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Five minutes later he re-emerged with a dusty bottle of rum and a box of surprisingly
plump mangoes.
“Daiquiri?” he teased.
“Hmm…” I stalled, pressing down on the twenties. “Got a blender?”
“
Sí
,” he replied.
We were in business.
Oddly, his next move was to scuttle out from behind the bar and lock the door of his
little eatery.
“Too much customer,” he remarked to no one in particular.
Five minutes later the three of us were guzzling down the most delicious daiquiris ever.
At some point—to be honest, I'm a little hazy on the exact timeline—our erstwhile flight
mates (the chatty lady and her sullen offspring) rattled the locked door, trying to get in.
“
!Cerrado!
” our barkeep announced triumphantly.
“Closed!” I translated.
Through the door's porthole window the woman caught my eye and shot me a distinctly
spiteful look. And when we were finally airborne and winging our way towards Vieques an
hour later, she maintained a decidedly frosty demeanor.
I felt bad.
Kind of.
But to be honest, I was far too relaxed to care.
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