We decided to go on an adventure for the day. Ian, Glenn (our fast
friend and the fashion professor for the week), and I piled into a little white
rental, “Picanto.” I drove east
with abandonment. I don’t know how
many miles an hour in kilometers down the two-lane highway of endless green I
was going, because I do not know the conversion, but with slow moving
motor-bikes on the road’s side, it felt quite fast. The tourist town of Bávaro, with its bobbing boats anchored
practically on the beach and its beckoning salesmen, has the best fried fish
and tostones I will probably ever have.
It took some effort and a conversation with a fisherman to find the
place, away from the beach and up the stairs. It is always a good sign you are with the locals when you
don’t need a menu and there are family photos on the wall. Glenn is a former
local and alum of the design school turned New Yorker, so on the drive back we
stopped at a private beach in Cap Cana he knew of and enjoyed a nice swim in the Caribbean Sea.
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