I’m pretty sure my face was smashed up against the window of the plane the entire duration of our flight to Mexico. It’s not that being on a plane was a foreign concept to me. I mean, I was a flight attendant when I was 19, but going back and forth to Indianapolis 4 times a day was hardly a freeing and a globe-trotting experience.
I didn’t even want to talk, I was so caught up in my racing mind full of white sand, blue ocean and all things Mexican. However, my very still drunk and annoying AS FUCK BFF was sitting next to me, begging me to converse.
See, about 8 hours prior to us being wheels up, I was picking her ass up from a Keith Urban concert. Not only did I have to sit in traffic at the Edward Jones Dome for an hour after it let out, but I had to try to navigate the whereabouts of a very drunk woman. “I’m…I’m by the big sign. The blue one. ” She slurred into the phone. I can’t recall if some form of “eat a dick” was yelled as her valediction or not, as was standard conversational protocol with us. I realllllllly didn’t feel like driving all over St. Louis trying to find her once she got tired of waiting and decided to just start trucking it on foot to my house.
Once I finally did find her, she dove into my car, started screeching about how amazing the concert was, unwrapped and popped in a piece of gum, lit a menthol Marlboro and shoved her legs out the window. With ankles crossed over her boot laden feet, cowboy hat pulled down low over her eyes, she turned the radio to a country station and a Keith Urban song started playing. I can’t remember the exact conversation that ensued in that moment, but it was something along the lines of what Jay-Z sings about in “Forever Young”.
Though I was pissed that I wasn’t going to get much shut-eye since we had to be up in 2 hours, I looked over at her and my heart swelled. The woman sitting next to me, though intoxicated and erring on the side of hitting a last nerve…was happy.
So there we were, on the plane. I was fucking excited. Plain and simple. I’d never had a shot of tequila. I’d actually never been adult wasted before. You know, the kind of wasted where you sort of pace yourself but are still able to walk and at least bark out coherent noises as the night goes on. The kind that you’re not puking all over yourself an hour into things. Don’t get me wrong. I’d drank tons of times, but I was still in baby-ville when it came to alcohol. I was used to nights of Boone’s Farm still. So, as you can imagine, I had plenty of exploratory ideas for myself on this vacation.
“Mer, I can’t believe you just got your passport in the mail 2 days ago. You seriously do not let shit worry you man.” She said as she titled her neck back and tried to get comfortable.
“Eh, the lady said it would take 3 weeks to process. Shit always has a way of working out.”
“Yeah, but seriously, I would have been freaking out.”
“Because you are a total, control-freak spaz….We’re doing a shot of tequila the second we land.”
“Fuck that. I’m gonna take a nap.”
“No, you’re gonna pull your balls out of your vagina and do a shot of tequila. Several actually.”
“Ok, Mer. Whaaaaaatever you say.”
When we got off the plane, the hot smell of the Cancun Airport hit me in the face. Mildew infused limestone with a salty after-sniff. Seriously, that place has a one of a kind nasal assault. Suddenly a rush of adrenaline came over me and I wanted to jump out of my skin. It was fucking GO TIME.
It ended up being go time about an hour later once we got through customs, found our bags and hauled past all the perfectly ironed shirts hawking time shares and excursions.
We jumped in the van going to our resort and the extremely friendly driver sold us 2 cervzas for 5 dollars from his cooler. As he handed them to us, I pointed out the big red and white sign that clearly states no drinking in the vehicle. We clinked bottle necks and said, “Oooh, cervezzzzas.” It took about 15 minutes to get to The Royal Cancun and I loved every minute of it. There’s a stretch of road that’s nothing but lush forestry with bits of barren dirt and then all of a sudden it opens up to ocean on your right side. That my friends, is Dolphin Beach. It may be the most gorgeous sight these little eyes have seen in my 28 years. I wanted to cry. That’s how much I love the fucking ocean.
But I didn’t cry. I yelled “Cervezas!” Scaring our driver and my BFF. Oops.
We were greeted with a glass of champagne as we rolled our suitcases along the burnt orange and cream-colored marble. Huge bouquets of Birds of Paradise and Lillies sat in the center of the Lobby. I had decided in that moment I wasn’t going home. I hadn’t even really seen anything yet and I just wanted to stay there forever.
We sat down in crushed velvet wing back chairs and waited while we were checked in. “Your room will not be ready until 3, senoritas. Please leave your luggage here and go have some lunch and your bags will be waiting in your room when you’re finished” said a very Ricky Martin-esq looking man. Imagine all that with a Spanish accent too.
We grabbed our swimsuits out of our bags, left everything else at the front desk and made our way to the beach. After me basically losing my shit over the pool, and the decor, and all the damn bottles of booze I saw EVERYWHERE, we plopped down on one of the beach cabanas about 75 feet from the ocean.
I did my flying squirrel move right onto the faux leather covered mattress of the cabana and breathed a sigh of content. That lasted about 3 seconds and I shot up and said, “What’s the word for many?”
“Uh, mas, I think?”
“Cool, find a cabana boy, it’s on and poppin'”
To be continued….