Tables were lined with liters of beer in brown, stubby-fat bottles and there were gals. The gals encouraged conversation, drink and dance, and they were willing to share a table and listen.

Some adventures are short.

Walking the port at Manzanillo, in the old town, I heard some music, so I popped my head thru a curtained doorway and entered. Inside, I was still outside. The brick walled alley between two shops had been converted to a beer cafe. There was an over hang, eaves from the building on the right gave the alley a semblance of a roof. In the shadows, a young fellow played a keyboard.

Tables were lined with liters of beer in brown, stubby-fat bottles and there were gals. The gals encouraged conversation, drink and dance, and they were willing to share a table and listen. Gals with huge, watermelon sized breasts, Fellini-esque bust sizes measured in feet not inches and guys, a combination of young sailors and old unfortunates. Sailors were drinking and dancing, laughing and looking. Buddies on leave. Older men, alone, sad cases, coaxed to dance, bleary eyed, wobbly on their feet, gals counting score with the empties filling their table. All the while the music played.

I ordered a beer, small, long neck bottle, listened to a couple of tunes, drank out of the bottle, thanked my waitress, and left with a sad joy.

This story is from my Forty Days in Mexico.
The previous story in the series is The Coastal Road to Nowhere.
The next story in the series is Mescal Highway.