Two Older Gentlemen

March 9th, 2022

I don’t know what it is about me, but I’m a magnet for old dudes. Not in a sexual way, but old dudes are simply always down to clown with me. I guess I’m just the kind of guy that old dudes want to spark conversations with? As I write this, I’m sitting at a beachside café in Zipolite, Mexico, and a 60–70 year old dude from Alberta named Paul just started chatting me up about the Bret Hart shirt I’m wearing. This first paragraph has taken me 45 minutes to complete, because Paul suddenly wants to be BFF.

I wish this worked the same way for cool, attractive women. Alas, that isn’t the case; it’s only old dudes. I do, however, have an incredible track record of hitting it off with girl’s dads. Take me home to meet your parents and I can guarantee your dad will love me. If I had a dollar for every time a girl’s dad patted me on the back with force, or aggressively grabbed me by the bicep, and called me “big guy”, I’d be rich. I may raise a few eyebrows with moms, though.

Maybe it’s because I strive to be an old dude myself? My heroes are David Letterman and Rick Rubin and John Lurie and anyone else who lives life at a slow, meticulous pace, who does and says whatever the fuck they want, all with empathy and compassion, and who cares about their craft more than what other people think. Normally, the “I do and say whatever the fuck I want” crowd can tend to alienate or insult, but not when you’re a cool old dude with a big grey beard who isn’t a piece of shit and doesn’t have to worry about it. Either way, yesterday was a particularly strong day for my old dude magnetism.

It started by having drinks with Randall. I didn’t know Randall prior, but he’s an old family friend of my friend Molly, and when she found out I was going to Puerto Escondido, she put us in touch via e-mail. Randall has been living in Puerto for decades now, after stints in San Fransisco in the late 60’s and Montreal in the early 70’s, among other places. You can tell within moments of meeting this guy that he’s had some awesome trips in his life, both physically and mentally. I’m still not convinced it wasn’t Woody Harrelson training for some sort of role.

I got to Randall’s place in a tucked-away part of Rinconada around 6pm, just in time to catch the sunset. Probably in his mid-to-late 60’s, he answered the front gate barefoot and shirtless. He then guided me through a beautiful entrance and courtyard into his home. The home itself was pretty interesting. I don’t know how many people lived there, or who owned the place, but it seemed to me like Randall lived on the bottom floor, another person or perhaps family lived above him on the second floor, then there was a master bedroom on the third floor balcony, mostly outdoors and only accessible by going through both homes. On the fourth and final floor was a gorgeous rooftop terrace with one of the most mind-boggling views of the Pacific Ocean I’ve ever seen. The sunset was indeed bonkers.

The beers I brought were immediately stored in the fridge, as Randall made us some delicious Mezcal Bloody Caesars, handed me a personal, no-filter joint, and we headed up to the roof. There, we chatted about a number of different topics. Randall can talk; dude can definitely go. He’s also the kind of guy who will excited jump from story to story, and topic to topic, and get sidetracked mid-sentence by the distracting beauty of the sunset. I’m sure the bong he was hitting didn’t do his focus any favors, either. He’d jump from a story about a stabbing in La Punta right into a spiel about the complexities of the universe like a stunt driver pulling the handbrake. On more than one occasion I had to remind him just what the hell he was talking about.

I’ll be honest; usually, when someone has to ask “what was I talking about?” or “what was I getting at?” it’s a clear sign that they’ve been talking too much. I usually remind them with reluctance, not so enthralled with the anti-cathartic conclusion to whatever they were getting on about. It’s rarely worth it. Not Randall, though. It was cool and endearing when he did it. I was hanging on every word, trying to soak in as much awesomeness as I could, knowing he had dinner plans after sunset and I was leaving to Zipolite the next day. I wish I met up with Randall earlier, so we could have hung out more. He told me some crazy Mexican cartel stories, about his motorcycle trips around Oaxaca, and I’m still waiting on him to e-mail me some songs from his old band.

As the sun was just about finished setting, Randall’s buddy Arlo showed up. I think Arlo may have also lived there, but I’m not sure. He was about 20 years younger than Randall, but they mentioned being in a band in Toronto together years ago, so again, I’m not sure. The three of us sat there chatting until around 8pm, when Randall’s girlfriend was set to show up for a dinner date of home-cooked food, and I’m sure some more Mezcal Bloody Caesar’s. Before leaving, we made plans to meet up again next summer, this time in Montreal where I can host.

Walking home from Randall’s, I felt optimistic. I’ll be honest, I’ve been alone a lot on this trip. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because I do love my alone time, but there has been several times that I felt all these awesome experiences would be even better shared with someone special. Living in Montreal, where the societal norm is very much to find a wife and get married and have some kids and ultimately do the Big Settle Down, I’ve often felt like an outsider for not wanting that. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love relationships, and there’s nothing better than forming a connection with someone dope, but I’m also a believer that those are temporary, and there’s no such thing as “the one”. I believe that a person should write their own book, and the partners along the way make for awesome chapters. Sometimes still, I feel like I’m doing it all wrong. Hey, I’ve been wrong before. I get caught up worrying about how life will be when I’m older, when I’m less inclined to travel the world and stay out late at bars and flirt with strangers. If I feel lonely at 33, I fear that’ll only get worse compounded over time.

Then I meet an old dude like Randall, who just got back from a motorcycle ride through the South of Mexico, who cooks home-made dinners from scratch for his cool girlfriend, and who just got baked and had some drinks while watching another breathtaking sunset alongside a random stranger, and I feel alright. If that’s how I can end up, sign me the fuck up. It reminded me that I can’t wait to be a cool, crazy old dude.

Along my walk home from Randall’s place, I stopped at a little taco shop to pick up some dinner. I asked the man working there if I could place an order for take-out, but as is the case nine times out of ten, he did not speak English. I tried saying “para levar”, a phrase I thought I picked up along the way, but he didn’t understand that either, so lord knows what I’ve been saying to people this whole time. Finally, a large man covered in those very distinct, light-green, faded biker-style tattoos who was seated at the nearest table overheard my struggles and jumped in. “Here,” he said, then snapped his fingers loudly and pointed at Mexican woman he was dining with. She looked up from her phone, briefly confused, and then spoke Spanish to the taco man and helped me with my order. “Take a seat and have a drink, it’ll take a while” said the man, who also ordered us a round of beers and immediately poured me a shot of Mezcal from the bottle he had sitting on the table.

This old dude’s name was Doug, and I could tell right off the bat that Doug was a character. Probably in his late 60’s or early 70’s, he sported a handlebar moustache, a Harley Davidson tank top, and wore thick silver chain bracelets that clanked around every time he fist-bumped me, which was often. He asked where I was from, which prompted a slew of stories about his French biker friends from Quebec who were recently down there visiting him. I told him I was going to Zipolite the following day, which caused Doug to roar. According to him, Zipolite is entirely comprised of sex-crazed gays who walk around naked with hard-ons and won’t take no for an answer, even though I’m straight. He told me stories of visiting Zipolite and witnessing public gay orgies that nearly caused him to start fighting people, and warned me that it’s not uncommon to see a dude blowing another dude in the middle of a restaurant while you’re trying to eat. I insisted that I get along just fine with most people, gay or not, and sex of any kind doesn’t really bother me, so long as the food is good.

The way he talked about Zipolite made me realize that Doug had some pretty bad opinions, and that he was significantly less cool than Randall. By the way, I’ve been in Zipolite for a day now and can attest that it’s a beautiful place filled with awesome shops and restaurants and a wide array of beautiful people. A lot of them are definitely nude, but everyone does it in a free, respectful kind of way. Also, from what I can tell, for every big-bellied naked guy is an equal amount of model-esque naked women. Go figure.

As the wait for my tacos dragged on, I picked up on Doug’s aggressive tendencies more and more. He tried pressuring me into hitting on a cute woman who was dining there alone (I did not). He made sure I took down his number because he assured me I’d be back in Puerto Escondido looking for a place to stay. Every fibre of my being wanted to reply “you’re not going to try and fuck me, are you?” but I knew that would result in him taking a swing at me.

He wasn’t all bad, though. He was an old dude in Mexico, trying to find his way by being loud and abrasive. Originally from Kelowna, BC, Doug had been living in Puerto Escondido for about a year and a half. After 39 years of marriage, his wife passed away a couple of years ago. He brought up the fact that he was a widower pretty early and often, which I can only assume means he’s in the South of Mexico for a reason, as an attempt to escape some pain. The way he ordered us drinks, poured us shots, and hit his weed vape, sang the same sort of tune.

I’ll be honest, whenever a person expresses any sort of homophobic (or racist or xenophobic or bigoted) ideology, I find it very hard to respect them, knowing that they wouldn’t respect so many of the people that I love. Despite his brash takes, I still felt a level of compassion for Doug, though. He was clearly hurt, and I believe the only remedy for hate is love. I got the feeling he does this a lot; just sitting out in public, attempting to make friends. The sentiment was admirable, but his techniques could use some work.

Again, I thought about myself as an old dude. I had just spent the walk over there picturing myself in Randall’s shoes and feeling optimistic, so as Doug talked, I thought about myself living his life. Again, I actually felt good about it. After 39 years of marriage, here he was, sitting at a taco shop in Rinconada, Mexico, getting shitfaced while talking to a random dude, living his best life, as best as he knows how. I may do things a little differently, personally, but I’m happy to know there’s always that option. There’s always happiness out there for everyone, whatever that may look like to them. At least he was looking for it.

Finally, my tacos were ready (and ended up being delicious). The bill was $300 pesos (I got the beers, which I just knew Doug was positioning for when he ordered them). I put down a $500 and left without waiting for any change; I just wanted to get the fuck out of there at that point. I have three more weeks left in Mexico, all in Zipolite, where I’m sure to meet some more cool old dudes!