Saturday, 31 Jan
Continental Flight 1950 leaves ice–bound Newark for sultry Santo Domingo. There may be a certain fear of flying among Dominicans. One woman gasps and moans with the slightest bump and jolt. She could be having a baby or an orgasm; I’m not sure. The Boeing 777 makes a routine landing — and all the Dominican passengers break into cheers.
A cart welcomes us new arrivals with free drinks of white rum on ice. One could make several mean cocktails, including a Molotov.
Renso Matias, the New York Times’ designated driver, meets us in his long black Cadillac and drops us at our hotels. “Rinso,” is good–natured, helpful and speaks just enough English for us to get by.
Walt’s British cell phone, which is supposed to work everywhere outside the United States, doesn’t work here. His US cell phone, which Verizon told him would not work here, does.
Santo Domingo is the oldest city in the Americas and in everything but her people, she shows her age. Everything in the Zona Colonial seems to be fading, peeling or crumbling.
The weather is thickly tropical, hot and humid. The people are beautiful — smooth–skinned and supple, bright–eyed and quick to smile, despite the staggering poverty that most of them live in.
Not everyone smiles, though. Men in camouflage uniforms and combat boots are everywhere. Some are soldiers, the rest, various kinds of police. There also are young men with guns who are neither cops nor soldiers. The taxi drivers and I both keep an eye on them.
Walt and Kathy are staying at the Renaissance Jaragua Hotel & Casino. It’s on the Malecon, a long boulevard and walk along the seashore. But there’s no beach, only jagged rocks. Most of the beaches belong to private tourist resorts.
I meet Walt and Kathy for a sumptuous dinner at the Jaragua. Nachos warmed by a small earthen jar with coals inside, thin–sliced Norwegian salmon in capers and orange sauce, seafood coquilles, black bean soup, a mountainous hamburger that Kathy barely dented and coq au vin. We wash it all down with a California white zinfandel and multiple bottles of the dominant local beer, Presidente, which arrive at our table nearly frozen, with chunks of ice stuck to them. Total: $US60.
Kathy heads for the casino. Walt heads for bed. I head for my hotel. The taxi driver wants to take me to the house of this “nice girl” he knows, a theme that will be repeated several times this week.
The Hotel Palacio is a 400–year–old pink former presidential palace, now run by Germans and lovingly restored, with a quiet central courtyard and tile everywhere.
I may have the only hotel room in the Americas with a well in it, a bricked, waist–high semi–circle that hotel management has thoughtfully covered with a thick sheet of glass. I have no idea how deep it is or if it still holds water; you can’t see the bottom.