Coffeehouse Chronicles: Cabo, Cigars, Dominoes, and the Bandit of Villa Row

Celebrating Independence Day, Mexican style

Good morning, Chroniclers. Gotcher cup?

As Americans across the land celebrated Independence Day with backyard barbecues, patriotic fanfare, and enough fireworks to alarm local household pets, the HB and I found ourselves honoring the holiday the only way two seasoned vacation professionals know how:

By accidentally eating dairy, taking a nap, and becoming adopted grandparents to a pack of energetic forty-somethings.

The day began innocently enough with breakfast at the Monte Cristo Lounge. There was French toast, pancakes, eggs, bacon, yogurt, granola, and enough lactose to make two senior citizens look at each other and mutually agree that today's activities might need to stay within sprinting distance of a restroom.

After breakfast we waddled back to the villa.

Now, when in Rome, one does as the Romans do.

Apparently, when in Mexico, one takes a siesta.

The HB and I nobly answered the call of international diplomacy and put in a solid nap effort.

A short time later Richie arrived with exciting news.

"The gang's coming over."

Excellent.

Apparently every villa on our row had one critical design flaw: shade. Everyone had it except us.

Our pool, however, had sunshine.

So naturally our villa became the neighborhood community center.

Soon the crew began arriving. Friends. Parents. Significant others. Random honorary relatives. Folks floated in and out all afternoon like vacationing salmon.

The gang's all here!

As always, laughter arrived before everyone else.

Nikki fired up her tiny Bluetooth speaker—a piece of technology roughly the size of a hockey puck yet somehow capable of delivering the power output of a 1987 nightclub sound system. The music started with modern R&B and hip-hop. The younger crowd danced, splashed, and carried on.

Then Jazz seized control of the playlist.

Now Jazz continues to surprise us. We already knew she was an actress. What we didn't know was that somewhere deep inside she was carrying around the soul of a seventy-two-year-old record producer.

Suddenly Parliament was playing.

Then Bootsy Collins.

Then songs that hadn't seen daylight since Ronald Reagan was in office.

Woot-woot! Party ovah heee-ah!!!

As it turns out, Jazz grew up around studios and musicians and casually revealed that she'd spent her youth hanging around real legends.

Meanwhile, the HB heard the opening bars of old-school R&B and instantly transformed.

One moment she was relaxing on a chaise next to the pool. The next she was aboard the Soul Train Time Machine, demonstrating dance moves that had apparently been cryogenically preserved since the late 1970s.

The younger crowd watched in amazement.

The HB was groovin', baby.

While we were having a ball in the pool, there was another visitor earlier in the day that was a lot less welcome than the party guests. 

At some point, Richie discovered a scorpion sitting in the poolside bathroom sink as if he had reservations and was waiting for turn-down service. 

Now, reactions varied. 

Nikki immediately adopted the very reasonable position that scorpions should remain outdoors, preferably several zip codes away. She was absolutely not a fan. 

Jazz, however, reacted like Crocodile Dundee stumbling across a mildly inconvenient rattlesnake. 

While the rest of us were assessing escape routes and discussing who owned the villa now that the scorpion clearly did, Jazz calmly sized up the intruder, handled the situation, and generally behaved like someone who keeps a side hustle in professional pest control. 

By the end of it, Nikki was still traumatized, the scorpion had been evicted, and Jazz's reputation as Cabo's unofficial animal control officer had been firmly established.

At some point, the HB announced:

"Is anybody hungry?"

Now, this is a dangerous question when directed at people who have spent three hours singing, dancing, and pretending to be backup performers for Earth, Wind & Fire.

The answer was yes.

Very yes.

Which led us to discover one of Cabo's great luxuries:

Suite Service.

Not room service.

Suite service.

Because apparently once you reach a certain tax bracket, even your leftovers arrive with an elevated title.

Orders were placed.

Food arrived.

Swimming resumed.

Dancing resumed.

Eating resumed.

Then more swimming.

Then more dancing.

The exact sequence became difficult to track.

Eventually the crowd dispersed to shower, dress, and prepare for the evening festivities.

As Richie and I surveyed the battlefield of plates, trays, covers, wrappers, and half-finished snacks, I began gathering everything together.

"Don't worry about it," Richie said. "Housekeeping's coming."

That statement would prove important later.

Very important.

The younger folks departed in a club-car caravan toward dinner. The HB and I, meanwhile, chose the mature option. 

We reheated leftovers.

Because after a certain age, paying for a third dinner when you've already got two perfectly good dinners sitting in the refrigerator feels irresponsible.

We settled in.

I watched the Dodgers from my laptop. The HB relaxed. And then, later we stepped outside to watch the fireworks.

Now, a Fourth of July fireworks show in Mexico has a slightly different vibe.

It was a respectable five-minute display.

Not exactly the legendary impromptu La Puente street performance extravaganza where neighbors try to outdo neighbors. But considerably more impressive than last year's celebration involving handheld sparklers and a defensive bucket of water.

So we'll call that progress.

Of course, the fireworks weren't the last excitement of the evening. 

The HB and I were enjoying the warm night air on the patio immediately afterward when a wasp approximately the size of a congressional district buzzed onto the scene. 

Now, science may insist it was only the size of my thumb, but science wasn't there. This thing sounded like a small drone and looked capable of applying for a pilot's license. The giant airborne menace made a couple of aggressive reconnaissance passes in my direction, and I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. 

The retreat was immediate and highly coordinated. Military historians would later describe it as a tactical withdrawal. The HB and I described it as, "Get inside! Get inside! Get inside!"

The HB and I were just preparing to retire for the evening when Richie appeared again.

"The fellas were wondering about a little sticks and bones."

For those who did not attend the University of Grandpa, that translates to cigars and dominoes.

Sticks & bones, a wonderful way to end an evening

I was immediately in. I gathered my humidor, selected a few respectable sticks, grabbed a couple of torches, and headed upstairs to the lanai.

Commander McCroc would have been proud. The gentlemen settled in. Cigars were distributed.

Dominoes appeared.

Stories were told.

Some history was rewritten.

A few lies may have been presented as facts.

Considerable braggadocio occurred. And yes, I'm declaring braggadocio a perfectly legitimate word.

For several glorious hours, the games continued until Greg systematically demolished every opponent placed before him. After administering his final domino-related beating, he stood and delivered the night's closing remarks:

"Okay, guys. Time for bed."

Like a principal ending a school dance.

The party dissolved.

Everyone headed off to sleep.

And all would have been peaceful...

...if not for Housekeeping's Greatest Enemy.

At approximately 4 a.m., the HB and I were awakened by what sounded like an industrial accident.

CRASH!

CLANG!

BANG!

I bolted upright.

For one horrifying moment, I thought someone was breaking into the villa.

Instead, I discovered a masked criminal.

A raccoon.

This guy had the nerve to be lying on the lounge, finishing off Richie's burger.

Apparently, word had spread through the local wildlife community that Suite Service had left behind a buffet. The little bandit was methodically pushing aside metal tray covers, searching for treasure.

A cheeseburger here. French fries there. He worked with the confidence of a creature who had clearly done this before. This wasn't a spontaneous burglary. This was a professional operation.

Somewhere nearby, there was probably a raccoon wife asking him why he was getting home so late.

"Sorry, honey. Big score on Villa Row tonight."

After watching our furry burglar conduct his midnight heist, I couldn't even be mad. The little guy had earned it.

And so ended another unforgettable Fourth of July in Cabo.

A day filled with music, dancing, swimming, cigars, dominoes, leftovers, fireworks, and one highly motivated raccoon.

Most importantly, another day spent with Richie's crew—those wonderful young people who have somehow accepted the HB and me as their honorary vacation parents.

And honestly?

We're having the time of our lives.

You know what to do, Chroniclers. Drink 'em if you got 'em! 

#coffeehousechronicles