Mexican Adventure, Part 1
I've never been one for beach vacations. There are countless other holiday options that pose more attractive than the prospect of spending a week in the hot sun, splayed out on the sand like a beached whale, exposing my near-translucent epidermis to the sun's unkind gaze. Having said that, I believe such a holiday to be a rite of passage for the upwardly mobile North American – just as it is standard, office cubicle procedure for said North American to have photos of such a vacation festooning one's office cubicle.
So, with my main motivator being to upgrade my office décor from motivational poster purgatory to a collage of idyllic beach shots and candid photos of me and my girlfriend sipping on fruity bowls of booze, last week we embarked on a 9-day trip to Mexico, where we'd travel through the Mayan Riviera and a good chunk of the Yucatan Peninsula.
Things got off to an inauspicious start on the night of our trip. Flights to Mexico out of Montreal had become increasingly expensive in comparison to flying there from other cities in the Northeast, so we opted to fly down to Cancun from Boston. Our flight would be at 10am, a sensible hour...if you live in Boston. We threw logic to the wind, however, and decided to drive down to Boston from Montreal at 2am on Friday night/Saturday morning, after we had both logged full days of work, a brisket dinner at my grandmother's house, and farewell drinks earlier that night.
The obvious downside to this idiotic travel plan was that, despite having the equivalent of Red Bull intravenous drips attached to both our arms, my girlfriend and I were both dangerously exhausted for most of the 5 hour ride. The upside, of course, would be a cheap flight out of Boston, and repeated moose sightings throughout our drive down. The reality of this last advantage, of course, was that there weren't any actual moose spotted, but rather the delirium of our shared fatigue had manifested itself into hallucinatory wildlife sightings. Indeed, by hour 4 of the drive, we had counted 5 moose, 2 jackalopes, and, curiously, a polar bear riding a pteradactyl. Thanks, Red Bull.
After a couple of flights and layovers, we finally landed in Cancun. From there, we cabbed to Playa del Carmen, and from there we caught the ferry over to Cozumel, where we would stay at the Park Royal all-inclusive resort.
When I think of Cancun and the surrounding beach side towns, I think of drunken Americans and Canadians, making asses of themselves in impossibly large hats. I doubted I could confirm the validity of this stereotype, as it was still the low season and the boozing gringos had not yet invaded en masse. Fortune smiled upon us, however, because as we waited for the ferry in Playa del Carmen, we did spot one not-so-elusive North American boozer: easily visible through the large, open windows of the legendary Senor Frogs nightclub, our specimen was the size of a Macy's parade-float, hoisting a colorful glass not much smaller than the telescope I received for my Bar Mitzvah, standing on a chair and singing along to the Britney Spears tune that was playing in the club; a true bon-vivant, this guy. As I watched him gyrate and air-guitar his way to glory, I knew that Brad (i decided to name him Brad) and I were on divergent paths for the night; within 2 hours I would likely be fast asleep in my hotel room, and this bro would likely be vomiting into his sombrero. Vaya con Dios, Brad.
Coming soon in Part II: tales of pool abuse and Kobe beef
So, with my main motivator being to upgrade my office décor from motivational poster purgatory to a collage of idyllic beach shots and candid photos of me and my girlfriend sipping on fruity bowls of booze, last week we embarked on a 9-day trip to Mexico, where we'd travel through the Mayan Riviera and a good chunk of the Yucatan Peninsula.
Things got off to an inauspicious start on the night of our trip. Flights to Mexico out of Montreal had become increasingly expensive in comparison to flying there from other cities in the Northeast, so we opted to fly down to Cancun from Boston. Our flight would be at 10am, a sensible hour...if you live in Boston. We threw logic to the wind, however, and decided to drive down to Boston from Montreal at 2am on Friday night/Saturday morning, after we had both logged full days of work, a brisket dinner at my grandmother's house, and farewell drinks earlier that night.
The obvious downside to this idiotic travel plan was that, despite having the equivalent of Red Bull intravenous drips attached to both our arms, my girlfriend and I were both dangerously exhausted for most of the 5 hour ride. The upside, of course, would be a cheap flight out of Boston, and repeated moose sightings throughout our drive down. The reality of this last advantage, of course, was that there weren't any actual moose spotted, but rather the delirium of our shared fatigue had manifested itself into hallucinatory wildlife sightings. Indeed, by hour 4 of the drive, we had counted 5 moose, 2 jackalopes, and, curiously, a polar bear riding a pteradactyl. Thanks, Red Bull.
After a couple of flights and layovers, we finally landed in Cancun. From there, we cabbed to Playa del Carmen, and from there we caught the ferry over to Cozumel, where we would stay at the Park Royal all-inclusive resort.
When I think of Cancun and the surrounding beach side towns, I think of drunken Americans and Canadians, making asses of themselves in impossibly large hats. I doubted I could confirm the validity of this stereotype, as it was still the low season and the boozing gringos had not yet invaded en masse. Fortune smiled upon us, however, because as we waited for the ferry in Playa del Carmen, we did spot one not-so-elusive North American boozer: easily visible through the large, open windows of the legendary Senor Frogs nightclub, our specimen was the size of a Macy's parade-float, hoisting a colorful glass not much smaller than the telescope I received for my Bar Mitzvah, standing on a chair and singing along to the Britney Spears tune that was playing in the club; a true bon-vivant, this guy. As I watched him gyrate and air-guitar his way to glory, I knew that Brad (i decided to name him Brad) and I were on divergent paths for the night; within 2 hours I would likely be fast asleep in my hotel room, and this bro would likely be vomiting into his sombrero. Vaya con Dios, Brad.
Coming soon in Part II: tales of pool abuse and Kobe beef
posted by filthy soapbox at 9:18 AM
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