latinhotparty.com

Today we were supposed to take another trip out of Cancun to visit Tulum, one of the most spectacular natural beauties in the Riviera Maya. However, the lot of us are far more interested in working on our melanoma, shopping for cheap Zara outfits at the local mall, drinking fruity alcoholic beverages poolside, and reading trashy historical fiction, so we convinced our hosts that this was really the best way to experience Cancun, rather than traveling two hours away to hike and take photos covered in sweat. And we were right.

Cancun may be about partying and wet t-shirt contests and tequila soaked mega clubs to the average underage US high school senior, but for myself and my companions (which include the aforementioned Miguel, Megan, and Charity, as well as Alex, Carla, Carly, and Felice) Cancun is about chillin’. And chillin’ is what we did – ALL DAY LONG.

Miguel and I started off the day with my third favorite thing about hotels besides Jacuzzi jet bathtubs and beds with marshmallow pillows – room service. I love how it arrives under a shiny dome, how the portions are just right so I don’t feel bloated afterwards, and the coffee comes by the pot, not the cup. I love how they whisk it away and I don’t have to ruin my $10 manicure doing dishes. I love that I can eat in bed and not worry about staining the sheets, because dammit, they are not mine and I can enjoy my eggs Benedict while watching nip/tuck in Spanish! Our food was delicious, the sun streamed in from the deck, and I was ready to hit the pool – my sunburn had started to peel already, which was a sure sign that it was time to jump back on the tan train, this time with SPF 30.

We spend the next four hours or so laying out, jumping in to swim and float. The water temperature down here is what the pools in heaven must feel like – it’s just cold enough to cool you down, but warm enough to not shock your bloodstream. I found a big globe of seaweed and put in on Miguel’s head like an afro. He didn’t find this very funny.

Later on, we hop on one of the many buses that run up and down Cancun’s main strip – these are the same buses you would take if you were a high school senior on Spring Break heading out to the clubs. Cancun isn’t the safest city, at all, and it’s not recommended you walk around at night – these buses run nearly every two minutes and cost literally, no joke, like 10 cents US. Taking a cab would cost you eons or more, and you wouldn’t want to take a cab anyway, as I’ve heard stories of tourists being sold into white slavery.

Anyway, Megan and Miguel and I head down the strip and get off at one of the malls – I realize that I live in New York City and could find anything I could ever want to buy there, but I’m convinced there could be deals to be had. I mean, if our bus ride only costs 10 cents, imagine how much an adorable shift from Zara might cost here! At the mall there’s tons of knick knack stores that sell crude and funny t-shirts and weird dolphin ashtrays – I’m tempted to buy a Corona towel, but talk myself out of it.

We hit the Starbucks like a bunch of pathetic, ugly Americans. Carla told us earlier that apparently Starbucks is huge in Mexico, which you wouldn’t expect since coffee in Mexico is fabulous and cheap on its own, but something about the Frappuccino seems to be universal. I go into Zara and buy a fabulous little party dress which, to my total pleasure, is about 10% cheaper than what it would be back home. Mission accomplished. Before dinner we have drinks at the poolside deck bar and I decide to challenge myself by downing red wine, then margaritas, then white wine.

I’m wearing my new dress, but didn’t anticipate such gusty wind, which is making my dress pouf in such a way that I look pregnant with twins. This only serves to cement Miguel’s frequently made point that the empire-waist dresses I insist on buying are really just French for maternity wear. I chow down on ceviche and salad and get drunk. Just because clubbing isn’t on the itinerary, doesn’t mean Cancun doesn’t look and feel a whole lot better less than sober.

I head home tomorrow, secure in the knowledge that my peeling sunburn will eventually make me the kind of tan that my pasty friends will envy; that I am fat from too many fajitas and sugar-laced cocktails and therefore will need to do a full yoga detox the second I get home; and that there really is no more beautiful beach than the one in front of the Presidente Intercontinental in Cancun, except maybe in Tulum. Not that I got off my classy, lazy butt to go there.

Fuente: www.gaywired.com