So that finally brings us to the last stage of the trip, the Oasis Playaca (name altered slightly). All-inclusive food and drink, right on the beach, access to a casino, water sports, tennis, mini golf, poolside lounges, beach volleyball. This is paradise, right? Well if a picture tells a thousand words, then sitting in a lobby for fifteen minutes at any hotel probably tells a million. The lobby is the place where the hotel gets a chance to give its first impression. You see fresh-baked cookies at the counter? The hotel's going for the fauxmy vibe (faux-homey: aka trying to make you feel at home, despite the forced uniformity). You see gold-plated everything and not a price in sight? The hotel's going for classy. At the Welton in Santo Domingo, we saw lots of glass, lots of shine, lots of smiles, and happy, contented, professional-looking guests and staff. At Playaca, sitting in the lobby for fifteen minutes would probably make your blood pressure rise ten points. You saw shuffling carb-loaded guests reeling from the night before (all-inclusive, remember?). You saw guests impatiently waiting for that one last margarita before the trip home. You saw the impossibly hectic checkout process, and guests waving hands, exasperated that their door still doesn't lock after 3 days at the hotel. You saw security guards. And I'm pretty sure that the rule is the more security guards you see in a place, the less safe you should feel. They're there for a reason right?

So the Playaca is definitely a change of pace from the previous 4 nights at the Welton. But you figure, it's only the lobby, right? At least there's the beach? Well, there was the beach. You walk outside, and the water is just like the pictures. Clear, blue, pristine, insert trite tropical adjective here. But it was just small. Like the full set of the monopoly properties hadn't been bought yet. The Playaca was a good time, though. Being able to sit outside all day without a plan and without worrying about the cares of the world... literally, if you had a bathing suit and your room key, you were set for the day. Meals were a few steps away, the cabanas provided some shade if you needed it. And if you got bored, you could while away some hours in the casino. Not a bad place to spend a day or two. Three days... well, let's just say we weren't too sad to say goodbye.

So on the first day, we walk around the town outside of the fenced-off "resort." I'm going to assume that resort in spanish means camp, because that was a closer description. We walk out of camp and into town, immediately greated by some bright, but simple Haitian art, bottles of the local alcohol-mama juana, and all the tourist doodads you can think of. Post cards, keychains, t-shirts, and... coffee! Well, actually I didn't see any coffee. So Larmo and I wander further into town. (Larmo is a good guy who I travelled with--a friend of a friend of the groom's but we've hung out a few times. Our other campanion was Sia--both Larmo and Sia are Philipino and a riot to hang out with. Larmo is gay, and as stupidly stereotypical as it sounds, listening to Larmo and Sia go back and forth was like a mix of Telemundo, Will and Grace, and a little stubborn new englandness thrown in). So yeah, we wander further into town, and find a liquor store. Between us Larmo and I speak about 3 words of Spanish, so any transaction is a small victory. We manage to point and gesture our way through buying three bottles of rum and the local beer, Presidente. Proud of our accomplishment for getting a good price and feeling slightly less gringo, we make it back to the hotel. Mission accomplished.

The next day, I'm feeling cocky. I've had my caipirina and other random cocktail for the day, and am hopped up on free french fries and bad burgers. So me and Larmo trek into town again and again stop at the liquor store for another rum souvenir stop. Check. So now it's coffee time. We walk toward the store where the sales lady the previous day was nice and friendly and explained to us exactly how to make mama juana and sold us some very trendy Presidente (the local beer) shirts that were sure to proclaim our world-traveler status back home. Before making it there, we wander through a group of locals. We hear, "Hey man, it's me from the hotel." Sweet, we've run into one of the many camp counselors... er, hotel staff... from up the street. Must be a good sign. "What's up man?" I say, in my cool American accent.

"You remember me from the hotel?"
"Yeah, sure." There were far too many counselors to actually remember.
"You guys want de tour on a bike? My friend here give you de best deal on the island."

And this is where the conversation should have stopped. But with my newfound traveler's wannabe-local confidence, I continue, figuring, hey here's a nice guy. He can help me buy some coffee.

"No man, no tour. Yo queiro paquette de cafe. I want some coffee packets. Not a cup of coffee." If my Spanish sounds like French, that's because French is the only Spanish I know.
"No probleh man. We get you some coffee. Here, come in this cigar shop, he get you some coffee."

Ah, but I'm too wise for that. I'm not going to fall for the "my friend will give you a good deal line." So we enter the store (another chance to leave missed), and look around at cigars, which, to my discerning eye, look like cigars.

"Nice, but donde the coffee? Ou est la cafe? Give coffee me." I exclaim coherently in my most authentic Spanish.
"Oh, nah probleh. We get coffee. Come, I show you my bar. Best bar on the island. I work de hotel at night but now, now I run bar."

Now we're talking, I think. I'm gonna get the good stuff. At this point, Larmo, being the conscience I should have listened to says, "We should just go." Ah... but what does Larmo know? I'm a seasoned local now. Didn't he just hear my Spanish?

"OK, we'll see your bar, but seulement coffee. Paquette du cafe... er... yeah."
"Oh, nah probleh. My fren, he get coffee. Sit, have a drink. It's on me."
"Well, if it's on you..."
Larmo stands off to the side, giving his best body language signal of, "Are you retarded? Let's go." But clearly I don't get the translation. So we sit.

"What you want? We have the best pina coladas in the world here."
"Hmm... best in the monde... we'll take one each." What a sucker! He's going to give us the best pina colada in the world just for buying some coffee from him?! I should be nice and small chat him up.

"You been to the Estados Unidos? Etats-Unis?"
"Nah, not yet. I haf family in Nueva York. Big family... all over."

At this point, his friend comes back with 5 bags of coffee. It looks vaguely familiar. And now, the moment of truth.

"Cuanto cuesto? Combien? How much?" Fluency with every interaction! They probably think I live around the corner.
"550 Dominican for the 4 bags."

Oooo, we get the authentic stuff, and it's not too expensive. Just under $20 american for four bags to split between me and Larmo. We exchange money and finish off the best pina coladas in the world. Honestly, it was pretty good.

"Gracias." Man, just call me Enrique. I'm tearin this language up.

We get up to leave, and the Dominicans are muttering. The friend comes back with a piece of paper. Larmo eyes it warily.

"800 for each pina colada, 200 for the beer for your friend (the counselor from the hotel), tax, tip... that makes $2000 Dominican."

Larmo gives me the "Are you retarded look" again. This time the body language translator kicks in. Retarded. Check. $2000 Dominican is roughly $50. Sitting by a pool surrounded by beautiful girls, with a DJ bumping, and an ocean view... maybe I'd pay $25 for a drink. But sitting on the patio of a shack with rusting umbrellas and stale oyster stank in the air doesn't make me scream $25... what a deal! Maybe I wasn't the local I thought I was.

"Uhh..."

I feel around in my pocket, thankful that I had the foresight to take some cash out of my wallet. The one actual travel lesson I've learned is never to have to take your wallet out when you're in a bargaining situation, because they can definitely see you're lying if you flip through a stack of bills.

"Yo tengita... yo tenga... yo tengoa (the lesser-known tense)... I only have $500 Dominican (~$9)."
"Don't know what to say, man. You gotta pay."
"But hombre said the drinks were on him."
"That guy? He doesn't even work here."
"But I thought this was his bar..."

It's at this point I realize I don't think I've ever seen our friend, the camp counselor in at the hotel. My days as a local are clearly over. I scrape together a few more American dollars and get out of there paying "only" $1000 Dominican. Or about $22.

We get back to the hotel, and I realize why the coffee bags look vaguely familiar. The same bag is sitting in the gift shop (with a little less grime on it). How much? I wonder. About $100 Dominican less than what we paid in town. Per bag.

"At least we got the best pina colada in the world, right?" Larmo laughs hysterically.

Damn straight. If anyone ever asks, that was the best pina colada in the world. Beach aside, at this point I was ready to get me away from that Oasis. So ends the trip to the Dominican of Enrique, world traveler.