Spending Spring Break in sunny Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, was one of the best decisions I've made in college. For those who have never been, blacking out on spring break is like Tiger Woods winning golf tournaments: It's just expected to the point that when it doesn't happen, people are surprised and start to wonder what went wrong. Not unlike big weekends at Dartmouth, the most frequently heard question is, "Wait, I did what last night?"
But while there's plenty to be said for the daily grind -- breakfast, beach, lunch, pool, bar, dinner, bar, out -- by the eighth day I was more than ready to come back stateside. Here are 10 things I don't miss about Spring Break:
- Dirty Water
According to the academic resource par excellence, Wikipedia, the beaches in Puerto Vallarta have "three to four times the internationally accepted standards for human fecal bacteria." I don't doubt it, and not just because I contributed. The first time I swam underwater, I returned to the surface with one of those six-pack plastic rings on my head. I did the only sensible thing -- tear it up and throw it back.
- Absurdities
The convenience store selling yesterday's USA Today at full price. Hassling with receipts at every meal despite the fact that it's an all-inclusive hotel. Rules of the road that resemble a stage of Cruis'n USA. I could go on.
- Rooming with Jon Scherr
Just kidding, buddy, you know I still love you. Even if you do strew more personal care products all over a bathroom countertop than any other man I know. Manscaping ain't easy.
- ESPN Deportes
Watching the first-round NCAA games was excruciating. I'm not sure what was worse: the 20-second-plus silences or the several minute diatribe on Mexico's soccer team in the midst of Georgia's bid to knock off Xavier. I understand it's a big deal that Mexico didn't qualify for the Olympics, but still.
- Repetitive Regional Dishes
An all-inclusive package is great when it means that your next isla larga costs $0, but not so great when you feel compelled to eat the free food for every meal. When you start pondering a world where every viscous substance has become guacamole (your hair's looking pretty dirty, you should really use some guac next time you shower) you know it's gone too far.
- State School Guys
Or, as we liked to call them, "turbos." Nothing ruins a scene quicker than 10 guys wearing four tubes of hair gel and too much Acqua di Gio. Apparently, while I've been whittling away in New Hampshire for four years, the whole country has turned into an approximation of Long Island. Whatever, upward mobility can't apply to everyone.
- Constant Peddling
Within seconds of settling down on the beach to relax, BOOM. Someone would try to sell you something. A lot of it was pretty sensible; I understand ice cream and sunglasses. But I don't see why people sitting in chaise lounges would be interested in buying hammocks.
At least I experienced firsthand the lessons of ECON 24, that many people in developing countries work at multiple trades: "You don't want me to write your name on a grain of rice? How about a gram?"
- State School Girls
Although I found myself firmly in the "look but don't touch" camp this Spring Break, I was still looking forward to being around girls who have seen the sun at some point in the past three months. Then they opened their mouths, and I understood why the word "vapid" was invented. Fantasies, ruined.
- Injuries
While I went to Mexico well armed against Montezuma's Revenge, I was wholly unprepared for the string of injuries that would have made Leona Lewis proud. Some were inconsequential, like bleeding feet from the broken glass in the club. But are the headaches and dizziness that DHMC just diagnosed as a concussion a result of being the meat of the head-first waterslide sandwich, or from getting body-slammed one night by two girls built like linebackers? The world, or at least I, may never know.
- Burro Races
Every evening our hotel would hold "donkey races." I was duped into thinking they might be real and showed up. Turns out it was just two people throwing large foam dice in the air, one person moving the wooden donkeys corresponding to the two numbers rolled and an emcee giving play-by-play of the always suspenseful action. Incredibly, there was official betting on these glorified crapshoots.
At a place where waiting an hour and a half for dinner wasn't uncommon, it was utterly mystifying to watch four people be singularly committed to the smooth operation of the burro races. The burro pusher was lightning quick, the dice throwers flung the foam boxes with unparalleled vigor, and the emcee had an excitement in his voice which suggested that perhaps he hadn't been doing this exact same thing every day for a year.
Watching the whole event take place with such complete sincerity was like being trapped in a bad episode of The Twilight Zone where you're the only person on Earth who hasn't completely lost his mind.
I have to admit it was pretty amazing that one time when Burro 1 got consecutive snake-eyes to edge out Burro 4 at the line. Talk about a clutch performance. You know what? Put me down for 100 pesos on 3. He's due.
Brian is a writer for The Mirror, and Mexico doesn't like him that much either.
