Yesterday at the grocery store we debated.  We held the familiar bottle of Bacardi Gold in one hand and the seemingly-exotic Cortez in the other and judged.

Do we go with what we know?  Our good ol’ communist friend Bacardi?  Or do we take a chance and opt for the not-too-expensive-but-not-the-bargain-but-practical-middle-of-the-road-local-flava?

Okay, so Cortez isn’t local.  The bottle says, “Ron superior de Panama.”  So it’s rum from Panama?  My Spanish is already improving.  Go me.

But the bottle is in Spanish, which makes it seem a bit more authentic, no?  And while we can’t hide my pasty white thighs or Erin’s bright auburn hair in this town, we can certainly try to drink like the locals.

Or at least that was our reasoning at 7:07 last night.

But today?

Today I know I can most definitely not drink like the locals.

I think the Avett Brothers said it best:

When I drink…
I spend the next morning in a haze…
But we only get so many daaaays
Now I have one less.

Damn.