None For Gretchen Weiners

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Cabo: 1, Dominique: Nada

This spring break, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to set my money on fire, or go to Mexico with friends. Since I was low on crystal meth and thought I could get a good deal south of the border, I decided on the latter.

Cabo is a great place to spend Spring Break if you: have little to no expectations, are between the ages of 18 and 25, have a high tolerance for white trash and cheap tequila, and enjoy gallivanting around half-naked, full-blackout and barefoot around a country full of locals that may or may not want to kill you.

The following is an account of my experience with Cabo San Lucas, Spring Break.

Pre-flight:

A friend I was travelling with found us a car company so we wouldn’t have to deal with bartering with a cab driver. They were super friendly. They sent us an email that said, “Have wonderful vacations!!!!!!!” (punctuation was not exaggerated here, that was verbatim) and included this really helpful map to help us find our driver once we arrived.

 

Let’s take a closer look. I’m supposed to be looking for this woman:

 

But I have to avoid these people like the plague:

¡NO! ¡NO! ¡NO!

 

But what I was really looking forward to was this guy:

Yes, please!

But things weren’t as friendly as they appeared in our map.



Arrival:

In my mind, I was going to get off the plane and be handed a margarita the size of my face and crowned with a sombrero by a crew of friendly locals in a mariachi band.

My dreams were crushed.

The San Jose del Cabo airport is the biggest clusterfuck since the Bay of Pigs. You’d think that with all the people actively trying to leave the country of Mexico that it would be easier to actually get in. Alas, this is not the case – we spent nearly three hours in customs before leaving the airport.

We ventured out of the airport into the desert. Before we checked our luggage or went to the hotel, we made the absolutely crucial decision to go to WalMart. Yes, the Mexicans have adopted the glorious American tradition of WalMart.

After clearing out their selection of avocados and tequila, we headed to the hotel. During this journey, we heard the new Mexican National Anthem, “Hello” by Martin Solveig at least three times (the travel time was about 30 minutes).

Not kidding, they play this song more than a frat party plays Levels.

My friend makes these. They are cool. Click here to get one.

Going out:

Went to a pretty classy club called the Pink Kitty. My natural inclination was to steal the head off of the mascot (see the first picture). Look at his face. That’s a face only a mother could love, except she probably wouldn’t even love it because it’s a face that’s high on something that would convince him to wear a pink kitty suit. It’s not even an angry face. It’s the halfway moment between the initial shock and the post-shock anger. Regardless, he walked us into the “VIP” section, where a girl asked us to come dance with her. Then we saw a big video camera. Then we realized they were shooting the intro to a porn. NOT DOWN.

On to Squid Roe. A three-story shitshow full of trashy college kids and overpriced drinks. Awesome.

 

There’s no place I’d rather be than in a sweaty Mexican club drinking tequila shots out of plastic ramekins getting pushed by drunk strangers and listening to Hello on repeat. Wait…

Despite the obvious drawbacks, it was a cool place to party. Except for when the she-devils with jell-o shots and whistles come around… they literally blow a whistle, force a jell-o shooter into your mouth and then make you pay for it.

here’s one with the devil himself

I fell victim to them about four times on the first night. Total rookie move. It was all fun and games until I saw pictures from that night. That’s when I discovered this:

 

Despite the extremely off-putting grammatical error, this meme is horrifyingly accurate. If you’ve never been to El Squid Roe, just look at this picture, and imagine some more tequila in it. Here let me help you:

¡Ole!

The last big thing I noticed about the bars is the insane amount of US dollars used as decoration. This discovery bore my theory that the locals in Cabo don’t understand the actual value of US dollars. Not only do they charge you on a relative basis with a blatant disregard for the exchange rate ($25 for a cab ride?), but they also use actual American currency as a form of interior design. They could probably buy a house in Mexico with the amount of dollars they have on the walls. I can’t tell if this is out of reverence or obliviousness or if it’s a just a big “eff you America” protest.

(faces have been blocked to protect the innocent)

Every time I drank I tried to speak Spanish. So, every day I was in Mexico, I tried to speak Spanish. The more drinking, the more Spanish. This would have been great, except for the fact that the only foreign language I’m relatively competent in is French. Things were going well, communication-wise, until about 4 a.m. post-squidroe in a random taco shop when “Je m’appelle tacos” happened.

It wasn’t intentional. “Quiero quesadilla,” came out correctly. But I didn’t get a quesadilla. I got a tiny taco with some cheese and meat. My reaction was far from pleased:

So I ordered more tacos. Quesadillas aren’t as common as I thought. Also, burritos aren’t Mexican either. Found that shit out the hard way.

Day-drinking:

Cabo Spring Break is what I like to call a rolling blackout. You blackout at night and prevent the nastiness of a hangover by doing it again during the day. It’s a lifestyle choice, really.

After a night of the aforementioned shenanigans at Squid Roe, you head to the beach, where thousands of the “inlanders” (an overarching term for people not from California) come to bite the hair of the dog (like… all of the hair. That dog is now bald) and shake their hangover by shaking what their mommas didn’t give them (like I said, half-naked, full-blackout gallivanting) at a place called the Mango Deck.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, I don’t know), this occasionally surfaces in the form of wet t-shirt contests. I learned a lot of things on this trip, one of them being that if you’re from Minnesota, you want EVERYONE to see your boobs. Who woulda thought. I’m not mad about it. Whatever blows your dress up. Some people want to dance with their friends, some people want to flash 400 strangers on a beach in Mexico. I get it, it happens.

If you’re not into public indecency, fear not. You can bide your time by getting a henna tattoo of a shark on your chest. Maybe a playboy bunny or some male genitals. Stuff your parents would LOVE to see. I tried to get “ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass” on my lower back. A friend who was more…. cognizant…. convinced me to forego my cosmetic endeavors and go banana boating instead. My dignity says thank you.

All in all, Cabo was a blast. I think I’m mostly pleased that I didn’t die. I may be suffering from acute liver failure, but I’m considering it a victory.

I don’t know why I put this in here. But it felt right at the time.

 

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This entry was posted on March 19, 2012 by and tagged , , , , , , .
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