It was supposed to be Guatemala. Then Brazil. We changed the dates two or three times. At one point, I assumed that the odds of making the trip, any trip, happen was pretty much nil. Until the SOF crew went out, another sushi and drinks night at Blowfish, ending up in front of Guido's computer at 2 in the morning, each throwing down a little over $800 a piece for some place in Mexico called Playa del Carmen. One of had heard something about it from a friend or something. For an all inclusive flight and hotel package, it was pretty affordable.
I didn't care really. Even though I was hoping for Guatemala or Brazil. They seem somehow more exotic. But I didn't care. No one else really did either. We had all decided that the important thing was to get out of the country for some rest and relaxation with each other.
We got off the plane at 10:00, all having been unable to sleep since our departure at 1:00 a.m. (we had a layover in Mexico City). We stepped out of the airport and were met by an ungodly 90 degree clime, made even more hellish by the 60% humidity. Not the best thing for sleep deprived men.
As I drove the rental through the thirty or forty minute commute to our resort, I couldn't help but wonder what we had gotten ourselves into. I envisioned five days rife with pay outs to corrupt local law enforcement, diarrhea slightly manageable with the thirty days' worth of antibiotics that I had brought, and this heat--this unbearable, sticky heat.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
We arrived at our resort, the Grand Coco Resort. We were met with cool, moist wash cloths and glasses of champagne. The resort itself was better than I had expected, with all meals and alcohol already included. Our suite was generously sized. The pool was adequate, not that it mattered since only yards away was the beach. The sand was white as snow and so fine it was almost liquid. At 82 degrees, the water was like bath water and bluer than a Sunday morning sky.
Despite the fatigue, we had to walk down the beach and explore.
Each stretch was as incredible as the last, and we ended up at another resort. House music blared from the speakers set on the sand, and a bar beckoned to us. The bar was Kool. And it was cool! We climbed up the three steps onto a large, raised platform made of wooden slats bleached by the elements. In the center was an infinity pool flanked on either side by outdoor beds with white canvas umbrellas to provide shelter from the sun. At the far end was the bar and a waitress who served the first of countless mojitos on our trip.
Avenida Quinto had been the area suggested for the evening. Still no sleep, but we could sleep when we got back to L.A. We left at 8:00. The cab dropped us off in an area that struck me as more European than Mexican. European tourists were everywhere, and as far as the poverty in Mexico? Well, you wouldn't know it existed based on this street. We started out with dinner at Palapa--guacamole made fresh at our table, plantains coated with grated coconuts and fried, amazing shrimp tacos and of course, mojitos.
We grabbed another drink at Playasia, another bar/restaurant with a pool around and above which were the individual dining areas.
The night ended, sort of, at the Blue Parrot. The bar was right in the sand, and half its denizens walked around in bare feet. It boasted two dance floors, one closer to the water and blasting pop and hip-hop remixes, the other offered a DJ spinning house and techno. At midnight, the crowd was entertained by a fire show, scantily clad men and women performing tricks with various apparati lit on fire. At 2:00 am, we called it a night...sort of. We had a sort of unexpected fourth roommate that night.
On our second day, we drove an hour to get to a beach called El Paraiso. Girls we had met the night before had suggested it and promised to meet us there. The beach was aptly named; it was possibly the most gorgeous beach I've ever been to--a slice of Paradise. Again with white sand and warm, glassy water. This beach was less crowded however, but the vibe was amazing. The DJ had people dancing on the sand. Our waiter, Jesus who felt he shared a bond with us through a brother who lives in L.A. hooked us up with the best bed on the beach and the strongest mojitos he could convince the bartender to make. And the people? Hot! Razor Burn and Guido kept pressing me to talk to various men who were empirically hot: "Dude, how about that guy? He's cute, right?" Unfortunately, the men were not empirically gay. "Dude, just because they're in speedos doesn't make them gay. They're all European," I said, pointing out the girlfirends they had brought with them. But they were fucking hot. I fell in love five times that day.
We went back to Avenida Quinto that night, first for mojitos at a sports bar called EZ bar (End Zone) where we caught a couple of IFL matches. Um, why haven't I discovered this sport earlier? It's fucking hot! After a few drinks, we went to meet the girls from the beach at a bar called Bali. First of all, don't by the all you can drink bullshit because you can drink all you want...of shit you don't want. Other than that, the bar was insane--belly dancers, cirque de soleil-esque performers working large panels of silk suspended from the high ceilings, and a space so packed that movement was near impossible. But it was all kinds of fun. Then again, after a couple of vodka red bulls and five tequila shots, what isn't fun.
cont'd.
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