"ucha? ducha? Manu! Welcome to Mexico." (Part 2)

Day 1 (Wednesday) continued: As I slept soundly on the way from the airport to our resort, my sister chatted away with the driver. I woke up to a discussion on the Empire State Building, feigned interest for 12 seconds, and went back to sleep. Finally, after I had almost exhausted my reserves of dreams (I had gone through purple shark attacks, tornadoes, old boyfriends turned into lepers), we reached the resort. I was too afraid to be excited, for fear of another line or delay. Someone helped us down from the shuttle and took our bags, and we proceeded to a large, open lobby, peppered with tables laden with fruit and waiters bearing sparkling wine.

And my initial instincts were correct--there was a small line to check in, as a large British family of about 16 had spread themselves out by the counter, utilizing all of the clerks at the desk. I ran up to one of the waiters to grab some hors d'oeuvres, found that they all had fish in them, and then skulked back to the line.

I was almost at the tipping point (no, seriously, I was about to keel over from hunger) when it was finally our turn to check in. Silently cursing the British, (I never participated in the royal wedding euphoria) Manu and I moved up to the counter and slammed our sweaty, shaking hands down on the cool marble.

We filled out some forms and signed by arbitrary x's. The clerk asked us if we would like a welcome drink, and then, taking note of our haggard, frail appearances, snapped his fingers and asked the man to his left to quickly bring us drinks.

And that is when I met the love of my life.

Nicolas was sandy-haired, tan, and had eager, kind eyes. He brought out two flutes that seemed to contain liquid rubies, and smiled compassionately as we glugged them down like senile men in an Irish pub. He showed us the map of the resort, where we could go for snacks at 2 in the morning, where we could go for tourist-targeted markets that lured with shiny objects (I speak from experience). Enamored of his soft eyes, I asked him where he was from, and he told us about his education in Spain and his internships abroad and the further I fell into a trance, the less I listened to his own history.



I called him, "Nico."



I felt a pang in my stomach. I initially thought it was love, but then remembered how hungry I was. Nico could wait. My sister and I rushed back to the hotel, excited to finally change out of our sweats and get dinner. The hotel room was immaculate, the mini bar was free, and we had a balcony overlooking the ocean. To assert her presence as an artist, our maid had created an elephant out of the towel--stuck on googly eyes. 

Once the shock of towel animals wore off, we went to dinner. The amount of fruit had no parallel (except, perhaps, the fruit bowl in our home), the desserts were bountiless, and there were 12 types of salsa for our chips.



This past weekend, Hurricane Irene ravaged the northeastern coast of the United States. Two weeks ago, Manu and I ravaged the buffet at Gran Bahia Principe, the diluvial effects of our hunger destroying any semblance of civility or politesse.







8:02 pm



8:08 pm

My sister and I fell into a food coma that first night. My Facebook status the next morning was something to the effect of: "passed out first night in Cancun! WOO HOO PARTY!! lol. tee hee."

God forgives white lies.