A few weeks ago, I asked you for your very worst Spring Break horror stories. Here is mine.
When I was in college, I never went on a proper Spring Break with friends. There were a few reasons for this. Firstly, I had no friends. Secondly, my folks used spring break to plan some sort of family vacation, which I always went on happily. As a result, I ended college without doing that thing where you go to Cancun and get drunk and get a sloppy handjob from some chick in a Wisconsin sweatshirt. It never happened for me, and a lifetime of watching Beauty and the Beach on MTV and masturbating to Fraternity Vacation had me convinced I had dropped the ball badly.
So I made it a point, after graduating school, to go on the Spring Break I had never enjoyed. Mexico! Beer! Loose pussy! Senor Frog's! Mexican jail! FUCK YEAH! My friend Alan (not his real name) knew someone at a travel agency (this was before using Expedia became prevalent) who put together package deals for college kids. So we bought one, along with one other friend. It cost $1,500 each or something. I did this blindly, because I assumed this was a reputable outfit. It was not. In fact, this is where everything began to go wrong. Are you planning a Spring Break with all your bestest college frat brother buddies this year? Well, do yourself a goddamn favor and obey these rules.
1. BE AWARE OF WHERE YOUR FLIGHT IS LEAVING FROM. I lived in New York when we planned this vacation. Turned out our flight was round trip from Boston. I did not bother to notice such details when I paid for the trip, because I was very drunk and fat. LOOK AT YOUR ITINERARY. Just because some friend of yours planned it doesn't mean it isn't fucked.
2. FLY A REAL FUCKING AIRLINE. The package deal I bought included roundtrip airfare on a chartered plane. Not Delta. Not United. Not American. Just some profiteering asshole who rented a big plane. You may hate the major airlines. But I assure you, they are far superior to Farkesh's Airmule Service. The chartered plane we took out of Logan wasn't given any sort of gate priority because it wasn't a real airline. Thus, our flight was delayed by a full 24 hours. I slept by the Logan baggage claim. The rest of the passengers were all exact models of Tommy from Quinzee. One of them blasted DMX out of a boom box in the gate area the entire time. Who owns a boom box in 2000? Fucking O'Sully McO'Murphgerald, that's who. At least two fights broke out in the gate area.
When we got on the plane, it was clear it was a plane that had been built in 1807 and gone unused for seven decades. The aisle creaked. A couple of the overhead bins had no doors. The pilot spoke with a thick Eastern European accent ("Put it in H!"). I swear to fucking God there was duct tape in abundance. Drinking did NOTHING.
3. IT'S A WISE IDEA TO CONFIRM YOUR HOTEL ROOM WITH THE HOTEL. When we landed in the chartered plane in Cancun, we figured the worst part of this whole fucking thing was over. Not so. Turned out the Grand Oasis Hotel, where we were supposedly booked, was not obligated to give us an actual room, due to the Byzantine agreement we had signed with the travel agency. Instead, we were diverted to Cancun's equivalent of the Jolly Roger. However, we were given wristbands for access to the Grand Oasis pool, where everyone appeared to be having a far greater time than us. We were not allowed to use the hotel's towels. I stole six anyway.
4. DON'T PLAN SO FAR IN ADVANCE THAT YOU HAVE TIME TO ACQUIRE A SERIOUS GIRLFRIEND BEFORE YOUR TRIP. I was so excited about going on a REAL Spring Break that I made my plans in the fall of 1999, a solid six months in advance. I met my wife a month later. Um, oops. As a result, by the time our vacation came around, I was that guy: the shithead in your group who won't hook up down in Mexico because he just wubs his wubbzy so much. I spent a good deal of time during the day in Cancun trying to call/email my then girlfriend. Alan was about ready to fuck my eye with a hammer. I do not blame him for this.
Then there is the whole of Cancun itself, which makes Times Square look authentic. We went to Fat Tuesday, where MTV taped its Spring Break segments. It's a fucking concrete lot. We went to some club where I saw a girl who was dancing on a table get finger-raped by three frat guys dancing below her.
I was 22 when I went on this trip. I was a fucking idiot. But I am telling you people, there are college students out there so aggressively fuckheaded you wonder how they even stand upright. One group of Southern guys went around the hotel 24 hours a day chanting, "Pork chop! Pork chop! Greasy, greasy! We're gonna beat y'all easy easy!" I think they were from Arkansas. Fuck them with a hand grenade.
In the end, we spent five miserable days down in that crowded shithole of a tourist trap. I opened a two-inch gash on my hand falling out of a bus, and I drunkenly emailed my friend Jeremy at 2 a.m. to email my girlfriend to tell her that I loved her (why I went through him is a mystery I cannot explain). Jeremy then printed that email and read it aloud at my bachelor party. I cannot find that email, nor can Jeremy. I would post it here if I had it. The phrase, "Big boys don't cry" was definitely used. I am gay.
No one in our group got laid the entire trip.
In the end, I got what I deserved for assuming a belated Spring Break in Cancun would be the idyllic, baby oil-drenched orgy I hoped it would be. I'm sure others who went down there for Spring Break had the time of their lives. I assume, unlike me, they did their homework beforehand. Do yours.
Photo via Webshots