Mexico 2.3

I’ve been back for a month… I really should get this series done and over with.

Wednesday I woke up rather hungover, but made my way to the lunch buffet anyway. I wasn’t really sure how I was going to fare, but once I sat down with my meal, I found eating not as difficult as I thought it was going to be.

Plastic Girl and her mom were sitting a few tables away, when I noticed them, they waved and made their way over. They started telling me that Mom had to go to the medic last night. I asked why; they said that she fell and needed stitches. I asked where she fell; they said in their room.

Well apparently, Mom was tanked up, fell down and busted open her eye. She pulled her sunglasses off to reveal a rather large bandage covering her eyebrow. And what was supposed to be her eye.

But really it was a purple swollen mess. I nearly threw up right there. Seriously, it was absolutely disgusting. Now, I don’t deal well with this kind of thing in the best of times, so I really wasn’t coping well. And then they started talking about how much blood there was and how the medics didn’t even need to give her painkillers in order to stitch her up. Then Mom turned to Plastic Girl and said “Where’s your camera?”

What Plastic Girl lacks human body parts she makes up for in observational skills. She calmly told her mom that “not everyone can look at that kind of thing” and then suggested they leave me to my meal. With an ominous warning, of course: Don’t get too wasted, it could happen to you too.

As I’m pushing food around my plate, trying to find the appetite I had moments earlier, I saw my favourite dancer getting food. He walked over and asked if he could join me; surely I misunderstood, what with his accent and all, but then he was pointing towards the chair opposite of me asking if I was waiting for someone. No, not at all, please sit down. You sexy beast.

We made small talk, yada yada yada. Conversation turned to dancing (obviously) and he said that he saw me at the disco last night and that I was good. I’m sorry, what? The professional dancer is telling me that I’m good?! What is going on? Am I still drunk?

So I did stuff during the day, and even though I was hungover and wasn’t going to drink much because I didn’t want to fall down and bust my face open, I don’t remember getting home that night. Fucking tequila.

Thursday was a complete write off. I was so hungover I didn’t leave my room until 8pm and all I did that night was cart around a bottle of water, go to the show and make my rounds to see all my bartenders. All of whom offered me drinks, all of which I declined. They looked as though they didn’t even recognize me.

I ran into the security guard that worked at the disco; he saw me and started shaking his head. He told me that I was really drunk the night before and asked me if my camera was okay. When I looked at him like he was talking Martian, he asked me if I remembered much from the night before. I said no.

He told me I was upset about my camera and making a big fuss about it (for some reason). Well, after he walked me home (so that’s how I got there) he followed the guys I was playing pool with so that if they took my camera, he’d know who to report when I came to and realized something had happened. Which wasn’t the case; I had my camera and it still worked.

I asked him how many times he had walked me home so far; he said three. I remembered getting an escort on Sunday night and he told me that he walked me home Wednesday night, so I asked which other night. He said “Not Sunday”. I said “Yes, Sunday. I remember that one!” He said “Sunday is my day off”. Son of a bitch.

Friday, I was feeling much better and did all the usual stuff: beach, pool, walking, swimming, drinking. But being my last night I decided I wasn’t going to drink much; I didn’t bring out my cup. I went to the disco (of course) and saw my favourite dancer and even got a picture with him. He ended up coming back to the disco and asked me if I wanted to go to Puerto Vallarta with him. Um, yeah I do, but I can’t because I’m leaving tomorrow. I convinced him to dance with me. It was salsa; it was great.

Earlier that day, I was walking around, a bartender was passing me, said hello and then stopped me.

Him: I recognize your face.

Me: Like from this week?

Him: No… from before…

Me: November?!

Him: Maybe. How long are you here for?

Me: I leave tomorrow.

Him: Well, you should come by Bar 1; I’m there until 1am.

As I was walking home from the disco that night, I stopped at the beach to get my feet wet one last time. As I was walking down the beach, I found myself right by Bar 1; I decided to stop in for a drink. He immediately greeted me, by name, of course and asked what I wanted. There were some people from the disco there, Spanish guys and girls that don’t speak a lot of English. And they enjoyed razzing me in a language I didn’t understand.

I took it in stride; it didn’t bother me and I also found it entertaining, if only because they found it so entertaining. When Noel (the bartender) realized I was going to be staying, he found me a stool to sit on and brought it over to me. I kept dragging him into the conversation because I only understood every fourth word they were saying. At one point he looked at me sympathetically and said “It’s not fair because you don’t understand”.

So, the conversation ended up turning to me and Noel going home together. He said that he’d come to Canada with me; they just wanted him to come to my room with me. They made a big stink about it and eventually I caved and got me some Mexican action.

Well, not quite, but almost.

Until next time, Mexico… I love you as much as my liver hates you.