my own worst enemy

I want my Rashanda back

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

This weekend I made the trek down to Mexico with 9 of my good friends for the biennial Rosarito-Ensenada 50-mile bike ride. Spirits were high as we packed up the cars Friday night and stopped at Chipotle for some awesome carb-loading burritos. "Carb-loading burritos?" you say. "Shut up," I say. We spent the night at a lovely Days Inn (which sounds like an oxymoron) in San Diego, where the men's room discussed which male character on Lost is more jacked and which female character we'd most like to bang. We can only assume the women's room hosted a naked pillow fight. We happen to know for a fact that three of them slept in the same bed, a point which prompted a moment of silence during the discussion in the men's room.

After a delicious breakfast at the Pam Pam Restaurant, we were off to Mexico. The ride went great, including the multiple beers consumed during said ride (you can't drink the water, right?). So anywho, we make it Ensenada after about five hours (3:08 on the bikes), get us some celebratory tacos and cervezas, and jump on the shuttle back to the cars.

Only here's the kicker: my car's not there. Rashanda the Honda (a name which I apparently shared with anyone until this weekend) had been stolen! Who would have ever thought, what with the Mexican stereotype being seen as lazy and tired all the time? You'd think they'd be busy with siestas and whatnot. But no, apparently they're wiley little fucks who want nothing more than to steal things from the tourists who come to support their economy.

Okay, calm down. Sorry, but those of you who know me well know that I have no respect for petty thieves. It gets under my skin like almost nothing else in this world. (My apologies on the broad generalism of Mexicans, Lizett - I'm sure your family isn't like that)

So then the fun begins. We wave over a cop and tell him what happened (after fighting through the language barrier). He tells me I have to file a report at the "Administrative Public" and gives me cryptic instructions on how to get there. Of course, the only form of transportation I have is my bike. So I start biking in the general direction he pointed. Half and hour or so later I finally find the place -- four shady miles away.

Once again, I find out that I should have taken Spanish in high school. After a long time (and with the help of some Good Samaritans) I finally get the report filed while my buddy Gilbert has been talking to the Mexican insurance company. Thankfully, I bought a full policy for the day trip.

We originally noticed the car missing around 8:30pm. I finally left Mexico at 3:00am and didn't arrive home until 6:00am. All in all, an awful experience.

Oh, and Monday I came down with Montezuma's Revenge. Fucking Mexico.

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