Writings By Date| San Pedro: The Perfect Place to Hide Away | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |
But Lorne and Jolene weren't the only ones welcoming us as family. When not diving — which was most of the time, thanks to Hurricane-to-be Michelle and a little bout with E. Coli — we could be found in our room at the Hideaway Hotel, whom Lorne and Jolene recommended (mostly because their pool was deep enough to do our practice dives in, but also because...well, read on.)
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| Hideaway Hotel |
I'll say this much about the Hideaway Hotel: I never anticipated, so soon after leaving the US, that I would be reintroducing the word "y'all" to our vocabulary. But after spending a week and a half there, this is just one of the many things that rubbed off on us, in this little remote part of Texas away from Texas.
The Hideaway Hotel was founded by four Texan women (three of them sisters), and their background is obvious to anyone who sets foot there. The restaurant is called "A Taste of Texas", and surprisingly fails to advertise that they are probably the only place in the world outside of the United States where you can order grits. The second-floor room just across the street from the ocean is all about southern hospitality, sweet tea, and cigarettes. (Don't bother to ask for the no-smoking section.) Traces of the Lone Star state can be found all over the tables, the walls, and all the way up to the flagpoles, right alongside the flags for Belize, then the US. (At least, as they told me, they have their priorities right.)
The restaurants other offerings really do offer a true taste of Texas, thanks to the chef, Chap — Texan to the core. Their main vegetables are corn, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes. Okay, they do have broccoli and cauliflower casserole, although that's 90% cheese sauce. They also have fried green tomatoes...fried in bacon. And everything comes with texas toast...even breakfast.
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| Joyce and Jerry at Hideaway |
The main characters are Joyce, the down-home mother you never had, and Carol, the bleach-blonde hairstylist with enough southern accent to make up for the ones who lacked it, both of whom were sort of a cross between the women from Steel Magnolias and Flo from Alice's Restaurant. Joyce wouldn't let a day go by without expressing great concern over my illness, going so far as to call the "best doctor on the island" — at home — to arrange an appointment for me. Every day, she'd be greeting us with a friendly smile, asking what "y'all" would be doing that day.
They were joined by Jerry, the transplanted Alaskan, and his wife Linda. Jerry, perpetually tired, even after five or six cups of coffee — and this is the off season — has become a man of many trades, despite all his attempts not to. He seems happiest behind the bar, even if he says otherwise, because he loves to talk; whether it's with the meandering locals, the entertaining passers-by, or the young island children who keep trying to scam a free soda. Linda, his wife, could always be found sweeping around taking care of every smallest detail, and sometimes seeming like she's hoping she made the right decision to give up the businesses in Alaska to come here and help out. (I think she did.)
Rounding out the troops: Belicia, the dog. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, she'd be lying on the porch outside our room, waiting for people to come by and feed her — or for us to come by so she could lick all the salt water off our hands.
