WARNING: Dull day. No Sex Bingo. Fogg Falsehoods, that's tomorrow.

There’s this guy in New Zealand I see every day around 2:10 PM, and I wonder what his story is. He looks ominous. Dressed in black, black coat, black hair, and he seems to avoid eye contact, drawn into himself in a way that is not furtive, but dangerous. He is alone. Everyone else is groups of two or three. There’s a story there.

I should mention that he is on the screen of the treadmill at the gym. And I should mention that there's something new at the gym: a rather ominous maxim.

I hop on the treadmill right away, and start the thumping music to drown out the gym's thumping music. The screen takes me to some other land, and I’m pretty sure it’s New Zealand. It starts out in a rather barren area, grand mountains draped in fog, with the camera moving steadily along a path. The path is barely distinguishable from the stony landscape, but it’s smoother, and marked at intervals by a pole with a yellow stripe. You wonder if the poles will be there in a thousand years. A plague takes out humans, the space explorers land here, and see that once this was a civilized place. Of course, why would they land in New Zealand? Lord of the Rings fans, maybe. Anyway, the man appears about two minutes into it. There is another solitary female five minutes later, but she gives off no vibe other than “couldn’t get my husband to come.”

The scene switches to a forest, with a bridge across a ravine, and eventually a town. Mountains and water, everything’s in English. Ah: KIWI TOURS. So it’s probably New Zealand.

The machines are different, as I may have noticed, and I think you need an engineering degree to operate this one.

When the gym was over I went to find Sara at the Fizz Pool. It's tucked away nicely.

The view here is acceptable, I guess.

It's supposed to be the quiet pool. It was not the quiet pool. It was full of people jabbering away. (In a foreign tongue, of course; people talking in languages we do not understand are always jabbering.) There were also children, which ensures you do not have a quiet pool. She was not there. She was back at the room, then. Before I went up, though, I went to Poseidon and collected an array of cheeses and meats for the inevitable hunger that hits around 5. Dinner is at 8, so something in between is nice, and you do not, DO NOT want to go to the buffet place and spoon some liquefied beef on some nachos.

By the way, breakfast this morning was stress-free: only one person in line at the omelette bar. New chef, though. Skimpy with the ingredients. The French Toast was almost fresh. Sat next to an old Indian couple, the grandparents for the wedding, I presume. An unceasing procession of women came by towing reluctant or slightly abashed young men, and they had to pay their respects to the old man. He said nothing and nodded, and the young men would retreat, obligation fufilled.

When I got back to the room, Sara was sitting on the bed in an expectant posture, and I was surprised: yes? She laughed and said she thought I was the room supply guy, who’d called a few minutes before when she was in the shower. He had said he would be back in five minutes, which of course means ten or never. (The answer would turn out to be never.) SURE, YOU WERE EXPECTING THE ROOM SUPPLY GUY.

I know what goes on at these tennis camps.

We napped a bit, but you know how it goes when you’re trying to get some sleep in the late afternoon at a place like this: there will be a stream of loud children being tired and peevish, or people coming back from the pool, full of margaritas, loose and liquoreds.

Don’t get the whole daylight intoxication thing. At the airport there was a woman who had a T-shirt that said “You Had Me at Day Drinking.” Her vacation shirt! Everyone laughed! Karen has a problem, but everyone laughed.

The culture here is all indulgence, of course, but it’s not a rude or raucous place. I suspect the resorts that cater to young people are full of boisterous bros and gals being loud and hammered, Because Mexico. And then there’s the reddit posts about being detained by the corrupt police and fined for something bogus, like using wifi on private property. As I understand the advice, you’re supposed to demand to be taken to the police station for a formal charging. This calls their bluff and they move along or make do with less.

I don’t know. The idea of “demanding to be taken to the Mexican police station” does not seem like the best possible option. I mean, what if absolutely everyone on duty is corrupt? It’s possible. I’m sure there’s one lone cop who steadfastly refuses the opportunity for extra money because he is dedicated to the law, and joined the force to do good, and this might be the night he speaks out and shouts NO MAS with such commanding force that everyone is shamed into silence and lets you go. But it might go the other way.

Well. It was windy today, my friends. The sea was like a hangover, pounding away with brute stupid energy, and no, I didn’t have one. I know my way around this thing. Although I did fall off the walkway in the Northwest Passage the other night - not because I was tottering home legless with a skinful, but because there was a dogleg turn in the path, and I was looking at a building illuminated in a way I had not previously noticed . . . and I fell off, one leg banging the boards, the other over the side. Of course my watch tapped me on the wrist and said “Looks as if you’ve given the Crazy Uke a hearty clap on the back,” with the options of YES and NO, I FELL IN MEXICO.

Anyway. Windy. The wind ensured that sand got into everything. I had a diet Pepsi, and after a few minutes it was like drinking grit. The wind makes a tortured theatrical howling in the hall, like the damned soul of a dead Supply Man. It’s brought the temps way down, and I pity anyone who heads into the Village tonight in shorts, as most do.

Speaking of which: when we first came here, there seemed to be more of an expectation that one would dress for dinner. Now it’s quite casual. And by that I mean sandals, shorts, shirts with no collars. I’m not saying everyone has to put on the Ritz and paradade around like Rockefellers with diamond-tipped walking sticks, but it’s dispiriting to see the codes slide. Wouldn’t you want to look sharp?

Or are we past the very idea of looking sharp, in general? Because it’s more comfortable to look dull?

I’m perfectly comfortable in my reasonably not-sloppy clothes. And I comport myself better, stand straighter, have a bit more confidence.

Ach, I’m becoming such a scold.

BECOMING? You say.

All in all, an ordinary day. Perhaps the best. The newness is gone. The departure seems far away. You're just . . . here.

Tomorrow: as promised, Phineas Fogg Falsehoods.

UPDATE: still mystified by Disqus. Some see them, I think. The code hasn't changed. Baffled, and investigating.