be doubly useful as we had to figure out how to get to MB, where we had dinner reservations for our last night.
We thought through all of our options as we ordered more fresh mojitos from a street vendor. Maybe the sleep would be nice, since we were, after all, on our vacation and on a carpe diem kick. We spent about a half hour filling out forms and asking logistical questions and paying; we got into the car, threw our shopping bags in the backseat, rolled down the windows to let in the warm, salty zephyrs, and Vin looked down at the gear stick and said, "Oh, um, it's not a automatic." The car rental employee kindly suppressed his laughter, immediately refunded us, and we were relegated to the bus.
That is, until we had to deal with transportation. We were flying to Marrakesh from Tenerife, but our flight was not from the airport near our hotel, but the one on the other side of the island (for similar reasons that motivated the selection of our inbound flight). We had a couple of options: take the bus at 4:05 AM (yes, again)- well, two public buses, with a 25 minute transfer in an unknown part of town before the sun came up; take a 100 euro taxi, allowing us to sleep in another two hours; or, rent a car for 50 euros (and the additional parking and gas expenses), which would be doubly useful as we had to figure out how to get to MB, where we had dinner reservations for our last night.
We thought through all of our options as we ordered more fresh mojitos from a street vendor. Maybe the sleep would be nice, since we were, after all, on our vacation and on a carpe diem kick. We spent about a half hour filling out forms and asking logistical questions and paying; we got into the car, threw our shopping bags in the backseat, rolled down the windows to let in the warm, salty zephyrs, and Vin looked down at the gear stick and said, "Oh, um, it's not a automatic." The car rental employee kindly suppressed his laughter, immediately refunded us, and we were relegated to the bus.
The bus to MB, an innovative Martin Berasategui restaurant, took us along the mountainous coast, exposing its exceptionally manicured highway islands and the clear, sparkling waters on the horizon. The restaurant was inside the Ritz-Carlton in Abama, but, oddly, no one who worked at the Ritz-Carlton knew where the restaurant was. We asked about four or five people before ultimately pulling out our Google Maps gps. The restaurant was in an artificial cove, its otherwise silent interior peppered by the soft sounds of trickling water.
After five hours of gastronomic (and artistic) delight, we finally, begrudgingly left the restaurant. It was midnight; the last bus back to Playa Las Americas, where we were staying, was either at 11:44 PM or 11:52 PM - we were not entirely sure how to interpret the online schedule. We went to the bus stop, which was on a shoulder of a highway; there were no lights, except for the sudden flash of headlights from oncoming, speeding cars. We waited. There was no bus at 11:44, no bus at 11:52, no bus at midnight, and no bus at 12:15 AM. Vin commented that we were probably the only patrons to leave MB, or even the Ritz-Carlton in general, and wait in pitch blackness for a public bus, rather than take a taxi. I said it was not probable, but certainly a fact.
We were about to give up and go back to the hotel to call a taxi (we still had to pack and were leaving for the bus to the airport about three and a half hours later), when we noticed a post with the bus times on it. Vin quickly ran down to confirm we had been correct about the times, and had not waited in vain, when the bus loudly and gradually appeared out of the darkness.
We got back to the hotel about an hour later, packed, and had time only for a 20 minute power nap before leaving for the airport. I was still belching truffle ravioli when we lugged our duffel bags and backpacks to the bus stop.
From Marrakesh, we headed to the Dades Valley, Ourzazate, Merzouga, the Sahara Desert, Fes, and Paris. We had similar highs and lows - sometimes we dined at Michelin starred restaurants, sometimes we dined on the Nature Valley granola bars that had melted and congealed in our day bag (which smelled like Vitamin B from a medicine spill on our last trip to Bali); sometimes we bought souvenirs, and other times we drew pictures of the Moroccan landscape we planned to sell in the streets of New York.
I flew Norwegian to New York City out of Paris. I felt at ease in JFK; I was in my own city, was confident about taking public transportation, and had memorized the subway directions and frequency. But, I instinctually and without hesitation called a Lyft (Line, obviously), without even considering the more frugal options.
I mean, life is short, right?
