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Flying to Cancun, no matter the time of year, is like flying to Las Vegas or New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Undoubtedly there’s some gang of gold draped goombahs sitting behind you on JetBlue (which just started flying direct to Cancun from a lot of major US cities) who busy themselves calling the stewardess “sweetheart” and frequently howl, “yo buddy, keep it steady!” to the pilot every time the plane hits a little turbulence.

Then, when the plane finally lands in Mexico’s Spring Break capital, they cheer and start ranting about how they’re going to get so “faced” on tequila the second they get off the plane. I am already amazed that any woman would ever have sexual relations with these greasy animals–and, in fact, that Spring Break is usually all about guys like these getting laid by their female counterparts. Thank GOD it is June and there shouldn’t be as many of these hellions around to ruin what I hope is going to be a classy, relaxing, tranquil introduction to Cancun–where I will sip my tequila-drowned margaritas rather than chug.

My boyfriend (who I will call Miguel for the purpose of this story–because we are in Mexico and “Miguel Sanchez” is his drunk-on-tequila-evil-alter-ego) and I are staying at the Presidente Intercontinental, one of the top resorts in Cancun. After Hurricane Wilma decimated the destination, the whole city came together to rejuvenate, knowing their tourism industry was the key to their economic stability–and the Presidente Intercontinental is one of the properties that did a major renovation after the Hurricane. Smack dab on THE most beautiful beach in Cancun, our room has an amazing view of the water, in front of which sits picturesque cabanas, palapas, and beach chairs. A little further back is the hotel’s pool which basks in full sun, all day long. As if I needed a reminder than my main goal for this trip is turn the color of adobe.

Our room is pretty dope. The floor is grey granite with no pesky rugs to distract from the cool feeling on your feet after a long day on the hot sand. The room is decorated really simply, which my OCD-ness really appreciates – I hate a cluttered, tacky hotel. When I’m on vacation, I like my hotel room to give me an overwhelming insecurity about my own home–I want it to possess all the serenity I’m convinced my apartment lacks. The only thing this room really needs is a deep bathtub with Jacuzzi jets, but this I’ll forgive. We’ve got a few hours before we’re due for drinks at the hotel’s tequila bar, so Miguel and I throw on our swimsuits–mine is from the Proenza Schuler Target line and I soon realize that my other bathing suit is also from Target, as are two of my dresses. I’m momentarily embarrassed. We hit Cana Brava, the hotel’s casual beachside eatery for fajitas and pina coladas. Miguel only drinks fruity bev’s in tropical destinations and he does so, with total abandon, the rest of our trip. Then we retire to one of the palapas on the sand to get some sun and go for a swim.

As I mentioned before, I have a goal to get tan on this trip but that statement is sort of misleading, as that’s one of my primary goals in life, not just on vacation. I’m pretty fair-skinned, but I’ve lived life with an 8-SPF-Max, Melanoma-be-damned motto–and on this first day out in the hot tropical sun, I’ve convinced myself that going totally SPF-less is a-okay. “I have a base tan!” I thought to myself as I tossed the $15 suntan lotion back on the shelf at the hotel’s gift shop. So after sitting outside, reading my book (The Other Boleyn Girl by Phillipa Gregory–read it, love it) and going for a dip inside the crystal clear, aquamarine blue Gulf waters with Miguel (who thinks it’s funny to dunk me under water to the point of near drowning), two hours have passed. I look over at Miguel, whose shoulders are starting to look a lovely shade of coral. I look down at my chest and see Crayola hot pink. It’s definitely time to get out of the sun.

After a shower and change we meet our travel companions downstairs for drinks at the hotel’s tequila bar. I try every flavor of margarita, all of which are delicious, though the mango is definitely my favorite, and the strawberry tastes a wee bit like a melted, icy Jolly Rancher. We eat dinner under the frond covered roof of El Caribeno–the best tortilla soup I’ve ever had–and Megan and I bore the rest of the group to tears with our heated, passionate discussion about the Showtime series The Tudors (clearly, this, combined with my book o’ choice, show what a total royalty-obsessed geek I am). To sum it up – Is Jonathan Rhys-Meyers too fey to play King Henry VIII? Yes. But is he still totally sexy? Like, duh. I guzzle a few more glasses of white wine and then Miguel and I retire up to our room to sleep.

For the record, the beds at the Presidente Intercontinental are ridiculously comfy–the pillows literally feel like marshmallows and I want to eat them. I hate my bed at home. Nice work Presidente, nice work.

Fuente: gaywired.com