Travel has been in my blood for nearly 25 years and this is the account of how I became infected.

That night my father said we were going to dine at Pizza Rolandi. I had been hearing about this great pizza joint, in Mexico of all places, for years. I was starving all day after my flailing snorkeling experience and Pizza sounded perfect.

Bear in mind at this age I had never been anywhere, so when we entered the dimly candlelit outdoor patio with high walls it felt like we were in a cave of European royalty; some hidden part of a castle with classical music and nice linens. I was a bit nervous as I thought this was only going to be pizza. It was much more to me at the time, it was another in a series of great escapes on this amazing journey.

The donde boys did not make the journey to dinner on this night, or if they did I can only remember my father and I talking and watching all the people around us drink wine. Wine was such a mystery to me as I had been offered a few sips of Texas homemade wine back in my Bristol days and I found it disgusting. Yet, I was intrigued to see so many people laughing and enjoying the red stuff with their food I knew I was likely missing something. It would take me another 7 years for the light to come on with wine and now look at me :-)

Pizza Rolandi was far better than any description my Dad had given it and was such a beautiful change from our rustic hotel and the dingy dive boat. I was now someplace I could grasp and feel more alive. This feeling never fails to return when I love a restaurant. It is a simple and warm sensation of being welcomed and belonging. I rarely feel like I belong anywhere or with any people. On this night 24 years ago, I did.

After dinner we wandered back to the hotel where the donde boys were gearing up for a night out. At this point in the trip the once full coolers of beer the boys had brought, duct-taped shut as their checked luggage, were running very low. My dad asked me to go with the guys down to the store and help them bring back beer. On that walk the two guys asked if I was coming with them to the disco. I had no idea if I even had permission to go and said as much. The boys did not accept that answer and as soon as we got back to the hotel, arms sore as hell from carrying an inordinate mass of beer, the boys approached my dad about me coming to the disco in town; Scaramouche.

My dad was relaxed in the room and had changed from dinner clothes to shorts and sandals. It was clear my dad was not going to go and so the only chance of my getting out for the evening was sadly the donde boys. They swore they would keep an eye on me and seeing as one of the guys was about 6'2" and 275 pounds of brute strength and sheer force I guess my dad felt like we would be safe enough, and he relented to letting me go.

Of course the boys pleaded with my father to join us, but he was apprehensive and as reserved as I had ever seen him. It was clear he was not coming out to Scaramouche. I had assumed all these years that my father was a bit homesick and lonely for his wife which kept him in the room that night. I only recently discovered after a good bottle of wine one evening that my father was not welcomed at disco Scaramouche. 

A couple of years before this trip when my father was newly single he had been in the Scaramouche one night with BR. BR and my father in the day were like some cross between adventurous explorers like Cousteau and the Contras of Nicaragua. IT was OP shorts, sandals, Peter Tosh music, sailing, diving, and a virtual shit storm of alcohol-fueled trouble wherever they landed. On one particular night in Cozumel, the team at the Scaramouche experienced these exploits firsthand.

My Dad and BR were in the crowded disco late one night and alone without the rest of their dive friends. The club was completely jammed with well-dressed Mexicans and terribly casual tourists. There was not a decent table to be had except for a  sofa, long table, and several nice chairs just above the dance floor which were all empty. DRH (my father) and BR took it upon themselves to plop down on the sofa and enjoy an adult beverage. Immediately upon sitting the club officials came and nicely asked them to move as the area was reserved. BR told the club staff that it was cool and that he and DRH would stay only till the other party arrived. The staff member then implored them to choose another nice table and he would get it for them.

As it turns out, that area was reserved for the Governor of Quintana Roo - the state governing body of Cozumel. DRH and BR called bullshit on this bit of knowledge but nevertheless moved to an alternate table when a gentleman in a military jacket complete with gratuitous medals and epaulets along with his entourage and and obvious American couple arrived and took the seats.

BR did not like the cocky American and  plotted to engage the man as if he knew him from College so he could find out where he lived. At this point the whole scene sounded like a mid-season episode of Miami Vice only it was not Crockett and Tubbs, it was DRH and BR; scuba instructors from Garland, TX.

In moments after BR had lamely tried to pry info from the American DRH sensed it was time to go and quickly. As soon as they hit the door the henchmen in the Governor's entourage grabbed BR and DRH and questioned them mercilessly on the steps of the club. Once the thugs seemed satisfied that DRH and BR were non-threatening, and were just an annoyance they escorted my father and BR to their car and told them never to return. DRH and BR drove back to their hotel followed all the way by 2 black cars that only abandoned the tail when our heroes entered their hotel parking lot.

The following day, Carlos the boat captain told DRH and BR they had been very lucky as the governor of QR was one of the most notorious drug runners in all of Mexico. Carlos explained It would be wise for the men never to return to Scaramouche.

...to be continued