We woke at 10am to housekeeping knocking on the door. I’m pretty sure they learned after that, because they didn’t bother coming back before noon for the rest of our stay.

We decided to have breakfast at our hotel, overlooking the beach. The weather was unbelievably perfect: clear skies and calm ocean.

the pool at our hotel. nice, but who needs it when you have the ocean?

Having obtained rum punches on the way out, we went to change into bathing suits and headed to the beach to swim. We spent the next three or so hours bobbing around in the ocean, attempting to bodysurf on the occasional wave, and climbing on each other in inappropriate ways. We then took up beach chairs and read, until it became clear that no matter how many times we reapplied sunscreen, we were going to keep burning if we sat in the sun. We gave it one last shot and went back to swim in the ocean for a while longer.

After showering, we decided to walk towards town, in the direction of the one cash machine we knew dispensed Jamaican dollars.

It was maybe a mile or so from our hotel along the road (there’s only one road). Cabs honked constantly as they passed, which was mostly disconcerting just because they drive on the wrong side of the street. All along the way, there are jerk and other vendors, restaurants with beckoning cooks, and guys standing around offering to sell you whatever you want. The main offering is weed, but they made sure we know that they could get us anything we wanted. We politely declined.

The downtown area is just a few blocks radiating from a central roundabout. Past that area, the road heads up into the cliffs, where the other main resort area is. There’s a Burger King and a couple other Americanized places there, but nowhere near what can be found in Montego Bay (I think they even have a Wal-Mart. Yuck).

We spotted the ScotiaBank with the ATM, but decided to wander and look for the Hi-Lo supermarket first. As we rounded the curve, a dude introduced himself as Junior and started walking with us. I asked him where the Hi-Lo was, and he told us he’d take us there. He was, after all, a guy who shows people how to get around. I had flashbacks to Johnny in the Dominican Republic. So we started following him, and I made sure I had a few bucks in my pocket to give him when we got there.

He led us a few blocks further, which involved balancing on the sea wall, stopping traffic to cross, and staring at the ground to be sure we didn’t stumble on rocks or broken concrete. There were cars rushing past, and it was far more hectic than our area on the beach. He walked us through a shopping center with several souvenir shops, and stopped in front of one to point it out: that was his friend’s shop – wouldn’t we like to go in? We told him we’d prefer to stop there after the Hi-Lo, and continued to follow him.

For the moment, I was glad Junior had attached himself to us, because we’d have never found the store without a guide. He brought us inside and grabbed a basket, and at that moment it became clear that he intended to shop with us. I took the basket from him, thanked him for his help, and told him we’d be fine. I shoved $3 in his hand and walked away.

Junior was a little distraught by that. He followed us, telling me that that was a very small amount of money in Jamaica. We knew that he’d be able to buy a couple of Red Stripes with it; it’s not like he was giving us a cab ride or anything. I apologized and kept walking; he protested to Matt for a while, and finally gave up. We were very glad to be free of Junior, and did our shopping in peace.

We still didn’t have any Jamaican cash, figuring we’d be able to get it at the Hi-Lo. After circling the store and not finding an ATM, I handed Matt the basket and told him I’d go check around outside. I didn’t find one there, either, but I did find Junior hitting Matt up again when I returned. The best part is that he didn’t remember him til I showed up; he then looked perturbed and left. Oh, Junior.

We bought our collection of Jamaican beverages (and deodorant, since that was the item I chose to forget to pack) with American money, and got change in J$. That’s pretty much how it works there: you can pay pretty much anywhere with either form of currency, but you’ll get change in Jamaican. You’ll definitely be on the short end of the exchange rate, but it’s at least convenient.

By that point, we were starving, so we followed a sign for Sunshine Pizza and headed upstairs in the mall. We found a little shop there with tables outside, placed an order for a couple of pieces of pizza and two Red Stripes, and hung out, overlooking the ocean. Perfect.

After lunch, we stopped into Junior’s friend’s shop and picked up some souvenirs, which included a few small bottles of liquor. One of them was Rum Bar Rum, which the owner told us was the strongest overproof one could find. WIN. We shoved our purchases into my string bag and threaded our way back through the deathtrap that is downtown Negril. We stopped at the ATM (which apparently has extremely long lines some days; we only waited for a few minutes), got Jamaican dollars, and were way too excited that the receipt said I had $40,000 in my account. Jamaican, of course.

We headed back toward the beach, encountering many of the same hustlers along the way. Our new favorite was Kanye, thus named because of his sunglasses. We ran into him several times over the course of the week, and were never sure exactly what he did. He appeared to be a pot-dealing cab driver. Which is par for the course in Negril, of course.

We decided to stop at Yellow Bird, because it was on my list as having happy hour before sunset. It was a few hotels down the beach from ours, near Bourbon Beach.

There’s a sign hanging in every bar in Negril that reads:

It is my intention to apply for a spirit licence to sell rum, gin, brandy and other distill spirit at the next court session in Sav. (Signed by the owner.)

Sav refers to Savannah-La-Mar. I’m pretty sure these court sessions only happen once every 20 years, because there was only one place, Rick’s, that had actually obtained this license.

Also, there were Nebraska Cornhuskers flags strung all the way around the bar. No clue.

I asked the bartender if they had happy hour, and she seemed confused by my question. I rephrased; she said yes, and brought us each a rum punch. When we ordered a second round a bit later, we got two-for-ones. Again, no clue. Regardless: rum punch, bar on the beach, thatched roof, sunset over the ocean, watching the world go by. It doesn’t get much more awesome than that.

There was an American lady lounging nearby on one of the resort’s beach chairs, being attended-to by one (and sometimes two) of the locals. Matt named her Karen from HR. She was the first in a long series of women we saw in Jamaica who were seemingly there alone, and often seen picking up locals and smoking weed. They seem to all be in their 40s, and probably the opposite of players at home. That’s pretty entertaining. I’m sure their coworkers would die of shock if they knew.

sunset from yellow bird

We watched the sunset from the beach. As we were sitting there, the shrooms guy who had hassled us the previous afternoon rushed onto the property, trailing a group of Canadians in their 20s. He was haranguing one of them for payment, but the guy apparently had no cash. He ended up getting his handful of mushrooms for free, because one of the guys at the bar came out and booted the seller after yelling at him about being on the property. The whole time we were there, that was the only seriously unpleasant hustler we ran into. And he seemingly had a reputation as such.

We headed back up the beach. After some hotel-room-based entertainment, we went off in search of dinner. It was around 7pm or so.

We decided to go back to 23/7 again, as it was already our favorite bar. This time there was a woman serving, and we instantly loved her. She commented on my tattoo, because she knew Joyce (she’d even read Finnegan’s Wake). She also recommended the steamed fish to Matt, because she’d decided she wanted to marry it. (“If you could cook fish like that, you wouldn’t need a wife!”) I ordered the callaloo sandwich, which was basically the greatest fried egg sandwich ever invented, with cheese, tomato, and callaloo on top. (It would, in fact, change my life forever: I’ve ordered seeds to grow our own amaranth plant, the basis for callaloo.) I ordered a rum punch, and she poured an extra shot of overproof on top. Matt had a shot of overproof, and a Red Stripe.

A roaming band wandered up onto the beach and started playing reggae. They passed around the magic hat for donations, and we all put in. We told the bartender we were going to head down to Bourbon Beach for the show that night, because Gregory Isaacs was supposed to be playing. (All we knew of Gregory Isaacs was his name, because Mos Def mentions him in Ms Fat Booty. But still! We knew his name!) She looked very wary, as if she didn’t believe the show was actually happening.

Regardless, we headed down that way after a while. We found a giant blue barrier around the complex (it’s one of the larger bars), and a ticket-taker at the gate. It cost $1000J, a little more than $10 US. We got wristbands, then had to buy drink tickets for some reason; it was the only place we saw that week that did it that way. It was still fairly empty, so we grabbed seats at the bar and started working our way through the tickets. I tried to convince Matt to have a shot of Teachers (the ‘scotch’ made by Appleton) neat, with a water back. He was having none of it.

The music started around 10pm. We heard the Indika Band, and enjoyed them quite a bit. In between sets, the trumpet player took a seat near Matt, and they started talking. Matt ended up buying a CD from him, because the band was awesome. By 12:30, there was absolutely no sign of Gregory Isaacs, nor had there been any mention of him. We were exhausted from the previous long day, and decided to head out. It’s entirely possibly that our bartender was right, and he may not have been there at all. That’s not uncommon in Jamaica, apparently!

On the way out, one of the hustlers on the beach asked if he could have our wristbands. We said sure and started to pull them off, but he abruptly stopped us and did it himself, to minimize the damage to them. Jamaica rules.

Tuesday, we got up and donned our bathing suits right away. Walking to the beach, though, we noticed that the ocean looked extremely rough. There was nobody swimming at the time, so we decided not to risk it. We took up beach chairs (in the shade this time, because we were both already really sunburnt) and read. We also spent a fair amount of time wondering if coconuts would fall on our heads.

Behind us was a group of three fancier hotel rooms, with decks leading out onto the beach. These and several others were occupied by a group we knew as the North Dakotans. They were older than us, with a median age of around 45 (the age group most likely to appreciate being in a place where they freely have access to weed). They seemed to have a yearly date with Negril, and they were taking advantage to the fullest. The patios were stacked with pallets of Red Stripe; not just 24-packs, but the actual plastic crates that are delivered to businesses. They also had a full bar setup, which we were very aware of due to their incredible drunkenness by 10am (which lasted all day), and the fact that they were yelling drink orders from across the beach at each other. It was impressive. Those guys know how to party like we do back home.

After a while, we wandered over to 23/7 for lunch. I had the same exact sandwich I had the night before; it’s that good. Matt had jerk chicken with rice and peas. The bartender inquired about the show, and we told her what had happened. She was not in the least bit surprised.

i want every bar’s floor to look like this.

the view from 23/7

the greatest sandwich in the known universe. i’m not kidding.

jerk chicken

After sitting around at lunch for a long time, we headed off down the beach toward Time Square. It’s actually on the road, but walking on the beach is more pleasant, even if it means you have to stop to chat with 50% more hustlers. They’re friendly, so it’s fine. Also, we wanted to see what Bourbon Beach looked like in the daytime, without the giant blue barriers.

bourbon beach, still sans gregory isaacs

We cut through a seemingly empty bar/hotel complex (which was apparently occupied, but like much of Negril, you never really know for sure) and walked out to the road to cross to Time Square. It has a giant Rolex on top, and it’s the place where you can have all your duty-free needs satisfied, particularly those related to expensive jewelry and perfume. We just wanted the ATM.

The Cool Cash machine was out of order, however. This was also not surprising, and not all that critical. We did a little shopping, and asked one of the guys in the store if he knew where another cash machine was. He said there was one at Risky Business, a hotel/bar nearby on the beach.  We walked over there, and realized it was either closed or under construction or just in really rough shape; regardless, there was actually a guy standing behind the mostly-empty bar, so we asked him about the ATM. He looked confused. Nope, there’s no ATM at Risky Business.

As far as we were able to determine by the end of our stay, there was one in town dispensing Jamaican dollars, one at Time Square that works half the time and dispenses US dollars, one somewhere up at the north end in a fancy resort, and a few cambios that are hard to find. Just so you know: it’d be easier to get a ton of cash in Montego Bay before you leave for Negril.

The ocean seemed just as rough, but there were plenty of people swimming, so we decided to risk it. We went to the room and changed, to find this:

However, there were no bath towels. In fact, for most of our stay there, we never had 2 bath towels. We’d have one if we were lucky, and sometimes none. Even when I called housekeeping, they still never showed up. It wasn’t really that big a deal, though. The place was pretty great regardless.

We fought our way into the ocean, which was a challenge against the waves. Once you got past where they were breaking near the beach, though, it wasn’t terrible. We watched a couple guys bodysurfing for real, and gave that a try. It was awesome, but you end up with a lot of water in your mouth if you’re not careful. It reminded me of the few times I’ve swallowed water while snorkeling and almost puked in the ocean.

Having worn ourselves out bodysurfing, we went to sit on the beach near the lifeguard stand. We alternated reading and sitting there staring at the ocean or giggling about something undeniably awesome. And that’s when I started to realize was was so completely great about our trip to Jamaica: we were doing hardly anything, at least in the traditional sense. If we could spend three hours a day in the ocean, and several more just sitting around at fantastic bars, restaurants, or on the beach, watching the tourists and the sunset and the ocean, it just might be the greatest trip ever. That’s such a complete novelty to me, and it was amazing.

We slowed our roll like professionals. I even started telling Matt to walk slower on the beach, because it was easier to walk in the sand at an amble.

As the sun started to hint at setting, we went to shower and change. Matt had the most creative belly button sunburn I’d ever seen. I had sand all over everything I owned. We still didn’t have bath towels, so I used a hand towel and he used one he’d brought for the beach. I smelled funny from Jamaican deodorant, and probably overproof rum. My hair was always perfect with no effort. I think that’s why I need to live near the ocean.

We went out and sat on the wall facing the ocean to watch the sunset. With Red Stripes, of course. It’s a massive faux pas to be caught without a drink in Jamaica. Also, how great is it that watching the sun set over the ocean is an important daily event in Negril? It’s never disappointing. Somehow it was even more gorgeous than in Mexico.

We decided to go back to Margaritaville, because we were low on cash, and knew they took credit cards. On the beach, one of the many hustlers we’d begun to recognize shoved the blue stick under our noses: it was weed, but the stem was actually a very dark blue. I’m pretty sure he didn’t appreciate our vast interest in it, without making a purchase. We’d just never seen anything like it before.

The booze cruise was just dumping its load of stumbling North Dakotans as we arrived, and Margaritaville was packed. Instead of a table on the beach, they put us at one of the very few they had open, near the entrance. Apparently the shuttles full of resort-goers only come to places like that a few nights a week, and that was one of them. I was distraught over the number of kids who were very obviously under 18 at the bar, drinking from yard glasses, til I realized they were special kid-yards given to the resort folks, hopefully full of pop. Also, there were some alarmingly slutty 14-year-old girls there, hanging out with local boys. Holy crap.

The DJ that had been playing crappy dance music was replaced by a Jimmy Buffett cover band. And by ‘band’, I mean ‘one-man band named Orv’. We ordered yards, which they call bongs, a highly appropriate name for Jamaica. Matt exclaimed, “I’m drinking out of a giant pink dildo with an umbrella!” Orv launched into ‘All Summer Long’, and we died a little. Of awesome, I mean.

By time time we got our food, the restaurant had started to empty; apparently the resort people don’t stay out past 8pm. They all packed into already overfull buses and headed back to Sandals or Hedonism II or wherever they were going. (That ‘dinner at 6pm, back to the hotel at 8pm’ thing was completely foreign to our vacation sensibilities. I don’t really get it.) The food was surprisingly good, at least for drunk people. I know I had some kind of pizza that I ate with Gray’s Spicy Sauce.

We got our tab so we could move outside, then grabbed our yards, and tracked down Jimmy Buffet’s love seat on the beach. Then we got to some engineering projects with all our available materials, i.e. sand. I built an ottoman, and Matt built a yard-holder so he wouldn’t have to pick up his glass to drink.

We danced in the sand to a song I’m pretty sure neither of us remember, though I suspect it was ‘No Woman, No Cry’. Before we’d left for Jamaica, we’d place bets on how often we would hear that song while we were there. I picked 7, and Matt took the over. I’ve always liked it a lot, but it was kind of a joke. Until it wasn’t toward the end of the trip, and I started crying ever time I heard it. I still do. It kills me.

We went to the bar for reggae shots. We didn’t see what exactly was in them, but the green layer is minty (creme de menthe?) and the white layer is white rum, also known as overproof. They were delicious, and we got to keep the shotglasses. Of course.

At the bar, we met a couple on the verge of falling off their seats while watching Orv. We got talking to them about god-knows-what. The male half was extremely loud, wearing a Margaritaville wifebeater, and we ended up dancing with him to ‘Me and Bobby McGee’. I also requested ‘The Boys of Summer’ from Orv, with ‘Hotel California’ as an alternative (just to drive Matt crazy, because he hates the fucking Eagles, man), but he didn’t know them. Instead, played ‘Peaceful Easy Feelin’. Not the same at all, and yet.

I’m not sure what time we left, but we managed to close down the bar again. We were just starting to figure out the pattern in Negril, and why the hell most of the bars would be completely dead by 9pm. Granted, if you were sitting there at the bar, they’d serve you all night. But you’d be there by yourselves, and that’s nowhere near as interesting.  Basically, there’s a reggae show happening somewhere every night (two places, actually: there’s one on 7 Mile Beach, and one up on the cliffs), and that’s where everyone goes around 10pm. The bars just shut down once they empty out. Strange, but kind of awesome. All you have to do is listen for the music and head that way.

So we did. Tuesday equals Alfred’s, which is a couple properties down from our hotel. Once we got near there, though, we decided to pass, because they had cover and we could hear the music from where we were: right by 23/7. Go figure! We climbed up on our bench, and even got to see one of the two guys there who knew the secret rum punch recipe and assembled it in the middle of the night. Matt got into an intense conversation with him about the week-long cricket match that was going on the whole time we were there. They seemed to be way more interested in that than futbol.

I have no idea what time we left there, but it must’ve been late. On the 250-foot walk back to our hotel, one of us fell down in the ocean. I’m not saying who, but you can probably guess.

We woke up very late on Wednesday, as expected. Then we spent three hours in the ocean, bobbing around and practicing our bodysurfing. At times, we actually got it right!

Once we decided it was time for lunch around 3 or so, we went down the beach to the patty place whose sign we could see from the ocean. They were out of veggie patties, though, so we decided to go elsewhere. We were intercepted by one of the hustlers on the beach, who convinced us to go over to ‘his’ bar, which was right next door. It’s called Arthur’s, and it bills itself as the oldest bar in Negril. I have no idea how to verify that, though.

There were a few extremely interesting locals sitting at the bar, and a guy from Sweden who had his own bottle of overproof rum sitting next to him (I love that that’s allowable at bars there). Everyone was listening very intently to the cricket match on the radio. We got rum punches and a Red Stripe from the awesome old bartender, and the vendors at the stalls next door came up to us a few times to ask us to visit them after we were done. I’d been asked a million times if I wanted my hair braided, though, and I still hadn’t been convinced. The same went for the aloe massage.

It was getting towards 4pm or so and we still hadn’t eaten. That didn’t really cross my mind, though, because I was fully in the state that seems to overtake me every time I spend a few days in the tropics: something about the combination of heat/humidity/different food/hangover/sunburn/dehydration makes me absolutely uninterested in food. Which sucks when you want to try everything there, but at least it means you can wait forever for a meal!

We walked over to Time Square to check on the status of the ATM. This time, it was actually working! We got out our American dollars, and decided what a couple of people in need of food and entertainment should do: we decided to get a cab up to Rick’s Cafe, the biggest tourist spot in Negril. It’s on the cliffs, and we knew we’d have to stop by and see it at some point.

Richard, our driver, had the most pimp cab ever. He drove us through town and up to the cliffs, dropping us right at the entrance to Rick’s, along with half the universe. That was to be expected, though: watching the sunset from Rick’s is one of the biggest traditions in Jamaica.

We wandered over to see the cliff divers first. There were a couple guys who jumped for tips, but tourists can also pay to jump off the low platform. It was highly entertaining. All the booze cruises pull up to watch, too.

I think my favorite thing was the tables in the pool. Is that the greatest idea anyone’s ever had, or what?

We wandered over to the bar, and managed to find seats on the far side. We must’ve arrived at the right time, because it filled up completely shortly after we arrived. We had quick access to the bartender and dinner (I had veggie pasta, the Jamaican default for vegetarian/rasta), and a good view of the ocean for sunset. Perfect!

our view from the bar

the negril lighthouse, seen through one of the cliff-diving platforms at rick’s

this guy’s name is spiderman!

booze cruises: wild thing was the one that dropped off at margaritaville.

The overhead system played such selections as Sexyback, the Roots (which always excites me a lot), and Morris Day and the Time (612 represent!). A reggae band started playing a bit later. Close to sunset, everybody wandered over to the west side of the patio to watch.

going…

going…

better than mexico, even.

Shortly after sunset, the place began to empty quickly. I suppose all the resort people hopped back on their buses. It was still kind of mindblowing, though: good band and a bar overlooking the ocean in Jamaica… why would you want to leave that quickly?

In addition to the standards, the band played The Gambler. As a reggae song, of course. We almost died of awesome. We took our drinks and went to sit down by the band, because we discovered COUCHES.

couches!

Once the band wrapped up, we moved to a round booth facing the ocean, and ordered a couple of appetizers. I went to the bathroom, and on the way back, one of the security guards stopped me to talk. He asked who I was there with, and I told him ‘my boyfriend.’ He said, ‘Oh, well then I won’t be rude.’ Hahaha.

After a while, we realized that apart from the staff, we were the only people there. It was probably 9:30 or 10pm at the latest. We decided to go get another cab back down to the beach, and stop at the show. Wednesday meant Roots Bamboo.

Our driver told us all about hurricanes in Jamaica, which was pretty fascinating. He dropped us right at Roots, and we went in, paid our $10, and got hand stamps. As with the other show, the place was encircled by the giant blue barrier, which made it look completely different. We got a seat at the bar, and watched the show. A little ways into it, we realized that the guy playing the trumpet was the same one who’d been playing for the Indika Band at Bourbon Beach, the one who sold Matt the CD.

I got up to go to the bathroom, and was directed out back to where the little cottages are, behind the bar/restaurant. There were 5 doors, and all of them seemed to be occupied. There was no indication about male/female, but that was rare at the beach bars anyway. Finally, an old guy emerged from the last stall. I headed that direction, and he stopped me, saying that it was only a urinal. I asked if that was why some of the doors were red and some blue, if that was a girls-boys thing. He said no, and just then, another blue door opened. A policeman walked out as I headed toward that door. Suddenly, the policeman removed his hat and hairnet, saying, “I am a woman!” She wasn’t mad, just amused at my bathroom confusion. I sat in the bathroom, laughing.

It was Matt’s turn to brave the restrooms when I got back. Approximately 2 seconds after he walked away, the guy standing near me against a pole sidled up and started talking. He asked if I was there with anyone, and I said yes. I mean, there’s no way he could’ve have noticed Matt getting up. He told me that he just wanted to let me know that I looked crisp like a biscuit.

CRISP LIKE A BISCUIT. Seriously.

We left a while later, taking the beach back to our hotel nearby. As the music was still playing, we ended up dancing on the beach. A woman approached us and kept trying to wrap her arms around us; it took me a while to realize she was a prostitute, and wanted us to take her back to the room with us. Oh, Jamaica. You’re so awesome. We, however, declined.

Unlocking our door, we noticed the tiniest lizard in the universe hanging out in the next room’s windowsill. He hid as soon as we approached, but I could see him peeking out. After that, we saw him there every night. He was so cute!

Since we’re smart and know that one should drink a lot of water after drinking, we stayed up and watched the Lakers/Golden State game on ESPN. I think that was our first contact with the outside world up to that point. We weren’t missing much.

We slept late on Thursday, then headed to swim. For the first time since we arrived, it was slightly overcast. I’d heard from several people that it rains every day in Negril, just for a few minutes at a time, but this was the first hint of it we’d even seen.

We swam for a long time, watching the ‘reggae mariachis’ on the beach and a divebombing bird. The ocean was a little colder than usual without the sun. Around 3pm, we went to change and go find some lunch.

We got a table at Alfred’s, one of the spots that had live music a few nights before. I knew I was dehydrated, because I ended up with three beverages in front of me: water, pop, and Red Stripe. I had a grilled cheese (the European kind, open-faced and toasted), salad, and fries with Grey’s Spicy Sauce. That stuff goes well with anything.

While we sat there, it started raining a tiny bit, though not enough to really soak anything. The people who were sitting in the uncovered areas eating were unbothered by it.

On the way back up the beach, we met both Captain Eveready and Captain Moses, who offered to take us out in their glass-bottom boats. We fully intended to, but their boats were never on the beach when we were around.

We sat on the beach for a long time, reading, chillaxing, and drinking rum punch. We decided that we should run to the store for our own booze, so we could watch the sun set on the patio at our hotel. We wandered out to the street and down the block to Shamrock, the little convenience store we’d passed a few times without realizing it was there. We got a bottle of overproof rum, some Pepsi and Diet Pepsi (they’re not much on Coke there, apparently), Red Stripes, and I got a cheese bun. I was maybe a little obsessed with the concept of the cheese bun, even though I didn’t know exactly what it was.

We returned to our hotel, got a table on the patio, and got to playing cards, drinking, and watching the sunset. I probably don’t have to tell you again just how awesome Jamaica is:

We played cribbage, which involved Matt drawing a picture of a marmot for reasons I know but can’t possibly explain, then we played slappy, the preferred game of drinking people. Once the sun went down, a band started setting up on stage at our hotel. We had no clue they had live music there, so that was spectacular. As the show began, we learned that it was, in fact, their first gig at the hotel. They’d be doing music twice a week from then on, for free. Look out, Bourbon Beach!

The band was Ansel and the Foxtrots. Ansel was a guy in his 60s with one arm. He was a great performer. A few songs into the set, who should wander in but the roving trumpet player? He hopped on stage and started playing with the band. We loved it.

We watched their first set, then decided it was time for dinner. We wandered over to Roots Bamboo, and were promptly seated by a very enthusiastic server, the same one we’d had our first day. He told us his name was Billy Ray, but that people called him Slick. I’m pretty sure you can’t get by in Jamaica without an awesome nickname.

Speaking of awesome nicknames, we’d spend much of our time in the ocean every day speculating about the sign in front of Roots. It advertised Money Cologne’s big birthday bash on February 25, which happened to also be Matt’s birthday. We were sadly leaving a few days prior. We even recognized some of the names on the sign, so we knew it had to be a big deal. But the most exciting part, in general, was the name Money Cologne. Best nickname ever.

I had steamed vegetables and rice, which was way better than it sounds. Matt had oxtail and broad beans. While we ate, we noticed a couple laying on top of each other near the stage, making out.

We went back to the hotel after dinner to catch the rest of Ansel and the Foxtrots’ set. They played ‘No Woman, No Cry’; that was the 6th time we’d heard it, and by then it was actually making me choke up. Seriously, you try being in an amazingly gorgeous place with the person you’re madly in love with, and see if it doesn’t make you a little sentimental, too.

The North Dakotans were in full force for the show. They’d slowly emerged from their rooms and stumbled to the beach in front of the stage. They danced and yelled and became involved in incredibly deep conversations about things they wouldn’t remember the next day. And then at the end of the show, the band broke into ‘Hot Hot Hot’. The female bartenders came out and danced at the front of the stage, and all the old people formed a conga line. IT WAS HYSTERICAL.

Matt and I left them to the conga line, and headed over to the Jungle. My research had shown that Thursday was ladies’ night at the Jungle, and therefore the most crowded. Also, free admission for me!

There were lines of pimped-out cars parked along the road, and people piling out of taxis. We got in line and Matt paid admission. Inside, he got a hand stamp, and a guy wanded him to check for weapons. The wand beeped at both his pockets; he told the guy it was his wallet and lighter, when in reality he had a pocket knife in one of them. The guy didn’t seem to care much, and waved us past.

The downstairs of the Jungle reminded me a lot of the Gay 90s. Sort of cavernous, with bars shoved in various places, and platforms that seemed to not serve much purpose. There was an aquarium with a snake in it. It was also really strange being indoors: apart from the hotel room, we were always some degree of outside.

We followed the music to the right, and saw a bartender excitedly waving us over. We got drinks, and then went to check out the dance floor. It was the typical club floor: round, with a DJ booth above it, VIP rooms on either side, and areas for people to stand and watch. There was hardly anyone in there yet (it was good to know that Negril has the same dance schedule as Minneapolis, at least), so we decided to go check out the upstairs.

We climbed a flight of stairs that had a platform halfway up. It had three couches and a giant TV. A guy was lounging there, watching sports. The upstairs is a giant patio with a bar in the center. There’s a little food stand on the left serving typical Jamaican food, particularly of the fried variety (best idea ever!), and  stage with another DJ booth. Matt and I grabbed what appeared to be the very last unoccupied table; the place wasn’t exactly crowded yet, but the rest would be standing room only.

The place filled up quickly, and the DJ started playing. It was mostly American pop/hiphop; we heard things like Hollaback Girl. It was entertaining, but nobody was really dancing at all. After a while, we decided to surrender our table and see what was going on downstairs. After a stop in the bathroom (where Matt talked to some dudes who were trying to figure out how many mushrooms one should take at a time), we made our way to the dance floor. And that was AWESOME.

They were playing much better hiphop downstairs (we called it the Annex, because of the 90s thing), stuff like 50 Cent and Walk it Out, which I only remember how to do when drunk, much like the Electric Slide. It was packed and unbelievably hot; we were drenched in sweat. I absolutely loved it. After a long time, the DJ started switching the music to more local stuff. He played a lot of dancehall, doing that thing where he’ll mix and swap stuff out every 30 seconds or so, talking over it a ton. He told us it was his birthday the next day approximately 50 times. We got kind of sick of the talking and spastic music changes, and decided to head out. We hadn’t noticed til we were walking out that it was mostly locals at that point. All the tourists had either headed out, or were still up on the patio with Gwen Stefani.

We got back to our hotel close to 3am, and settled into our routine: drinking a lot of water and watching ESPN.

Friday we slept in again, then headed straight to the ocean. The waves were fairly rough, and kept pushing us toward the south end of the beach. We drifted right past 23/7 several times.

Of course, having stared at it so often, we had to go there for lunch around 2:30. Have I mentioned how cute their little dogs are?

I had a tomato and mozzarella sandwich. I’m usually not a huge fan of tomatoes, but everything tastes different there. Mostly way more fresh. While we were sitting there, we finally got to see the owner of the bar, Jamaican John. He was from upstate New York, so that accent mixed with tinges of Jamaican was fascinating.

A group of guys came in with a bottle of Grey Goose and sat at the bar. We were pretty sure they were a band. They ordered cranberry juice, tonic, and Red Bull, and got to drinking. Some local ladies came by trying to pick them up, and eventually some of them wandered off with the girls. They were highly entertaining to watch.

After lunch, Matt and I went back over to Time Square to see if the ATM was broken. Of course it wasn’t, because it only worked every other day. We did a bunch of souvenir shopping for the people back home, and made sure to pick up some Grey’s Spicy Sauce. I knew we could find Pickapeppa at home, but I had no idea whether I’d be able to find Grey’s or not. It’s made down the road in Sav.

We ran into Junior on the side of the road. He hit us up for cash, but I don’t think he remembered us. We stopped at Shamrock again for pop and rum, and went to hang out on the patio again for sunset and drinkin’. We played cards and hung out overlooking the ocean.

Round about 7pm or so, we decided to wander back up to Margaritaville, because Matt wanted to get his parents’ souvenirs from their shop. Also: yards. You can’t go wrong.

It was fairly quiet; apparently Friday is not a resort night at Jimmy’s place. We had dinner and drinks at a table on the beach, and watched a group of guys trying to pick up a 17-year-old girl who was there with her mother. The worst part was that her mother didn’t care, and was maybe a little too slutty. After dinner, we paid our tab and went to shop for the folks. Then we grabbed seats at the bar, and commenced watching sports on their TVs, which led to the inevitable Kobe/Lebron debate. It’s our longstanding tradition.

We watched poker and British Sportscenter, while my phone updated me with hockey scores via text. It’s really difficult to get upset about your favorite Gophers getting destroyed back home while you’re sitting at a bar on the beach, drinking rum. Orsi texted plans for meeting the next day; their plane was arriving in the afternoon, and we planned to go up to the cliffs to meet them in the evening.

We headed out once the place was devoid of anyone but staff, and took off down the beach. It was surprisingly quiet for a Friday, but then it’s a place where day of the week doesn’t really matter much. We met up with a couple hustlers trying to sell weed; the old guy latched onto Matt, while the younger one managed to pull me back and ask, “who is he to you?” Man, those dudes are aggressive. It’s kind of hilarious.

Back at our room, we finally saw the tiny lizard in full view. He’s the cutest thing ever!!

One of the hotel cats also followed us back. She reminded me of my Chiva:

We decided to hang out on the patio, and do various things that resulted in a plantain-chip-throwing contest. There were roosters in the yard next door, so we were trying to give them food. This resulted in failure, of course; there were just plantain chips scattered all over the parking lot. We did prove, however, that Matt is way better at that sport than I am. We then had a long debate about what portion of cheese bun you can successfully throw, and arrived at 1/6th. It made far more sense at the time, even though I had no intention of throwing my cheese bun at all. I was saving that for later.

And the rest will be edited out for decency’s sake.

On Saturday, we got up and went to go do some bodysurfing. And finally, I took some pictures from the ocean!

our hotel from the ocean!

After we showered, we fought off the denial and went to talk to the front desk about the shuttle back to the airport the next day. He told us it would be there at 9am. We hadn’t seen anything close to 9am in a week!

We walked down to Time Square and found the ATM operational: that meant we were 2 for 4. Afterwards, Matt stopped to buy some jerk chicken from chef Michael. His whole setup was amazing:

The meal came with extra sauce and two fat pieces of white bread on top. We asked Chef Michael if he had any Red Stripe, too; he said he’d get us some, and took off across the street. He bought two beers off the vendor over there, and dashed back with them. That’s some kind of service.

We stopped at Shamrock again for more beverages, and Matt also bought a Rock Bun just for the name. Then we stopped in at Miss Sonya’s, right across the street from our hotel, for a vegetable patty. Some people we’d met the first night told us that that place was one of the best. I got that in a to-go bag, and we headed back to our patio for lunch.

Everything was amazing. Yes, even the Red Bull. But mostly the patty and Matt’s jerk chicken. And the Pickapeppa, which I want to eat on everything.

After we finished eating, we stopped back at our hotel room to drop things off. I checked my phone, and there was a text from Orsi saying that their flight was delayed, and they were stuck in Atlanta for the night. They’d be arriving in Jamaica at the same time we were leaving! That changed our plans slightly, so we decided to run some errands and then decide what we wanted to do for the evening.

As we left the hotel and stepped onto the beach, we were approached by a guy who kind of reminded me of Rick Ross. He handed us a flyer (which I still have in my journal) and introducted himself as Money Cologne. He was having a big birthday bash on Wednesday at Roots Bamboo. I glanced at his giant bling necklace, which read ‘Trevor’.

It was all we could do to not die of awesome over meeting the fabled Money Cologne. We expressed our regrets that we would be leaving the next day, and wished him a happy birthday.

We went to the store behind 23/7 to get a souvenir for Wendy. I’d been staring at it for almost a week, so we knew it had to be hers: a beach towel in sunset colors, with a naked lady on it. PERFECT. I also had to get this gloriously tacky birdfeeder carved from a coconut, and Matt got a 23/7 tshirt.  We brought our purchases to the room, and went to go get a cab up to the cliffs.

We had the driver drop us off at the Rock House, one of the places that was highly recommended. It was surprisingly empty for being a fancy resort; there were maybe five groups having dinner, and about a million servers clustered around the bar. We got a high table near the bar, and ordered cocktails. They were fantastic.

We had decided that while the cliffs were gorgeous and it was easy to go snorkeling there, we wouldn’t want to spend an entire week in that area. The beach was so easy; we spent almost three hours a day in the ocean. Also, you can walk to everything without fear of being run down by a taxi. It’s not that easy to get around on the cliffs. So maybe next time we’ll stay at the Rock House for a night or two (preferably in one of the cabanas with a whirlpool and private access to your own snorkeling area), then go down to 7 Mile Beach. It’s so appealing.

We decided to get some food, so I ordered a salad and Matt got conch. We also got plantains to share, though we did not have another throwing contest. They’d likely have frowned on that.

We watched the sunset, and then I went to get lost wandering around the place, looking for the bathroom. I’m glad I did, because I got to see some of the sea caves from above. That was amazing. I brought Matt to show him, too, and then we decided to go get our wander on.

We were in search of a bar called No Limits, which is apparently one of Kris and Orsi’s favorite spots in Negril. We were hoping we could go leave them a message or pre-order a drink for them, since they’d be there the next night. I asked one of the guys who worked at the Rock House, and he had no idea. He asked a few other guys, and none of them knew. Then he got on the phone with a friend, and that guy didn’t know. I love Jamaicans for stuff like that. They’re so awesome.

Finally, someone came up who thought he perhaps knew where it was. We’d have suspected it didn’t exist at all, were it not for Kris and the fact that a cab driver had pointed it out to us on the way back from Rick’s. We knew it was a tiny white building, and it was on the opposite side of the road from the cliffs. We were pretty sure it was to the left, as Rick’s was to the right, but the guy was convinced it was the other direction, though it was a ways from there. He directed us to walk on the other side of the street because there was approximately 1/4″ more space to move there, and so we set off.

We walked and walked and clung to the edge of the road or the grass as taxis sped past, honking. It was kind of harrying, since it was also getting dark and it was hard to see where we were going. We passed a million awesome bars and asked several people if they knew of its whereabouts, but no one was completely sure. Finally, we got to Rick’s, and we knew it had to be the other direction. Since we were tired and sweaty, though, we decided to stop at the place we’d previously noticed because of its very awesome name: the Stress-Free Beer Joint.

I have to confess that the Stress-Free Beer Joint was a little bit stressful. It was a tiny hut on the side of the road, though enthusiastically painted in Jamaican colors, with bead curtains in the entryway. The front room (in a manner of speaking, since nothing’s really indoors in Jamaica) was very dark, with a few tables and a very loud radio playing reggae. There were a couple shady-looking guys hanging out there, and we weren’t sure who actually worked at the place. A lady stood up and it became clear that we were supposed to go into the back room to order, where they had a counter set up with a vast array of beverages on display. We followed her, and asked for a couple of Red Stripes and a Lucozade.

We sat out at a table in the dark for a short time, but the creepy guys were… well, kind of creepy. We decided there was no way we were going to find No Limits, so we went out to the road to get a cab. Unlike an hour earlier when there were a million of them rushing by, it had quieted down (the crowd at Rick’s must have been long gone). We finally encountered one parked on the shoulder, and hopped in to ride back down to our hotel. The driver was awesome (his name was Mr. T!), and he told us all about the history of hurricanes in Jamaica. Basically, the really bad ones only come around once every 40 years or so, so people tend to forget about them even being an issue there. Good to know!

Ansel and the Foxtrots were playing again at our hotel, so we hung out and watched them for a while. Then, sadly, we decided to go over to 23/7 to say goodbye to our favorite bar and bartender (Kimmy, whose name we didn’t learn til that night). We watched hockey on TV at the bar, which was kind of mindblowing (re: the hockey bar we’d found in Puerto Vallarta, and the fact that Jamaica John was wearing a Canada hockey jersey). A big group of Minnesotans wandered in, obviously having just arrived (at that point, we recognized most of the tourists in the area). They had a bunch of snacks with them, including Target-brand trail mix and cheese in a can. They ordered about 10 giant pizzas, delaying our french fries order by almost an hour.

I ordered one last rum punch, and it ended up actually being the final rum punch of the night: she emptied the rest of the bottle into my glass. SIGH.

Walking back into the hotel, we saw the cat climbing out of the garbage can. We said bye to our tiny lizard, and went to hang out on the patio for a while longer. Fortunately for the hotel, we were out of plantains.

Getting up for a 9:00 bus ride in Jamaica is cruel and unusual. We hadn’t seen 9am the whole time we were there.

We finished packing, rolled our bags down to the office to check out, and waited for the shuttle. Surprisingly, it was right on time.

We made a couple stops at other resorts in Negril to pick people up, then were on our way to Montego Bay. We spend the time staring out the window, feeling slightly hungover. My cheese bun totally helped, though!

As on the way down, we saw a ton of little goats hanging out near houses that we passed. The novelty of the goats wore off very quickly, since the guy in front of us insisted on making goat noises at every single one we passed. It was funny three times, and really dumb the other hundred times.

On the way back to the airport, you don’t stop at the halfway point to use the bathroom and be hit up for weed. I guess that makes sense. I didn’t really even want a Red Stripe; it was way too early.

We arrived at the airport in Montego Bay around 10:30. There were long lines at check-in because people couldn’t figure out how to use the machines (they were the same as at home). Then there were even longer lines at immigration and security. We had plenty of time to kill, though.

The king and queen of Spain had just been there the previous day, dedicating a new portion of the airport. I wanted to take a photo of the sign, but we were too close to immigration for me to be comfortable with that. We spent most of the time eyeing people’s fashion. It was pretty spectacular people-watching.

Once we got through security, we made a bee-line for the duty-free store (I’d read several places that the shops there were cheapest, which made things very easy). We bought a couple bottles of Wray & Nephew overproof rum, some fancy Appleton, and a couple things for the folks back home. We then picked up some food at a shop (Matt got his last patty, sigh), and made a stop at the to-go counter at Margaritaville. Drinks in hand, we found chairs and had lunch.

Our flight was on time and everything! We boarded, and Matt ended up next to one of the moms we’d been ogling in the security line. She proceeded to get extremely drunk on white wine. It was pretty funny.

leaving montego bay

that’s cuba! CUBA!

miami beach (the cruise ship harbors are on the left)

matt’s rock bun

The flight was pretty uneventful, involving a lot of dozing and snickering at SkyMall.

returning to this is always hard.

We landed right on time in Minneapolis, and made it through customs without hassle (I’m always extremely paranoid about that). While waiting for Wendy to pick us up, I rolled down my convertible pants and switched from flipflops to regular shoes. Once that happens, you know vacation is over.

Dear Jamaica: we’ll be back. Count on it.

Since Wendyis the best friend ever, she picked us up before 8am on a Saturday morning and gave us a ride to the airport. It was pleasantly uncrowded, and we had plenty of time to get breakfast and food for the plane (does Northwest feed you on a 4.5 hour international flight? No, it does not). We sat by the gate, and managed to be the 2nd and 3rd last to board the plane. This was mostly intentional (who wants to sit on the plane for half an hour?), but it was kind of funny when they paged us. I apologized to the gate agent, and he said, “It’s ok, hon! Just being official!”

The flight was uneventful, and involved much giggling at Skymall, and the in-flight magazine crossword puzzle. As we were landing in Puerto Vallarta, Matt got to talking to the guy in our row, and got some good advice getting around. The people sitting in front of us overheard us telling him where we were staying, and said they were there too. We decided to share a cab.

 

 

 

We got off the plane and took the jetway right to a pair of waiting buses. We hopped on, and the buses rolled approximately 500 feet to the other side of the terminal. We hopped off, and went to wait in long lines for customs. It wasn’t too bad, except for the heat. It took me far too long to find my bag, so we asked a guy for help. He asked me to describe it, and we still couldn’t find anything. He started telling us that a lot of bags look exactly like that, and pointed to the one in front of him as an example. And, hey, it was my bag!! I appreciate the fact he didn’t smack me for that.

 

I’d read a lot about the timeshare bit in Puerto Vallarta, and knew we’d have to run a gauntlet of salespeople on the way out of the airport. Our new friends got caught up in the fracas briefly, believing they could get a cab that way. We spent some time fending off cab/shuttle attacks, and Matt and I ran to the ATM to get pesos. Finally, we escaped the airport and saw our destination: the cab stand across the highway. We dragged our bags up the incline, already gross and sweaty in the head, and descended to a waiting cab driver.

 

I asked him how much, and he said 100 pesos. Not per person like the shuttles (many of which take you to a timeshare first), but for each of us. That’s less than $2.50 apiece. SCORE.

 

We crowded into a tiny car with no air conditioning: me in the hump seat with Matt and Michelle on either side of me, and Bob in the front with one of our giant suitcases on his lap, because it didn’t fit in the trunk. We took off down a back street behind the airport, bumping over ruts and cobblestones, sometimes seeming like we were going to pull off into a dark courtyard. Instead, our driver pulled into the gas station. He had to put air in the back tires, because we were bottoming out.

 

We tore off into Puerto Vallarta, the cabbie weaving in and out of traffic, even pulling into turn lanes to go around other cars and run red lights. On the main drag, the cops waved him over to the side of the road. Matt and I were dying of amusement (and fear for the driving, obviously), but the other two were not as amused. They still weren’t convinced we’d make it to the hotel alive.

 

We arrived without incident, and went inside our hotel (the Sheraton Buganvilias) to check in. While we waited in line, Michelle noticed the pink Breast Cancer 3Day tag on my suitcase. She asked if I’d done it, and then told me that they’d been on the safety crew, riding motorcycles last year. I knewBob looked familiar!! We were thrilled.

 

The bellboy brought our bags up, and showed us around the room. It was great: we had a kitchen with everything we didn’t even need (like a blender!), an awesome Murphy bed, and a balcony overlooking a pool, with the ocean just beyond.

 

Sigh.

 

 

 

We sat on the balcony admiring the view for a while, then changed and went downstairs to see the resort. I’d chosen the place because it was one of the many options available from RCI, a voucher program that allows you to stay for a week at a timeshare. Their main goal is to get you to buy a place, but we were prepared to be on the lookout for salespeople. Oh, and I got the voucher for free from my parents, so we were there for the cost of airfare.

 

We got ourselves margaritas at the pool bar (one which I will probably remember as the best margarita of my life, mainly because of the surroundings), and toured the grounds. There was a line of beach chairs facing out toward the ocean, and a cute little cabana on a pier. There were palapas all over the beach, and flowering plants everywhere.

 

 

 

Walking around the second pool, we saw an iguana scuttling under a chair. I had no idea we’d see lizards that big in Mexico! They seemed to live by the pools.

 

 

We decided to swim in that pool, because it was far less crowded. The second we got in, I knew it was the best day ever.

 

We bobbed around the pool, and spent a long time climbing on each other. Everybody else there seemed to be in love, too, so it was the thing to do. I could’ve stayed in there forever, especially with the swim-up bar. You just give them your room number, and bam!, a margarita appears.

 

We stayed in the pool for a very long time, until it started to feel cold. Then we took up spots in our deck chairs to dry off, discussing how immensely stressed and angry we were. Then we’d sit there and laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We went back to our room to shower and change, and headed toward the Malecon as the sun began to set. We didn’t know how long a walk it’d be, but it didn’t look too far on the map. If we needed to get a cab, we could grab one anywhere.

 

We discovered it was about a mile to the Malecon, which wasn’t bad at all. We’d pass the fenced-off area next to our resort with the scary falling-down empty house (the one I discovered later wasn’t empty at all, because there were lights and noises in there), then cross the ravine, which looked shady and posed the danger of falling. Then there was the weird fenced-off yard with the mini replica of Los Arcos, and the very happy graffiti.

 

After that, the gauntlet began. There were guys standing outside half the shops along the street, trying to get you to come inside. They were timeshare salesmen, but all had some kind of cover story, like selling you tequila or getting you a tour discount. They offered cash, free meals, and free shots. It would only get annoying when they were really out in force (like when the cruise ship arrived later in the week), but otherwise we just got really used to saying, ‘no, gracias!’ while we kept walking.

 

We reached the Malecon, and walked along it for a while, looking at the statues and the sand sculptures. It wasn’t super-crowded yet, but would get to be so later at night. Also, walking on the Malecon side meant avoiding the timeshare dudes in all the shops across the street.

 

 

 

 

We were in search of dinner somewhere overlooking the Malecon and the ocean, and La Chata seemed perfect. The server took us upstairs and got us a table along the balcony, where we could watch the sun set.

 

We ordered the house drink, and were very surprised when the waiter showed up with a couple of soup bowls. Then we realized that wasthe house drink. Hell yes!

 

We had an awesome dinner, and watched the sun set over the ocean. It was amazing. So was the atmosphere in the restaurant, with mariachis singing and dancing, and parties going on around us.

 

 

We were more than a little tipsy when we left, both of us unable to finish our second drink.

 

We took off down the Malecon, partly to see the sights, and also to find another bar to hang out in. The bars all had people standing at the entrances trying to pull people in; we successfully avoided a bunch of them, but one bar caught our attention. It was named ZOO, and the place was loud, wide-open, and had a dance floor in the back. We made a mental note and kept going.

 

A few blocks down, we ran into Bob and Michelle, who were out doing the same thing. We decided to go back to ZOO together. Walking in, they told us it was ladies’ night, but it took us a very long time to figure out what that meant. What we were able to determine was that everyone got 2-for-1s, and ladies got free margaritas. I think that’s how it worked, at least. We really had no idea.

 

The girls at the next table were going tequila shots, and this involved a highly elaborate setup. There was a snifter of 151, pineapple, and cinnamon dropped from above and set on fire so it seared the fruit. It was kind of spectacular. There was also a pair of shot girls wandering around blowing whistles, and the tequila shots were 2-for-1 as well. Of course we had to try them, so Matt and I paid our 40 pesos and got ready. They poured the shots and dumped them down our throats, then grabbed our heads and shook them back and forth. They pinched our foreheads, our noses, and one grabbed my boobs while the other pinched Matt’s nipples. And now every time I hear whistles blowing, I don’t know whether to be really excited or run away.

 

Also, we heard ‘Push It’. Just like we were at the 90s.

 

Bob and Michelle left a bit before we did. I have no idea what time we left, but we quickly discovered that the mile-long walk back to the resort was one of the best ideas ever. There were drunk people all over the street, thronging around Oxxos (the convenience store like 7-11, of which there were three on our walk back). We found one we could actually go inside instead of just ordered through the window, and got water and Nescafe to make coffee in the morning.

 

As we got to the ravine, we saw a scary-looking figure standing there, wearing all black. We were kind of concerned until we realized he was a cop, guarding the area on a Saturday night. Good idea, dudes. We made it back to the hotel safely, and, um, you can probably guess the rest.

We got up Sunday morning and headed to MARIACHI BRUNCH at our hotel. It was expensive, but I figured it’d be worth it for a big Mexican buffet and unlimited champagne.

Make that ‘the largest Mexican buffet on earth’. We were amazed. They had so many different stations, it was hard to keep track of where everything was. They had every kind of traditional breakfast food, and a huge array of traditional stuff. It was all excellent. We tried things like a pumpkin flower crepe, pozole, tamales, tacos al pastor, enchiladas, and platanos, among other things. We also made our own mimosas with pineapple juice.

The funny thing, though, is that our appetites were already disappearing. We didn’t really eat that much, just tried a lot. The heat and sun was a big part of that, I think.

pastry swan! Matt ate his head.

After brunch, we headed to the pool for what felt like hours. We went to the other one this time, the one with the hot tub and waterfalls. And a bar, of course. We had margaritas and bobbed around for a long time. It didn’t take us long to figure out that this was the most appropriate way of dealing with the midday sun.

a big iguana came up and licked my lime.

We finally left the pool after lounging on chairs for a while. We’d pretty much lost all sense of time by then, which was absolutely excellent. We changed and headed back toward the Malecon.

puerto vallarta from the front of our hotel

the ‘ravine’: kind of scary at night.

Right as we turned the corner to the Malecon, we encountered Bob and Michelle. Michelle was staggering and giggling. They’d found a bar, and learned all about tequila that day. She kept yelling, “FUCK IT!” It was hysterical. Bob was dragging her back to the hotel for a nap.

At the north end of the Malecon, we went down to the beach to put our feet in the ocean. While we were standing there, we realized it was the exact view we were used to seeing from the Puerto Vallarta webcam! It must be located on top of the Hotel Rosita.

beach along the Malecon

Hotel Rosita: the oldest in PV (with webcam!)

la nostalgia

We walked down the length of the Malecon, checking out all the sculptures along the way. There were also two guys building gigantic sand sculptures.

’twas mothers day. this was lit with a novena at night.

part of the rotunda of the sea

in search of reason

Matt, in search of reason!

the sea horse, symbol of PV

cathedral of our lady of guadalupe

The cathedral is amazing, especially the metalwork on the top (and the fact that it’s lit in neon at night). Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to photograph, because it’s at the end of a very narrow street.

We walked all the way down to the end of the Malecon. The last part is a little different; it’s a big plaza with a bunch of tiny shops. The people there don’t harass you as much to buy timeshares as they do to buy jewelry, tequila, and handmade stuff.

We were dying of thirst, so we stopped into a little cafe for bottles of water. The guy there was wearing a Messi jersey, so Matt started referring to him as such. He told us to stop back after dark, because the place converted to a bar, and we could get anything we wanted. This ‘anything you want’ offer was fairly popular in Puerto Vallarta! We figured it probably included hookers and drugs, but wondered what else? Endangered species? Children on the black market? Nuclear weapons?? I kind of wanted to go back.

At the end of the Malecon, we crossed the bridge to Old Town, or the Zona Romantica. (I’d been offering to show Matt my Zona Romantica the whole time we were there. And maybe for a couple months beforehand, when I learned of it.) There were a ton of kids swimming in the Cuale River, right where it emptied into the ocean. It looked really gross, but at least there was no surf.

We turned off the street and walked down along the beach. There was a walkway part of the way, then a boardwalk. It was all older resorts, bars and restaurants, and packed-full beaches.

my idea of perfect.

along playa los muertos

the pier where you get the water taxi to yelapa.

playa los muertos

We were worn out from all the walking in the sun, and surely dehydrated at that point. We decided it was time to find food, so we headed up the street into the Zona Romantica to see what we’d find. Right as we turned off the beach, a dog joined us. He was wearing a collar but appeared to be stray, and he was most definitely a boy.

As we walked up the hill, he took the lead. We kept following for no good reason, and finally he led us here:

It was an abandoned bar, chained shut and in disarray. We decided that it probably should be ours. Stanky the dog led us right to it, after all. I should mention that it’s pretty much become our dream to own a bar in a tropical place. We’d be awesome at it.

We walked a few blocks through the Zona Romantica and saw several restaurants, but none were as appealing as the ones on the beach. I stopped for another bottle of water, and we headed back to the Bar Los Burros, the one with the sign daring us to come in, and a board advertising 2-for-1s starting very soon.

best chips ever

We sat there for a very long time, having margaritas, followed by 2-for-1 cuba libres. We shared a small plate of nachos, because we were decidedly not very hungry at all, but knew we should eat. Also, all the food we encountered in Mexico was excellent: everything was fresh and well-made.

A band called Dub Stylee was playing, and the lead singer looked exactly as if he could be Sammy Hagar’s son. They played reggae and classic rock, and had a constant battle-of-the-bands going on with the mariachis at the restaurant next door.

We finally read the history of the place on the back of the menu, and it mentioned their very popular burro. We looked and looked, and couldn’t see a burro everywhere. The place was completely open, so where could he be hiding?

Matt asked our server the next time he came around. He very apologetically informed us:

Our spirits were not dampened by the dead burro, however. We were drinking margaritas with our feet in the sand on a Mexican beach, and we were about to see another sunset. It doesn’t get much better than that.

beach lovin’

At a table near us, there was a family with two little kids having dinner. They were drinking a blue beverage in a bottle called C-ICE that we had to assume was pop, because the kids were drinking it, too. Matt suspected it was probably alcoholic, however.

The only downside to sitting on the beach was the vendors that came up to all of us constantly, asking us to buy stuff. We were already pretty accomplished at ‘no, gracias’, so it wasn’t a huge problem, but there were many of them. I did a really good job of not even looking at their wares until a little kid came up and held out a tacky bobbling sea turtle magnet and offered it to us. For the life of me, I could not determine the child’s gender AT ALL. I ended up buying the sea turtle, and his/her persistence paid off. Man, that kind of killed me.

mariachis

There was a strange lady sitting at a table near us, and she seemed to somehow be associated to the little kids selling stuff. She also knew the head waiter, because he came over and talked to her a lot. After a while, she came and introduced herself to us. Her name was America (seriously!), and the waiter was her husband. We talked, and finally she asked to take our picture on her cellphone. She asked our names so she could label it; after some confusion, she ended up with ‘Mateo y Yeni’. So awesome.

After 2-for-1s ended and I had gone to the bathroom in the weird building housing Burros’ kitchen approximately seven times (ok, twice), we decided to head back towards the Malecon.

There was a band playing on the stage in front of Los Arcos. (I only cursed that stage a few times, because it blocked the view of the most well-known statue on the Malecon. Still, the shows there every night were awesome.) We watched some Mexican hip-hop for a while, then headed up the street to check out the bar selection.

A few blocks up, we saw the No Name Bar. We’d passed it a couple times already and hadn’t thought much of it, but we’d been walking on the Malecon side of the street. As we approached it, we very slowly realized what it was about: it was a HOCKEY BAR. A HOCKEY BAR IN MEXICO.

After we both died of excitement twice, we went in and got a table. Before the trip, I’d asked Cindi to keep me updated on the progress of the Stanley Cup playoffs, and I was sad about missing them. Not sad enough to not go to Mexico then, but still. All of a sudden, everything was resolved. I wanted to stay there forever.

We bought ‘Hockey Night in Puerto Vallarta’ tshirts that were a parody of the Hockey Night in Canada logo. Then we ordered food that we ate very, very little of, and of course had beverages. They had a house drink that I remember very little of, except that it was deadly. We saw hockey, and then part of the Twins game, which was kind of mindblowing. I asked Matt the same question over and over again. That’s probably when he figured it was time to go.

We headed back toward our hotel. Along the way, I detailed my plan to keep people from killing us at the ravine, should the cop not be standing there this time. It involved singing (‘One More Time’, a track I’ve danced to in the annex at the Gay 90s too many times to count, and heard blasting from a bar along the Malecon) and dancing and generally acting drunk. Nobody would rob or murder a drunk person, right? That’s unpossible!

We stopped into our favorite Oxxo (now dubbed ‘Oxxo Medio’ because it was the middle one) for pop and water, and there in the case was C-ICE. It was indeed a vodka-based beverage. Matt purchased one, because how could he not? We made it back to our hotel with no incident, though I was slightly disappointed about not being able to pull out my mad dance maneuvers. Maybe next time.

Monday, we set out to find out about dune buggy tours. We had a general idea of what we wanted, but the prices were variable, and we had to figure out where to go to get them. We asked at the hotel’s excursion desk, and she told us it was $100, but she could get us a discount if we went to the stupid timeshare presentation. We ducked out posthaste.

We headed up toward the marina area, without a clue about how far it was, or what there really was to see there. We just figured we’d go and see what we saw along the way. We stopped into a grocery store to buy water so we didn’t die of heat, and headed northward.

Matt and the giant futbol

A ways up the road, we saw a little kiosk full of excursion info. A lady called to us from inside, so we decided to go check it out. We asked about dune buggies, and she had 2 tours. One of them was 800 pesos (a little less than $80) for the both of us, was four hours long, started at 2pm, and took us to a tequila factory. We didn’t even have to go see timeshares. SOLD.

She called to make reservations, and told us we’d need our drivers licenses. They were in the safe at the hotel, but we had plenty of time to walk back to get them. We took the brochure and receipt, and headed back toward the grocery store .

We were wandering around the giant market ogling things and generally being amused when I realized that it was close to noon and I wasn’t hungry at all. That was unusual, because I’m on a pretty regular schedule as far as meals. We decided to find food there to bring back with us. I looked at everything they had to offer, and nothing looked good at all. I finally picked out some crunchy toast, for reasons I’m not even clear on. All I know is I was quickly feeling worse and worse; I was shaky, dizzy, and confused. I figured I needed food, but I didn’t want to eat at all.

We checked out and went to the little deli area where they had hot food. I was hoping they’d have something vegetarian, but they didn’t. We sat at a table while Matt ate a sandwich and I drank my water as quickly as possible. I then ate bites of toast, forcing myself to not throw up. It sucked a lot, mostly because I didn’t know what was wrong.

I finally felt OK enough to walk back to the hotel, so we headed that way. In the room, I drank more water and tried to eat. I laid down and realized there was no way I’d be able to get on a dune buggy in an hour. I was pretty convinced I was going to die. Heroically, Matt called the PANTHERS OF THE JUNGLE and had a conversation with them completely in Spanish, because the guy didn’t speak English. He asked if we could change our reservations to the next day, and they said yes. That’s what he was hoping happened, at least!

I tried to nap, and ended up laying there delirious for an hour or so. Eventually I felt well enough to stand up, so I went and sat on the patio with water and trail mix. It was in the mid-80s outside, but I was freezing cold from chills. It was freaking me out a lot.

I started to feel better around 2:30, so we decided to go downstairs, sit near the ocean, and drink some more water. We got beach chairs and hung out for a while, and then decided food was probably a good idea, since I hadn’t had very much of it in the last 24 hours. I really had no urge to eat at all, and the thought of it made me want to gag.

We wandered around the hotel, and couldn’t find anything open. It was siesta time, so most of the shops were closed. We finally realized they served food at the beach bar, so we ordered from there. Matt got tacos al pastor, and I got a cheese pizza. I didn’t care what I ate at that point, I just mostly wanted to start feeling normal again. Being sick on vacation sucks, especially when it prevents you from doing things.

even the hotel food was amazing!

I felt more human after eating some pizza, so we decided to go for a swim. We tried the beach, but the ocean was really rough, and the beach in that area was mostly pebbles. Since we had two perfect pools at the resort, we went for that instead.

Once the sun started to go down around 7:30, we went back to the room for a personal siesta. Then we sat on the balcony, watching the sun set, and Matt decided it was time to try C-ICE. I think he liked it!

After dark, we headed downtown with one destination in mind. Well, after some souvenir shopping for the folks back home, some free tequila shots from a guy who thought he’d sell us a non-timeshare (the dudes who worked there bet a bottle of water on whether Matt was British or not, because he’s perhaps a little pasty white and was wearing a soccer jersey), and after a taxi driver offered him a cab ride, weed, cocaine and pills. I love Mexico.

Also, Matt had to make sure I was feeling up to it. Señor Frog’s? It’s a commitment!

The place was pretty empty when we arrived; there were only a few tables full of people who looked like they’d been there all night. I noticed that at one of them, they were all trashed on Coors Light: the taste of the Rockies. In Mexico? At Señor Frog’s, home of the yard? I guess whatever works.

I still wasn’t hungry, so we ordered The Best Chips and Salsa in the World (that’s what it’s called on their menu, and I have to admit it was spectacular; they even made it at the table), some soup that came with many sides, and some very, very tall beverages. Thankfully, you could get anything in a yard, so I had Cuba Libres, which didn’t make my stomach sad. The balloon artist guy came by and talked to us in very broken English about tattoos and sex; we didn’t understand half of what he said, but he was still hilarious.

Shortly after our drinks arrived, the announcer guy (who was the Mexican version of Pepe from our cruise, so we loved him) got up on a table and announced that we’d be playing music trivia. They’d play short clips from TV shows, and whoever yelled ‘Señor Frogs!’ and answered correctly first would get a free shot. We also had to announce where we were all from, so we were excited to learn that there were other Minnesotans in the house, as well as some Iowans. The Coors folks were from North Carolina.

Matt won one of the rounds, and after a while, they ended up giving the rest of the bottle to the North Carolina people. That was probably a bad idea. Also, Matt did a bacon shot with the little cup of toppings I hadn’t used in my soup.

When the DJ got the music going, and we heard some of our favorite and not-so-favorite hits such as ‘Don’t you Wish your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me’, ‘Get Low’, and ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’, Soulja Boy, and ‘Baby Got Back’. They got people up on stage to dance the Electric Slide, and I kept telling Matt that they had to play the Cupid Shuffle. And then they did, so we danced right at our table.

We almost died when they played ‘Lean Like a Cholo’, which we’d seen on MTV Tres only a few weeks before. On my way to the bathroom, I decided I should see if the DJ took requests. I stopped into the booth while both he and the MC were there, and asked if he could play ‘Rompe’. He looked so shocked that I said, ‘Do you have Daddy Yankee?’ It turns out he was so floored at a white chick asking for reggaeton that he didn’t know what to think. Ha!

The MC said, ‘I hate reggaeton!’ and the DJ told me to ignore him because he was crazy. Once they started playing ‘Rompe’, the MC came up to our table to try to get me to sing it (no thanks!), and tried to explain why he hated reggaeton. It was something to do with how it was more dance music, I think. I asked him what he listened to, and he said American rap. We got into a long discussion about how they don’t really have a big hiphop scene in Mexico. I found that hard to believe, because there’s so much of it focused in the Caribbean.

A huge wedding party from Alberta came in, so they got them all dancing. They held a drinking contest up on stage, and the MC told one of the ladies if she didn’t come up to play, he was going to get Mrs. Reggaeton instead. I almost died. Best title ever!

Right as we were about to leave for the night, we caught a glimpse of Bob and Michelle on the other side of the dance floor. Oh, Señor Frog’s! Everybody loves it. Not just because they gave us free shots before we left with our six yard glasses, either.

Back at the hotel, we found Pancetta the cat waiting for us at the car rental desk. We spent a lot time sitting on the balcony giggling, and then went to bed.

Tuesday morning, I felt somewhat better than the day before. My stomach was still pretty unhappy, but I didn’t want to die or anything. We decided to follow what we had realized was the best plan for the Mexican summer: spend the hot hours relaxing in the pool, and wait til it was cooler to go out.

Unfortunately, we could only spend about an hour in there, because we had a date with dune buggies. Still, it was very good; we also ran into Bob and Michelle in the hot tub, so we sat there talking to them for a long time.

For lunch, we hit up a place right across the street called 100% Natural. They had a ton of vegetarian stuff on the menu, and it was hard to decide what to get. Everything looked amazing. I had a sort of quesadilla sammich, and Matt’s lunch involved a Mexican smoothie.

After eating, we headed back up to the same area we’d visited the previous day, in the direction of the marina. It was even hotter than the previous day, and we were extremely warm by the time we reached the offices of THE PANTHERS OF THE JUNGLE. And by ‘offices’, I mean a dirt lot full of assorted vehicles, and a hut-like building on stilts.

There was already a crowd standing around when we got there, trying to fill out paperwork and put down their deposits in the most confused and disorganized way possible. Over the course of the day, we learned that this group of nine was part of a larger wedding party (the bride and groom were among them, but I never determined which couple it was), and they were from the Vancouver area. They were all in their very early twenties, and obviously didn’t travel much. They were intensely suspicious of the company’s motives (so making their $200-per-vehicle deposit soon turned into a gigantic catastrophe), and argued with the staff and each other about everything. Regardless, they were very amusing.

We stood around far too long in the heat, and finally got to the point of claiming our dune buggies. Several of them had pedals or fluid canisters that had been replaced with beer cans; ours didn’t have a gas pedal, but a lever with a bolt through it. I was concerned about my ability to reach the clutch and the steering wheel til they gave me a booster seat. We got goggles and bandanas to wear over our faces on the dirt roads, but obviously didn’t need helmets; we had a roll cage, after all.

They started up the dune buggies for us, and the only instruction we really got was that the engines were from old VW Beetles, so that’s how we should drive them. I really did NOT want to have to drive that thing on city streets without any familiarity with it, but I had no choice—Matt doesn’t drive a stick, and we had nowhere to practice. So, off we went, with me not-so-quietly panicking about Mexican traffic.

We got about three blocks and stalled on the side of the road. The guides in the back got us running again, and we caught up with the group. I figured we’d maybe go a little ways through the less-busy parts of Puerto Vallarta and out into the mountains, but that was not to be: next thing I knew, we were turning onto the highway that skirts the town. I considered maybe pulling over and refusing to go on, but I was in a dune buggy parade with a bunch of Canadian kids, and if they could do it, so could we. Well, except for the ones who stalled right on the highway and had to be pushed to get going again.

After a mile or so, I felt better about it, and figured that was the hardest we’d really have to do. Until we headed into a tunnel through the mountains. HOLY CRAP.

On the other side of the tunnel, though, we got to pull off the highway and head off onto dusty cobblestone streets through cute villages. That, I could handle, and they were obviously used to the tours going through there a few times a day.

Past the little town, we turned off onto a dirt road and headed into the Sierra Madres, following the Cuale River. The dune buggies were a little hard to control on tight corners, but it was still far easier to drive them there than on city streets. One of the Canadians a few cars ahead of us stalled, so we all lined up to push them, with the guides in the back behind us. We’d all get rolling in 2nd gear, and the stalled vehicle would be able to pop the clutch and be on the way away. That seemed to happen a lot.

Matt: either riding in a dune buggy, or overthrowing your government.

Because of the delay, our group of three dune buggies was a ways behind the rest of the group. The guy in front was obviously just following the trail of dust down the paths, which was occasionally tricky. I noticed that the one we were on was suddenly getting really steep, and as we turned a corner, we saw two of them stuck at the top of a hill, trying to turn around. We stopped fast, stuck on a steep incline, and I jammed my foot down as hard as I could, because the brakes obviously sucked. We started rolling backwards a little, toward the edge of the dropoff, and then our dune buggy stalled. Right at that moment, I was officially terrified of dying in the mountains in Mexico.

It turns out that the Canadians had led us astray; they’d taken a wrong turn up this hill, and only realized it at the top. We all had to turn our dune buggies around, but there was hardly any room to do so. There was no way we were getting ours restarted, the guides were nowhere in sight, and I couldn’t take my foot off the brake because we’d roll backwards down the hill, possibly on the most direct downward path. Finally, the two guides came running up the hill on foot (I have no idea how they managed that in the heat). They helped the Canadians turn around, then took over our dune buggy to turn it around. I really did NOT want to even drive down the hill, but they said I had to. I put it in neutral and just rolled it the whole way.

It was really funny in retrospect. Not so much at the time, though.

Back on the correct, far less steep, path. They took us to a little oasis in the jungle. They had pools formed by the waterfall there, and a little building with a bar, some tables, and a lady selling crafts. I just wanted a pop and some water right then after our life-threatening adventure, but then upon consuming that, decided that what I really wanted was a drink.

Some of the Canadians went swimming in the pools, which looked really awesome, but we didn’t have bathing suits with us. We got talking to a few of them about hockey, and then they were our pals. They were the kind of dudes you’d want to punch in a bar, but there in the middle of nowhere in the mountains, they were pretty awesome.

Next to the bar, they had a big cage containing a disturbingly-large snake. The guy behind the bar said he’d just come across it in the jungle, and caught it by stepping on it right behind the head. He told us it wasn’t poisonous, but would still bite. A couple of the Canadian guys (not surprisingly, the ones who thought they were manliest) were practically having fits, they were so scared of the snake.

The little dog had invented a game, though: he’d hover near the snake’s cage and wait for it to start hissing at him, and then he’d start barking his head off. It was hysterical.

We went back to our dune buggies, and something about the Cuba Libre I’d just had made it all seem a lot easier. We rolled back down the hill, out of the jungle, and into the little town we’d driven through before. Our next stop was a tequila factory!

The tequila factory was more a shop than a factory (at least as far as we could see), but that didn’t bother us any. They made sure we stopped at the bar first (margarita time!), then one of the employees explained how tequila was made. We did actually learn a lot about mezcal and the meaning of the different categories of tequila.

After that, we headed into the shop for samples. They passed around small shots of several different offerings, all of them awesome, and even taught the Canadians our new favorite toast: arriba! abajo! al centro! aldentro! (Because Matt is awesome, he had come prepared with that knowledge.)

In the shop, we managed to find the last two sampler packs they had on hand. Each box contained six small bottles of the tequila made at that site, two each of the blanco, reposado, and añejo. The Canadians were stuck buying big bottles of tequila, not even necessarily the stuff made locally. The guides packed up all our purchases and loaded them onto their dune buggies, thankfully. We hopped back into our vehicles, now all sufficiently tipsy, and headed back toward Puerto Vallarta.

I’m not going to advocate this anywhere else, but drunk driving is the way to go when you’re in a dune buggy in Mexico. Seriously. It’s far easier to drive. I think I only stalled our crappy engine once after that.

We drove up to an overlook on a mountain, and could see the Zona Romantica, the Cuale River, and the rest of Puerto Vallarta along the coast beyond that. They took some cheesy photos of us, and we headed back into town. I had lost any sense of where we were at that point, figuring we were somewhere in Old Town. We pulled up to a restaurant, where they told us we could get drinks and dinner, if we wished.

The restaurant also had a swimming pool, and showers and towels for people wishing to use it. So awesome. We still weren’t hungry (both of us seemed at least somewhat affected by the sickness, which we’d decided had to do with a combination of dehydration, heat, and something I’d eaten), so we ordered chips and drinks. The Canadians ordered a 50-person margarita (or so it seemed), and hamburgers. Oh, silly Canadians.

While they swam and ate, we hit up the jukebox. They of course had Daddy Yankee, and a bunch of American hip-hop.

After everybody paid up, we headed back toward our starting point. As we turned a corner past the restaurant, we realized where we were: it was located on the other side of the sports stadium from our resort. We all hopped onto the main drag right in front of the Sheraton, and Matt and I were thrilled. We all raced down the road, even keeping pace with the crazy taxis. So much fun.

We dropped off our dune buggies, said bye to the Canadians, and headed back toward our hotel. We were sunburnt and filthy, covered in sweat and dust. Also, we were carrying some awesome tequila, and we’d survived a near-death experience in the mountains. WIN.

After a very long shower, we got dressed again, drank a ton of water (I was convinced at various points that I might die of dehydration), and headed toward the Malecon in search of dinner. We were planning on walking all the way back to the Zona Romantica to check out some of the stuff off the beach, but couldn’t even make it that far. We found a really awesome-looking rooftop restaurant near Los Arcos that overlooked the plaza, called Chilaquiles. The menu looked good, so we decided to give it a try.

The food was indeed excellent, but the service was extremely strange. Our server spoke no English, so it took a while to figure out the part about them not having an actual bar. (They did have margaritas, thankfully.) I had cheese enchiladas with the best mole ever, and Matt had tortilla soup and masa cakes. It took forever to get our tab, but I was ok sitting there for a while… I’d started to feel really crappy again, and walking took a lot of effort.

We headed back up the street to the No Name, and grabbed seats at the bar to watch sports. We saw one of the NBA playoff games, and a ton of hockey highlights. I was very happy with that, because it was oddly comforting to someone who wasn’t feeling well. It was just like home, after all!

Wednesday morning, we had to be up and checked out by 10am. SIGH. Technically we had the room for a week, but work needed us.

We stashed our bags at the hotel, and walked down to the Malecon to do some more souvenir shopping. It seemed like each day had gotten hotter, or maybe it’s because we weren’t in the pool; all I know is I’m not accustomed to having sweat dripping down the back of my pants. We even stopped at Vallarta Mart (the PV equivalent of Cozumel Mart, so of course we had to visit) twice for water.

We found one really awesome shop a block or so off the Malecon, called Querubines. I ended up doing most of my non-tacky souvenir shopping there. We then rushed off in search of a bathroom, because, well, I still wasn’t really done being sick.

As on most vacations, Starbucks was there to provide us with relatively clean restrooms. And while ordinarily I’d avoid visiting an American company in Mexico, they also had caffeine and food that I didn’t want to eat, but knew I should. We sat and enjoyed the air conditioning for a while.

We walked down to the bridge to the Zona Romantica, then slowly headed back up the Malecon. I realized that wearing my Canada hockey t-shirt wasn’t the best choice; while no one but the locals could escape the timeshare harangue, they seemed to take particular interest in Canadians. A few guys had asked us where we were from in the US, but everyone wanted to know were we lived in Canada. Half of them seemed to not want to believe me about being America. What’s the deal with Canadians in Puerto Vallarta, anyway? Is it just easy to get to from the west coast?

It was so hot, and we were so run-down from dehydration and the sickness, that we had to find a bench in the shade and sit down for a while. I finished what seemed like my 10th bottle of water that morning. After a while, we got up and headed the rest of the way back to the hotel.

our favorite: oxxo medio!!

We got our bags, and they called us a cab. (Note: cabs from the hotel are the regular 100 pesos; you don’t have to deal with the timeshare crap on the way out, obviously.) The taxi driver scared the hell out of us on the way to the airport, but thankfully didn’t get pulled over by the cops this time. Driving past the marina area, we realized that 1) we never could’ve walked there and back, and 2) we were really glad we hadn’t stayed in that area. You’d have to take a bus or cab everywhere.

‘MINEAPOLIS’

At the airport, they searched our bags in a very cursory way at the check-in desk, and we headed upstairs, expecting to go through security. Apparently we already had, though, because that was it. We did some shopping and food-gathering, preparing for another flight sans meal (thanks, Northwest!).

I had a bottle of water and a pop, and only once we went to board, learned that they were confiscating liquids. What the hell? The guy missed my bottle of pop, though, so I at least got to bring that with me.

The flight back was uneventful, and thankfully almost an hour shorter than the trip down; it’s hard to occupy yourself when you’ve already read Skymall. The plane wasn’t very full, so we got a whole row to ourselves.

Wendy picked us up at the airport, and we found out that in the 5 days we’d been away, she’d gone and fallen in love. WHAT?

Cruises are the only time I’m happy to see the sun rise.

key west

We had breakfast on the deck, and I got to have gruel for the first of, well, six other times. We hopped off the boat and piled into the Bone Island Shuttle (*snort*). I think we were the only people in a good mood; there were some severely crabby old ladies on there with us. How can you be mad about being in a warm place in January?

The shuttle dropped us off in Mallory Square, which is the ultratacky part of town where the main cruise dock is located. It was only 8am on a Sunday, so little was open. This was fine with us, because we intended to do all of our sightseeing first thing, and then explore the local scene. By which we meant the bars. Key West is well-known for that particular industry.

We headed off down Whitehead Street, which parallels Duval.

the mile zero marker on US route 1. matt’s making fun of parrotheads.

‘
the kapok tree

COCK

There are wild chickens all over Key West (as well as cats; feel free to make the same jokes we did), so you hear roosters crowing constantly. I love that.

bahama village: it definitely looks like the bahamas.

hemingway house (we didn’t want to pay admission!)

i want to live here.

wendy, blending

At the end of Whitehead Street, you come to the marker denoting the southernmost point in the continental United States. From there, it’s 90 miles to Cuba. I just needed to see it because I’ve been to the actual southermost point in the U.S., on the Big Island of Hawaii.

southermost is a big deal in key west, apparently.

We walked back down Duval Street, and businesses were starting to think about opening. We stopped into a convenience store for water, because it was kind of ridiculously hot already. I was regretting my decision to wear a long-sleeved shirt that day, having assumed it’d be the least-warm stop we’d make on the cruise. It was in the mid-80s, but sunny and humid.

We also stopped for iced coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts (an establishment we sadly cannot enjoy in Minneapolis; the nearest are in Chicago), and Matt and Wendy posed by their ‘family tree’. I’d explain, but it’s a long story. Also, Wendy has a hard time trying to look badass, and just starts laughing.

We walked all the way back down to Mallory Square, scouting the places we wanted to visit later. We passed Sunset Pier, where the bartender appeared to be setting up, and asked when they opened. She said they were serving food already, but that they weren’t allowed to pour liquor in Key West until noon on Sundays. We told her we’d be back.

We sat on the pier watching the pelicans and sailboats for a while, and I called my mom to tell her she shouldn’t panic over not hearing from me for another week, because we’d be out of the U.S.. We then went over to the Sponge Market to stock up on all the necessary souvenirs, including my obligatory Christmas ornament, in the shape of the southernmost point marker.

On the way back to the oceanfront, we wandered through a garden full of statues, and Wendy and Matt had to have Superbad moments. BOOP!

matt and hemingway

disney ship: we quickly learned that local businesses hate disney passengers. duh.

At five minutes to noon, we got ourselves a table at Sunset Pier. There were already several people waiting there for the bar to open.

We ordered brunch (by which I mean nachos), then drinks. Like every bar in that region, Sunset Pier claims it invented the Rum Runner. Their frozen beverages come with a test tube full of dark rum.

You know what’s awesome? Having a margarita at noon on a Sunday while overlooking the ocean.

After brunch, we headed back down Duval Street, where everything was officially open. We stopped into Fast Buck Freddie’s, where Matt got a pimptastic hat, then headed to the bar I never, ever wanted to set foot in: Margaritaville. But I had to, of course, because it was there, and it’s the original.

It wasn’t bad at all, except for the fact that it was full of families from the Disney ship having lunch while we were on our second cocktail of the afternoon. The bartender was fantastic. After that, it was time for lunch at Willie T’s!

you are here, this is paradise. so true.

The entirety of Willie T’s was outside, and they featured 39 flavors of mojitos. It was instantly my favorite place in the world. We ordered lunch, and hung out watching the Colts-Chargers game on the giant-screen TV. We also filled out our own dollar to post on the wall. We gave our founding father boobs.

When it was time to move on, they gave us to-go cups. I LOVE KEY WEST.

We walked down Duval toward our last destination, the most famous bar in Key West. I stood out front and finished my drink before we went inside, though I doubt they’d actually have cared.

I fell in love with our bartender instantly. She was the best. The house drink is the Sloppy Rita, which isn’t really distinguishable from a regular margarita. Also, I really like that the standard tequila in most places we went is Sauza. I hate Cuervo a lot.

With about half an hour left til the last shuttle to the boat, we headed out, again with to-go cups. We stopped at a little grocery to shop for amusing British foodstuffs like Lucozade, then circled Mallory Square again, looking at cocks. I mean, what?

The shuttle dropped us off about 15 minutes before the ship departed. We took showers and watched from our balcony as we left Key West. We’d have taken the usual post-island nap, but we had to do the muster drill first.

Promptly at 5pm, the alarms went off, and we all put on our life jackets and lined up at the muster station. Sadly, we were at a different station than Wendy, Cindi, and Jumi, so we were surrounded by antsy Germans. We stood there trying not to giggle about everything, listened to the safety announcement in 5 languages, and were finally freed from responsibility for the rest of vacation.

After everyone else had their meat locker time (i.e. when you go back to your cabin after returning from some bar at the port, and take a shower and nap til early evening), we met in Bar Casanova, intending to play bingo. It ended up costing $20/person, so we went to play cards instead. The cruise staff was dressed in clown outfits for some show that night, and one of them came up to talk to Matt about his Arsenal jersey. It turned out he was from London (and thereafter known as ‘Arsenal’, while we called his friend from Manchester ‘Man U’), and he told us about their most recent game. Another female clown came over and plastered herself against the window while he talked. When he left, Matt said, “I just got a score from a clown while another silver clown humped the window!”

We stayed there so late that even the buffet had shut down, except for the pizza station, so we had pizza and salads out on the back deck, after which we wandered around the upper decks of the ship, looking at the moon and stars and basically being really gay. Shut up.

We found what seemed to be the darkest part of the ship up front on deck 9, so we stayed there for a long time. A couple of ladies wandered by, drunk, and we ended up making friends with them, even though one of them told us all about her boobs and the other was from California. (We named them Droopy and Shingles.) We decided to all go to the bar together; the ladies were kind of annoying, but there seemed to be no shaking them at that point. My favorite moment was when I was pondering the drink menu and Shingles yelled, “Have you had an orgasm??” Well, yes! Thanks for asking.

They told us all about how they’d met the performers for next evening’s show (Anthony and William), and how they were the cutest ever, blah blah blah. Wendy and I discussed this quietly at the bar, and when I asked her again who the guys were, she told me it was Carmelo Anthony and A.I.. We then invented the Melotini, which made absolute sense right at that moment:

• 1 part Kahlua
• 1 part Creme de Menthe
• 1 part Grey Goose
• optional float of Hpnotiq

Try it. You’ll love it.

We went down to the main lobby bar, but it was annoyingly crowded with art sale displays and loud people. We returned to Casanova, then went to Isolabella, the pimp bar on the 1st deck. There were a few more people there this time, thankfully, and the server remembered us. Wendy and I decided that Carmelo Anthony was arriving for his performance on a mini-submarine, so we sat there waiting for him. She tried texting him on her Blueberry, but to no avail. Stupid Melo.

We left after a while and went back to Casanova, where the band was playing Italian songs for a large, drunk group of Romans. Old guys kept hopping up on stage to sing ‘Arrivederci, Roma’. It was awesome. And then, Casanova was closing! We’d never seen that happen before! I’m pretty sure that means we won, and it definitely meant it was time for bed.

Monday was our first full day at sea, on the way to Grand Cayman. We got up at 9:30, sat on the balcony watching the Disney ship racing us, then had breakfast. After that, it was time for Arts & Crafts class. Beautiful necklaces!

actually, i made an anklet.

After making ourselves some gorgeous jewelry, we went to go sit on deck in the sun and read. We had cocktails and chillaxed. Matt read his book upside down.

Around 2pm, we headed to the restaurant for Wendy’s favorite lunch ever: Mexican buffet!

Full of tacos and carrying drinks, we went to the disco for Italian lessons. They taught us the basics like ‘buon giorno’ and ‘buona sera, comandante!’ We also learned to count, which came in useful in the elevators, where every floor was announced in Italian. Our cabin was on ponte sei.

Completely exhausted from class (ha), we went to have meat locker time from 3-4:30. Then it was time for SuperQuiz!

We lost to the Germans, dammit.

We hung out in the card room playing canasta and hearts, and then it was time to go get ready for formal night, or as Wendy calls it, Fancypants Dinner. We found this guy in our room, wearing Matt’s sunglasses:

We headed to dinner, where there was another bottle of champagne awaiting us. I don’t remember what we ate at all, but I know it was fantastic; Wendy and I thought the food in the dining room was good but not spectacular last time, but it had definitely improved. Their risotto was incredible.

We decided to keep our fancy pants on (or dress, in my case) for a bit and go to the bar. We met Pete, and Cindi tried to get him to teach us to swear in Italian, since obviously we already knew how to say everything else. He pointed out the captain, sitting right behind us, and told us to come back later and he would. Pete ruled. He also told us that the ship did indeed have a brig, but generally only staff ended up there. I want to know more.

We went to our cabins to change back to normal clothes, then went to the Dionisio Lounge on deck 3. We were telling the bartender about how we learned Italian earlier, and Wendy started counting out loud. Instead of ‘nove’, she yelled ‘NINER!’ He started giggling hysterically, and thereafter became known as Niner. He told us, “you guys must be a lot of fun at the bar!”

Cindi decided she needed to drink Disaronno on the rocks (thereby earning her a new nickname as well), and became very chatty with a German couple at the bar. We overheard her saying, “Cindi is a pretty American name!” She was on a roll, and I have a napkin scribbled full of her quotes.

We went back to the cabin around 12:30, entertained ourselves in various ways, and then passed out. We had a date with stingrays in the morning!

Tuesday, another sunrise! This time in the Cayman Islands.

We had breakfast on deck, watching the ship pull into port. We got down to the Osiris Theatre right away, and ended up with tickets on the first tender boat. Cindi wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to go to Stingray Sandbar, so she decided to stay on ship and meet us later.

We arrived in George Town, Grand Cayman, around 8:30am. The stores were just opening, so we shopped for souvenirs and postcards. We got coffee next door and sat outside, writing to the suckers back home.

On the way to the post office, we found a bank that dispensed cash in American and Caymanian dollars. I got out $20CI (about $30US) and we went to buy stamps. We split up the remaining cash for souvenirs. We then stopped into another store to look at the duty free liquor, and I nearly died when I saw Big Black Dick Rum. Of course I needed some of that, but they were unable to sell it to us because of duty-free laws: it has to be delivered to the ship directly, and the ship needs to contract with the store. They only had it duty-free, too, so I couldn’t just carry it onto the boat just like I always did with my contraband liquor. SIGH.

big black dick

We wandered around the duty-free mall with the rest of the cruise passengers, noted the location of Señor Frogs for later, then went over to the Tortuga Rum store. They had regular and duty-free booze, so I figured I’d just buy the regular stuff. That is, until we looked at the prices for duty-free. It was all ridiculously cheap, and they had stuff I hadn’t seen in the US.

Duty-free shopping: I have finally seen the light. We made a note of what we needed and headed back to the dock to catch our shuttle to the stingrays.

We met up with the excursion and walked to the shuttle buses. It drove us up and across the island to the North Sound, where we boarded a boat after much confusion amongst the shuttle drivers. We climbed up on top at the front, and we headed out toward Stingray Sandbar. The waves were splashing us way up there and our stuff was soaked, but we didn’t care. It was warm out, and there were stingrays waiting to see us!

heading into the north sound

i love the color of the water.

stingray sandbar

As we dropped anchor, we could see stingrays swimming all over the place. There were 4 or 5 other boats there already, and a bunch of people swimming. In places, the water was only knee-deep. We got some barely-audible instructions about not scaring stingrays lest they kill you, and then we climbed down the steps into the water. It was officially the best day of all time.

they know there’s squid in that bag.

stingray rubbing on wendy’s butt

The photographer told us that kissing a stingray was good luck, so they’d hold one up for us while she took our picture kissing it. I couldn’t have cared less whether that was true or not, I just wanted to kiss a stingray! When I told the guy that, he said, “OK! I’m a stingray!”

old couple kissing a stingray

They had a bag of squid to feed them, so the stingrays were freaking out about the food. They kept rubbing up against us with their wings. I’d be trying to touch one of them, and another would rub up against my butt. Consequently, there was a LOT of screaming and hysterical laughter going on at Stingray Sandbar. It was fantastic. (Here’s a video!)

So was the water. There were huge waves crashing over the sandbar, so it was nearly impossible to stand up. We swam out a little ways and bobbed around, jumping over waves so they wouldn’t knock us down. It took me far too long to learn that I needed to maybe not stand with my back to them, because I kept falling over.

Wendy showed me how to hold a squid (by the EYES), and tuck my thumb in so a stingray wouldn’t suck my hand into his mouth. I wasn’t freaked out by feeding them, but I was not pleased about holding a squid.

wendy holding a stingray

They had snorkel gear on the boat, but it seemed kind of unnecessary. Next time, I’d like to snorkel just so I know what I’m taking pictures of underwater.

Our visit with the stingrays was over way too soon. Sigh.

We were mostly dry by the time we got back to the shuttle buses, so we decided it was unnecessary to go back to the ship to change. We hoped Cindi was there waiting at the appointed spot. Matt and I ended up on a different bus than Wendy and Jumi, and it was clearly the good one: the driver sang to us the whole way back. He got applause after every song, and by the time we arrived in George Town, we were all singing Day-O together. It was awesome.

We went back to the Tortuga store to get rum cakes for the people back home, and place our duty-free order. Matt and I got 18-year Tortuga Rum in a barrel, Flor de Caña Centenario 12-Year, and cachaca so we could make caipirinhas at home. My entire order, including rum cakes and other souvenirs, was $90. SCORE.

While we were checking out, a girl came running in to see if it was too late to place an order. Her ship was leaving at 2:30, which was past the cutoff for their delivery. She proceeded to have a tantrum in the store, to the embarrassment of her friends. Seriously.

Jumi decided to go back to the ship to find Cindi, and Matt and Wendy and I headed off to find the British grocery store. It was nowhere to be found, so we stopped at a convenience store to hunt for things like Lucozade and Go Ahead (the snack from the Bahamas that I’ll be seeking everywhere I go for the rest of my life). Then we headed to Señor Frogs for lunch, and to get started on Cindi’s primary goal of the cruise: to drink a first down. Since she was sick and 10 yards would definitely kill a person anyway, we decided to help.

Our server’s name was Jesus. We ordered yards and food, then decided we needed to do a shot, too (it’s tradition, started way back in Puerto Rico!). We asked him what he preferred. He said, “I like blowjobs!”

wendy looking for cindi and jumi from señor frogs’ balcony

We ate lunch, and Cindi and Jumi finally showed up. They had given us beads before, but when Jesus brought them for the other two, we pretended like we never got any. He brought us all one of each color. We were very proud of our beautiful necklaces.

We had 9 yards in Grand Cayman, which meant we were at 2nd and 1 in Cozumel. Not a problem. When we asked for the tab, Jesus also brought us a round of free shots. They were blue, which scared me. But we all survived, far better than we did the tab, which was in Caymanian dollars, with the US total at the end. Challenge: drink 2 shots and 2 yards and then figure out who owes what. It wasn’t pretty.

We had to hurry back to the dock to catch the tender, and were only sure we made it once we saw the line. We wanted to be on the last one, but had to settle for second-to-last. There was a sign at the gate telling us that we were not allowed to bring weapons on the ship, and it was very explicit. Some of the weapons included sharpened sticks, coshes, and knuckle dusters. This held no end of fascination for us.

On the tender boat, we may have been a little raucous; the dudes in front of us were really amused until Wendy accidentally shouted “CLAPPY PENIS!” It was her special code name for caipirinhas, apparently. As we got back on the ship, we passed a wall lined with Tortuga Rum boxes. Hell yes.

We returned to our cabin to shower off the stingrays and have the best meat locker time ever. We awoke again at 7, and I called the other cabin to see if they were awake. Cindi answered, then hung up on me. Wendy called back shortly afterward. We got dressed and went down to their cabin to partake in Fuzzy Tang (Peachtree and Tang); I had my own version with rum and sugar-free tang in an empty Lucozade bottle.

We got food from the buffet, ate on deck, then went downstairs to the card room to play Oh Hell and Slappy (otherwise known as Egyptian Whiskey Rat Fuck).

Once the show started in Casanova, we went over there to watch. It was Italian night, so the competition was for Mr. Pizza. They had to do things like throw dough around, ‘dance sexy’, and sing ‘O Sole Mio’. The winner was a hysterical old guy from Long Island. Every time we saw him after that, he was wearing his Mr. Pizza sash.

After Mr Pizza, we headed to the club. There was much better hiphop playing (instead of crappy Eurodisco), and slightly more dancing. One of our favorite servers, Jones (his real name was Irwin, I think), was working there. Whenever he brought us receipts to sign, he was using a light-up pen, and this was immensely fascinating. There was a lot of dancing, and I really really did NOT want to leave. But it was 2am, and we had a date with a beach in Honduras the next morning.

Wednesday morning, we got to sleep in. We had gained an hour overnight, and our excursion didn’t leave til 11. I was too excited about being in Honduras, though (my first visit to Central America!), so I got up at 8, showered, put on my bathing suit and sarong, and sat out on the balcony, staring at the mountains off in the distance. We were going to Roatan, an island off the coast of Honduras, but you could see the mainland from the ship.

Roatan didn’t have its own tender service, so we got to ride in the lifeboats. The whole way there, Wendy and Matt and I giggled about hopping on the Royal Caribbean ship and stealing rolls for the Costa staff to eat. It’s a long story that’s probably only funny to us. Pulling up to the dock, we went right under the bow of the other ship.

The port area in Coxen Hole consists of a giant tent full of vendors, a bar, and a parking lot full of shuttle buses. We were really hoping to get on the Jesus shuttle, but we ended up on a school bus instead. We all got wristbands for Tabyana Beach, and we were off.

We drove along the coast down toward the West End. The homes outside the little port area were as expected: ramshackle buildings on stilts, with laundry hanging all over the place. It wasn’t actually as depressed as I’d have expected, but the whole island is really resort-oriented.

We headed uphill through the interior of the island, and the bus ride all of a sudden became a roller coaster. The bus would come up on a tight curve slowly, the driver would try to peer around the corner, then he’d sound his horn (which was modified to be a LOT louder), and go tearing off. We went up and down really steep hills at alarming speed; I think the bus just needed the momentum to even keep going. It was awesome.

At the top of a big hill, the driver stopped to let cars pass. The view was amazing, and reminded me of Maui.

We passed through the shops and restaurants in the West End, and arrived at Tabyana Beach around noon. I was so excited, I wanted to climb out the window rather than wait for everyone to get off the bus.

We had to stand around and wait for an attendant to get beach chairs for us, but that was fine because there was a bar right there on the beach. I’m considering that as a career option, actually.

Once our chairs arrived, I took time only to throw my bag and towel on one of them, and take off my shirt and shorts. I couldn’t get the in ocean fast enough.

Wendy and I agree that the day we spent on the beach in the Dominican Republic was one of our favorite days ever, so we couldn’t wait to repeat it. This time, though, there weren’t even tiny jellyfish in the water. It was absolutely perfect, and we were even allowed to bring our drinks into the ocean.

We spent a lot of time just bobbing around talking. We practiced wrestling moves, and I killed Cindi like an alligator. I attached myself to Matt in ways that would otherwise have been inappropriate in public. We took off our bathing suits and held them overhead just like I did in the DR. When we ran out of beverages, Cindi yelled, “WALTER!!!” and our server waded out into the water to take our orders. I could maybe live in Roatan.

After a while, we decided to take a break from chilling in the ocean, and go visit the souvenir shop. I’m pretty sure everything in the entire place cost $2, except for the coffee Matt got, which was $6.

The reef is only about 50 feet from the beach there, so we’d thought about renting snorkels. They were $10 each, whereas a kayak was $15. I was nervous about it, because I figured we’d flip over or something. Matt promised we wouldn’t, so we rented a 2-person kayak and set off to see the reef.

Holy crap, it was amazing. I loved it far more than canoeing, and it felt even more steady. In places, we were only a few inches above the reef. I stuck my camera underwater and took pictures.

We returned the kayak with about an hour left at Tabyana Beach. We ran back into the ocean, and it was there that Wendy and Matt and I invented SEAPOUND. It’s not as dirty as it sounds.

wendy doesn’t want to leave

accomplishment!

We got out of the water with enough time to catch one of the last buses. SIGH.

sometimes after a few cocktails, drinking 2 beers at the same time seems like an awesome idea.

wife guard!

have i mentioned that i’m madly in love with this boy? because i am.

We took the rollercoaster bus back to the port, and had a small amount of time to check out the shops in Coxen Hole. We headed into a big building full of little market stalls, and picked up a few more souvenirs. I’d have liked more time to see the town, but that’s good reason to return!

We tendered back to the ship and had some quality meat-locker time til about 7pm, then went to the card room to play Oh Hell. Jones came by and showed us a card trick; it was pretty much the cutest thing ever. We then headed to dinner in the restaurant, and they’d outdone themselves.

I had a fruit salad, a fruit soup that tasted like pina colada, a salad with balsamic vinegar, and a risotto cake with sweet potatoes, cranberries, almonds, and dandelion greens. Everything was amazing. In the middle of dinner, the staff started marching around, and a group of waiters went up to the balcony for SEXY DANCING. So funny.

After dinner, we went to find Pete. He was just waiting to teach us dirty words in Italian.

pete’s italian lessons

Our favorite was vafanculo, the Italian equivalent of ‘fuck off’. When Cindi asked him how to say ‘blowjob’, he told us he’d need to go consult the magazine in his cabin. While we were sitting there, Jones came by to tell us the disco was open, in case we didn’t know!

We didn’t want to go to the disco that early, so we went upstairs to see Niner. There was a guy on the violin accompanying a pianist, and a few people sitting there watching. After a while, we realized everyone was gone, and the two musicians were practicing together. We wanted to take credit for clearing the place out. Also, Jumi got lei’d!

We headed down to the disco, where people were actually dancing for once. We met Rob, Chris, and Barbara (known as Jersey and his crew). Jersey requested the Cha Cha Slide (you probably know this as the ‘everybody clap your hands!’ song), and knew the whole dance routine. By the end of the cruise, we’d seen him do it multiple times, and now the image of a ponytail boy from New Jersey dancing a stiff cha-cha is conjured every time I’m at a basketball game.

Wendy was doing her best to make sure we drank every single beverage on the drink menu, so she stole a sip of Chris’ Budweiser. I was dancing barefoot, and Disco Selva had officially become the Gay 90s. We even had lemon drops. When Soulja Boy came on, we all went out and danced, following the Helper Monkey’s lead. Arsenal and Man U were upstairs watching, but refused to come downstairs and dance.

We left around 2:30, knowing it was going to hurt the next morning.

Thursday morning arrived far too early. I got up early, showered, and then went right back to bed. We finally got up about 9:30, and told Wendy, Cindi and Jumi that we’d meet them for the excursion at 11. We had breakfast overlooking Cozumel, and noted with some excitement that we were docked right at Señor Frogs.

We got off the boat, and followed the path into town. It requires navigating a mall built expressly for cruise ship patrons, presumably for those too scared to actually enter MEXICO. Haha. We decided to walk down to the giant Mexican flag, and scope out some of the shops.

this never ceased to amuse me.

We stopped into Cozumel Mart (yes, it’s really called that) and I bought the largest bottle of Evian I could find. Between the hangover and the humidity, I was considering laying down on the side of the road and dying. I drank all my water as we headed back to the dock to meet our excursion shuttle, and I soon determined that the heat was a huge plus, re: sweating off the ickiness. I felt totally fine by the time we headed to the bus.

Another girl on our excursion was not so lucky: she had to have them pull the bus over so she could get out and throw up on the side of the road. We’d seen her at the disco the night before. She looked to be in really rough shape.

Our tour leader was James, and he was awesome. He quizzed us about our knowledge of Spanish (“Do you know tequila? Margarita? Dos Equis? Burrito?”) and introduced the driver as Speedy Gonzales. He told us it was a half-hour drive to San Gervasio, but that Speedy would make it in 20 minutes. He was correct!

San Gervasio is a national park containing Mayan ruins, though the site we were visiting was private lands adjoining the area. I was excited to see the ruins, but let’s not pretend: we were really there to ride ATVs. The history was just a bonus.

We sat and watched a safety video, learned how to shift gears on our ATVs, and then they handed out bandanas to wear under our awesome helmets. I also saw a dude carrying a tiny monkey curled in his hand. SO CUTE.

I’d read up on the ATV tour, and people recommended bringing a second bandana to wear over your face, because the trails are really dusty. However, it had just rained, so that wasn’t a problem. We got mud instead!

We drove down the main paths, and got up some decent speed on our ATVs. I loved it a lot. Then we turned off into side-paths, which were all huge rocks and pits full of water. At times, it seemed like we were riding through rivers. Our legs and feet were drenched in muddy water. It was awesome, even though occasionally I felt like my ATV was going to tip over. Matt said I’d be more likely to slide off the seat, so I started worrying about that instead.

We arrived at a temple that was used as an observatory. One of the guides explained the Mayan calendar, which ends in 2012, and covered a bunch of popular end-of-the-world mythology. He also explained that the Mayans were very short, smart, and cute, just like him.

at the observatory

drawing the mayan calendar

dirty feet

my ATV

at the gravesites

The next site we visited was a series of tombs. They said that the main tomb (and the only one that had been excavated) contained a Mayan king wearing a jade mask, which was now in the national museum in Mexico City. The other gravesites were the members of his family, who were all killed when he died, in accordance with Mayan tradition.

tombs

We finished our ride around 2pm, and I was impressed we actually got to spend so much time riding the ATVs. Half of us had blisters on our hands from holding on, and we were all covered in mud. My Adidas were full of water, and made a squishing sound when I walked. Thankfully, I’d brought flipflops in my bag, so I took off my sneakers and carried them instead. They were gross. If you take this excursion and it’s rained recently, don’t wear shoes you want to keep!

happy goats

our atv photos (jumi bought them)

The shuttle took us back into Cozumel, stopping again to let the girl puke on the street. We walked back down to Cozumel Mart to buy tacky souvenirs, because it seemed to have all those bases covered. We even picked up a bottle of absinthe for $11, and a big mesh bag to carry my muddy shoes in. We were an interesting sight, all covered in dirt and wearing matching bandanas.

Once shopping was accomplished, it was time for the important stuff: Señor Frogs. We were still two yards shy of a first down.

The place was in good form despite being mostly empty. There were two women from our ship being pretend-gangbanged by the servers. Everyone was wearing balloon hats. Also, in the women’s room, there’s a drawing of a dude with a flap over his parts; when you lift the flap, an alarm goes off in the bar. I had to do that more than once because it reminded me of the Safe House.

the view from señor frogs!

DIRTY LEGS

my atv blister!

We had yards and food (only half of which we could eat), and Cindi learned dirty words from the server boys (such as ‘chupa mi pito!’). We had a Minneapolis moment when Prince’s When Doves Cry came on (and I was surprised to realize I know all the words). Once we finished eating, Matt and I made a beeline for the swinging bar stools. Could there possibly be a better idea than that?

We hung out on the swings once the tab was settled and Cindi and Jumi headed off to go shopping and return to the ship. Cindi returned a little while later, handed the bartender (Humberto) a 500-peso bill, and asked, “what kind of shot can I get with this?” He brought her Cuervo. GAG.

Matt and Wendy and I had better-quality tequila, talked to the bartender about Mexican futbol (the local teams are the Orioles de Cozumel and the Hurricanes de Cancun) , and spent far too much time messing with Wendy’s balloon hat. That’s because it was a giant green penis complete with balls and, uh, a white string hanging off the end.

We waited til the last possible moment, then headed for the ship. We could see it from where we were sitting, and were pretty much experts at arriving there late anyway. We learned that in the Bahamas. And St Thomas. And maybe Puerto Rico; I don’t exactly remember that.

sunset in cozumel

wendy’s italian friend with the awesome hair (in the balloon hat)

this picture sums up the cruise:
wendy holding a yard and penis balloon, yelling “I LOVE AMERICA!!!” in front of the coast guard ship.

my bag full of yard glasses, filthy shoes, and awesome souvenirs

Re-boarding the ship, they didn’t even bother putting my bag through the scanner, because the yard glasses would’ve spilled all over the place. To those of you who are warned repeatedly about sneaking liquor and other contraband onto cruise ships: I’ve heard they’ll confiscate it on other boats, but Costa couldn’t care less. I guess that means you should probably just take Costa cruises from now on. You’ll love it, I promise.

I washed my shoes out in the shower, and couldn’t believe how dirty they were. I stuck the showerhead inside them and let it run for a long time, but the water never came out clear. We put our shoes out on the balcony, hoping they’d dry in the sun. Matt also took a picture of me standing naked on the balcony, but that will thankfully not be posted on this here internet. Nobody saw me but him and the pilot boat! I hope.

matt’s shoes

Cindi called me with a quote from Wendy: “Write this in your little notebook! I’m dirty and drunk and I have a big green dick!” Wendy then apparently got in the shower, singing to herself and laughing the whole time. We showered and sat outside in towels, watching the sun set. Once it was dark, we had a very important life goal to achieve: gettin’ it on on the balcony of a cruise ship, overlooking the ocean. Rating: A+++ WOULD DO AGAIN.

We had meat locker time til 8:30, then got up to eat. Everything was closed but the pizza station, where we learned a little-known fact: instead of picking up whatever they have at the buffet, you can order your own pizza. They were way better than the buffet stuff, too. We had dessert out on the back deck, which is where we found Jumi. She said that Cindi and Wendy were still sleeping. We went down to the card room to play Phase 10.

The show in Casanova started at 11, and it was called “Rock ‘n Roll Couple.” It was in the style of all the previous shows, with dancing and goofy games. My favorite part was when they had the balloon game we’d seen last time as part of Sexy Games. I was sad that Wendy missed it, but she and Cindi seemed really, really dedicated to sleeping. And we couldn’t really argue with that, since we were all worn out. Though it was Sexy Night at the disco, we decided to pass and head to bed. Because of the time change, it was already 2am anyway.

Friday we got up early, even though we didn’t really have to, because it was a day at sea. We watched the documentary about how the ship runs, then sat out on the balcony reading and watching the ocean. It was kind of hard to wrap our heads around the fact that the cruise was almost over.

our cabin!

We had breakfast, then went up to see the ship 3-Day in progress. We’d intended to participate (they were walking a mile around the track), but most of us had lost our shoes in the Great Mexican Jungle Adventure of Aught-Eight.

We decided to go swimming. I’d never been in the pool on the ship! I didn’t realize it’d be salt water. Also, the thing about putting a bunch of us in a swimming pool together is that we turn into 10-year-olds. It’s kind of spectacular.

We got out of the pool after a while, and sat on the deck nearby playing hearts. I actually won for once!

We went to the cabin to change, and found our togas there waiting for us. When we left the cabin, we found Wendy there waiting to scare us. It worked.

We decided to go take a tour of the parts of the ship the rest of the group hadn’t seen before, and also go to the gift shop, since we hadn’t gotten there yet. They didn’t seem to mind that we were carrying drinks. Also, I got INFLATABLE SHIPS FOR $4. Plus my frequent-cruiser discount!

We visited the Roero Bar (otherwise known as ‘the bar where we took naps on the last cruise’), the chapel, and the arcade. Through the arcade windows, we discovered a secret deck for the crew! With a hot tub!

the arcade

crew deck!

“uh, where’d you last see it?”

armonia pool

dear cindi: who toasts with coffee??

At 3:30, Matt and I went to merengue lessons. The teacher was fantastic. He taught us a bunch of moves, one which he just called ‘sexy, sexy, sexy, sexy’. You circle your finger around your head as you turn around in a sexy, sexy, sexy, sexy way.

dance lessons on deck

We went down to the cabin to drop all our stuff off, then headed back up to find everyone else. They were nowhere to be found, but we did manage to wander into teatime. They had tiny sandwiches and everything. We hung out watching the next dance lesson (we’d have participated, but we arrived late), then went to hang out at the pool bar.

the special of the day

We went down to their cabin to see if they’d come back, and found the cabin steward, Towel, in there instead. I think we scared him. We finally located Jumi out on the back deck, then Wendy and Cindi up on deck 10. We went to go play shuffleboard, but were interrupted when we found soccer balls by the basketball court. We played 2-on-2 futbol, to the amusement of the staff, until I tripped and skinned my knee. We then switched to shuffleboard, a sport which requires no running or falling down.

After sunset (sigh), we went to our cabins to change clothes and pack. You have to have your suitcases in the hallway by 1am the night before docking in Fort Lauderdale, which means you have to put any clothes and toiletries you need in your carry-on bag and haul it around with you in the morning.

I’d brought a spare duffel bag, and was glad I had it. All my dirty laundry went in that, and the well-packed souvenirs took up much of my suitcase. Once we’d finished packing, we put on our togas. I love toga night!

best dress code ever.

Wendy, Cindi, and Jumi came to our cabin before we headed to dinner. Wendy still had her giant green penis. We left it behind for Rocque.

jumi is duly horrified.

We did the toga chant going downstairs, a la Animal House. Also, we still had a spare bottle of champagne, so we brought it up to dinner with us. Wendy was embarrassed about carrying it, so she hid it in a drink menu. Not the drink menu she eventually stole, unfortunately.

We were a little early to dinner, so we sat there hassling people who weren’t wearing togas. Some people had even brought their own togas and toga-related accessories from home. It was awesome. At least half the people at dinner were dressed up. The rest of them just didn’t get it.

We also had a very long talk with Mr. Pizza and his wife, Maxine.

Mark Boney exchanged our warm champagne for a cold bottle, and poured it for us. Dinner that night was spectacular. (Below is a picture of the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Seriously.) I also had soup that tasted like Creamsicle, bread with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and spinach flan. I have no idea how people manage to eat all 6 courses at dinner!

bleu cheese mousse with pickled onions and raisins

After dinner, we went to the Osiris Theatre for the passenger talent show. We’d seen it last time and there were really funny moments, but overall it was way too long. We were excited to find out that there were only 5 performances, and all of them were pretty good. There was a trio of sisters singing a Miami Sound Machine song, an Quebecois guy singing ‘You are my Sunshine’ in French and English, a lady singing a Flemish song, and Ukelele hero.

A guy named Klaus got on stage and told us how he’d been on back-to-back cruises. Last time, he’d dedicated his performance to his fiancee. This time, he was dedicating it to the awesome crew. It made me sniffly. Sadly, though, nobody got sent to the lions.

We changed out of our togas, put our bags in the hallway, then went to make the rounds of all of our favorite staffpeople. Pete was nowhere to be found in his bar, so we asked another server named Arsenio. He told us Pete had jumped overboard. Then Pete appeared and told us that he was a fast swimmer. Arsenio took our picture together, and then a photo of the old Italian guys at the next table imitating our rock hands. It was hysterical.

Sadly, we couldn’t find Niner anywhere, so we headed to the disco for Bye-Bye Disco Time. SAD!

We danced to Biggie and Tupac, and of course Jersey was there requesting the Cha-Cha Slide and Soulja Boy. The place was pretty much empty by then, but that didn’t stop us from Crankin’ Dat. I can only do half of it, but I’m fine with that.

We talked to Jones for a long time, and Wendy, Cindi, and Jumi took off at various times to go sleep. We discovered that the bartenders were unable to light shots on fire, and that made me love Rodrigo and Casanova even more, for allowing Wendy to almost burn up the ship. I want to believe they have that rule now because of her.

Jones hugged us goodbye, and we went to our cabin around 1:30. Then it was time for a fashion show, but that part is none of your business.

Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6:30am. That hurt a lot. We got up, showered, and packed our carry-on bags. I attempted to dry my still-wet sneakers with the blowdryer, with little success. I shoved them in the bottom of my bag with a pair of socks, because the only other footwear I had was flipflops. It was -10 degrees in Minneapolis.

We had our last breakfast (gruel and a croissant with cheese, my favorite) on the back deck. The ship was already docked in Fort Lauderdale. General disembarkation wasn’t til 8:45, so we went down to sit in the Napping Bar. We were all sprawled on chairs, trying not to doze off.

From the ship, we went to passport control. There was a long line, but the officer was just looking at photos and letting people through. We picked up our suitcases, reorganized, and then stood in line for customs. Even though I knew they never checked anything at the cruise ports, I was still nervous. I was over the limit for alcohol, didn’t have my duty-free receipt accessible, and had absinthe, which was only recently made legal in the US. The customs lady took my slip and said ‘thank you’. I was almost disappointed at not having done something really illegal.

We stood at the cab stand forever, because there was much cab-related drama. We finally got two cabs to the airport. I paged through the little advertising magazine, and found the address for Coyote Ugly downtown, plus coupons for free shots. SCORE.

We were expecting airport horror like we’d experienced last time, but it didn’t seem too bad. Cindi and Jumi had an earlier flight, so they went to check in. Matt and Wendy and I were in search of a place to store our bags; we were finally directed to the baggage service downstairs, where they’ll store it for $5 a bag. We then headed to the cab stand, because our flight wasn’t til 4:30.

On the way to the cabs, we had a thought: a cab cost about $50 round-trip to downtown. Couldn’t we rent a car for less than that? We decided to go to the rental car building to find out. Thrifty told us it’d be $50 plus tax; E-Z said it’d be $30. We were set.

We picked up Disposo, our Nissan Versa (we decided what we really needed was a disposable car that we could just set on fire when we were done with it), and were soon on our way to Fort Lauderdale. Disposo was SEXY. Also, while checking him for damage at the rental pickup, we noticed scratches on the hood. Clearly, someone had already slid across it in a getaway attempt. The rental guy didn’t think this was half as funny as I did.

We found Coyote Ugly pretty quickly, but then realized it didn’t open til noon. We set off in search of food. There were a ton of restaurants in the area, but none of them were open. Some didn’t even start serving til 5pm. We were getting desperate! Finally, we happened upon the Las Olas Riverfront, and there was a sign for the Metro Cafe, advertising brunch. We rushed there and got a table. They weren’t actually serving brunch, but we didn’t care.

I think I drank an entire gallon of Diet Coke. Costa doesn’t really have pop, except as a mixer. Also, we had pizzas, even though we’d just gotten off an Italian ship.

After lunch, we walked along the riverfront to see the water taxis and all the people waiting in line for boring cruises. Then we headed back toward Coyote Ugly, because it had just opened. There was only one other dude in there, already sitting at the bar.

I tried to order a mojito, not really knowing the deal with Coyote Ugly. The bartender said, “No, that’s gay.” Wendy ordered a vodka sour, and he wouldn’t give that to her, either. Apparently a vodka-cranberry is less gay, because he allowed her to have that. I got a Jack and diet. He gave us and the female bartender shit constantly. We loved him a lot.

We redeemed our taxi-cab shot coupons (we had no choice, he just poured us Sammy Hagar’s tequila), and he gave me one even though I told him I had to drive us back to the airport. When Wendy and Matt ordered another round, it became apparent that their drink pricing was totally random. We talked to the girl bartender for a long time, then asked her if they had souvenirs. She unlocked the other side of the bar, and we came away with a lot of stuff, including an awesome sticker for Cindi (whose idea it originally was to go there), and underpants that read MONEY MAKER on the ass. I was a fan.

We left there somewhat sadly, and hopped in Disposo to take the long route back to the airport, via the A1A. Have I mentioned that Wendy loves Vanilla Ice? She had to see it. And, surprisingly, it made me actually want to spend time in Fort Lauderdale. The beaches were nothing like in the Caribbean, but they were still pretty awesome.

We arrived back at E-Z Rental Car, blasting Big Pimpin’ by Jay-Z. We did not light Disposo on fire, but we should have. We picked up our bags, checked in (there was NO line at check-in; last time we were there, we stood there for 3 hours), rushed through security, and found Cindi and Jumi still sitting at the gate, looking very frustrated. We’d had lunch, seen the beach, and hung out at a bar, while they’d been sitting at the airport all morning, waiting for a tiny plane.

We sat on the floor playing Phase 10 and laughing uncontrollably, much to the consternation of the women sitting nearby. To deal with the issue of the -10 degree temperatures in Minneapolis, and the fact that I had flipflops and Wendy was wearing shorts, we brainstormed solutions.

WILL SMILE FOR PANTS

Besides pants-panhandling, we devised the pants exchange program. Say you’re flying to Florida from Minnesota in January, just as we did. The second you get to Florida, all you want to do is remove your pants and change to shorts. (I solved this problem by carrying flipflops and wearing convertible capris, but not everyone is so innovative.) On the other hand, if you’re returning to Minnesota from Florida, you hardly want to wear pants to the airport when it’s still 85 degrees, and yet you’re going to freeze your ass off when you land.

Solution: the PANTS EXCHANGE BOOTH. Leave your pants when you get there, and someone else can wear them home. This, we believe, is a fantastic business opportunity.

We’d found out at check-in that our flight was overbooked, and they were asking people to volunteer to be bumped to the next day. Had we found this out as soon as we’d gotten there that morning, we’d probably have taken the offer. As it was, we’d already rented and returned a car, and we were tired and wanted to go home. But we’d still probably have done it for a price, so we drafted a list of demands in case they should ask us again:

I think the best part of that list is that they’re all inside jokes we’d come up with over the past week (some of them that morning), and that nobody else in the world would understand. I’d write out the explanations so I’d remember, but you’d just think we were nuts.

They boarded the flight early, and we all passed out shortly after takeoff. This was remarkable, because I never sleep on planes. I kept waking up because of the turbulence and the fact that the captain wouldn’t shut up. We must’ve slept for at least an hour, though, because we got to Memphis really quickly. I started to notice, too, that every time I opened my bag, it smelled really bad. As in, jungle shoes bad.

We had about an hour and a half layover in Memphis, and our priorities were 1) pants and shoes, and 2) dinner. Wendy and I checked all the stores, and nobody had either of the former, though we did find pajama bottoms with flowers that she refused to buy. We checked all the restaurants, and I’d forgotten that the south doesn’t really know the word ‘vegetarian’. We finally settled on the fast food counter, and I had pizza. Again. I didn’t care. Also, my bag had begun smelling so bad from the shoes that I had to have people stand back when I opened it, and I’d hold my breath. There was no way I was going to be able to put those shoes on for the flight.

I called my mom from the gate, and told her of our shoes-and-pants predicament. When we landed in Minneapolis, she met us at the baggage claim with slip-on shoes for me, and pajama bottoms and a comforter for Wendy. Claudia rules.

And it was indeed -10 in Minneapolis that night. Ouch.

[To see the entire Flickr photoset from this trip, go here!]

Sunday morning at 3:00am (which was still technically Saturday night), I dragged myself out of bed, tearfully said goodbye to my boyfriend (the trip had been booked long before we were dating, or I wouldn’t have subjected myself to an entire week without him), and drove to my mom’s house to catch a ride to the airport. Wendy, Stephanie, and I piled our gigantic suitcases into the sexy red Neon, and we headed to the airport.

I don’t remember much of the flight, except that Wendy and I probably giggled like retards, and our flight attendants were named Ginger and Mike. I only know this because it’s the first entry in my travel journal. In Philadelphia (the flight wasn’t exactly direct), the pilot told us we were 17th in line to take off. I’m pretty sure Crashy Airlines (i.e. AirTran) doesn’t often get precedence on the runway.

wendy examining the map of st thomas

We arrived uneventfully and only a tiny bit late. Outside the airport, we got ourselves a cab and rode to Port Everglades; it’s about a 10-minute ride, and cost $15. It’s kind of ridiculous that the shuttles charge $20+ a person.

Porters at the entrance to the dock took our bags, and we headed into the embarkation area. There was a long line, but it moved fast, plus everybody was just really damn excited to be going on a cruise. We gave them our tickets, registered our credit cards, and headed toward the ship. They took a really gay picture of us holding a lifesaver, gave us handwipes for our own personal cleanliness, and suddenly we were on the ship.

We stood in the lobby, not really knowing where to go. It’s so huge and ornate that’s confusing. We asked a crew member, and were pointed in the direction of our cabin, where Wendy’s birthday surprise awaited us:

birthday cake for wendy, a card from the captain, and champagne.

The champagne didn’t last long, and the fact that there were only two glasses wasn’t really a problem for us. We scrambled around the cabin, investigating every very exciting thing we could find (the tiny bathroom, the minibar, the cruise itinerary, the note from our cabin steward, who was quickly renamed Il Duce for reasons that are still unclear). The minibar was locked, so putting in a request to have it unlocked was our first order of business.

They had put us at the regular instead of the late dinner, so we set off to find the maitre d’s station, as noted on the map. They switched our mealtime, and we set off to wander around the ship until it was time for the muster drill.

docked at ft lauderdale

Promptly at 4:30pm, we put on our very sexy lifejackets and headed to our muster station. They lined us up three deep, and we tried really hard to restrain our laughter. The ship started moving, and just then, a little boat sped past us on the way out of the harbor. The girls screamed and flashed their tits. We hooted. The others around us were not as excited.

muster drill

lobby bar

We went up to one of the top decks to check out the view leaving Florida, and of course attend to the important business of getting us some cocktails. The bartender made me a mojito with Equal instead of sugar, and I’m pretty sure the guys behind the bar were the nicest people we’d ever met.

leaving ft lauderdale, with mojito

We sat out on the back deck watching the land receding, then found a table where it was less windy. The bartender came and asked if we wanted another round, remembering both my name and my drink. We were instantly in love with the cruise.

We went to our cabin to unpack before dinner, then went to explore the ship some more. At that point, it seemed incomprehensible that we’d ever learn how to get around it all. There are still a few places I’m pretty sure we didn’t manage to see over the course of the week. We did a great job of finding awesome hangouts, though.

Dinner was at 8:30, and there were people lined up outside the doors of the two-level restaurant when we got there. We had an 8-person table, so we were seated with a family from Chicago. They had two really cute little girls, who were both dozing off on the table by the end of the meal.

They brought us another bottle of champagne at dinner, to celebrate Wendy’s birthday. We shared it with our tablemates. Then the food started arriving, and holy crap. It seemed natural to pick out one item for every course on the menu, but it was SO MUCH FOOD. There was even a sugar-free dessert.

We wandered around after dinner, looking for a bar with no smoking. There were a bunch of old people tangoing in the piano bar, and we stopped there for a drink. It was a pretty boring bar, and we made a point of dissing it every time we walked through for the rest of the cruise. Hey, the piano guy was not awesome at all. It happens.

We went into the club, which had just opened to the public for the night; it had been singles’ night before that, and now it was time for DANCETERIA 3000 (I just made that up). We had awesome shots called the Woo-Woo, and then Wendy and I headed downstairs to the light-up dance floor. There was a huge projection on one wall that was just film of people on the ship and excursions. So funny. There was hardly anyone there at all, and we slowly realized that most of the people dancing were actually crew members. They’re there to get people involved!

Stephanie didn’t want to dance, so we headed down to a lounge at the other end of the ship (one for which we were predestined, but we didn’t know that yet). The old white-haired doctor was sitting near the bar, drinking, surrounded by ladies. It was awesome.