Sitting alone in a blues club, sipping red wine, I was clearly a misfit. Husband long gone, grown children scattered, I arrived at The Pub far too early! Musicians hauled in heavy black cases while I dined on salmon salad. Couples I didn’t know brushed past me to reach distant tables, sit next to people they knew.
Fortunately (for me), the Players Pub is not as racy as the name. Seven nights a week, live bands play danceable blues (or rock, swing, or funk). Because The Pub draws an older crowd, I’ve made good friends through dancing.
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From the low-rise hotel in Playa del Carmen we could walk easily to the beach, shop at tiendas, dine on patios where mariachi bands played. Eager to go dancing on the last night of the holiday, I was unsure where to go. Happily a friend from Miami—fluent in Spanish—found a salsa club.
When we arrived at Fusion Beach Hotel Bar and Grill, no one was dancing. Outdoors, we settled into beach chairs, cooled down with margaritas, relaxed to the shush, shush, of waves spilling on sand.
We heard the drum beats while riding in pirogues across a shallow lake. Boatmen with long poles pushed these wooden boats toward Togovlle. On shore, we walked past colorful block houses to find the voodoo ceremony. Under the branches of an ancient, gnarled tree, African villagers— their bodies wrapped in bright cloth, their skin beaded with sweat—danced to rhythmic hand drums.