12.29.2013

Besos.



Google translate: Spanish word for kisses.

My initial trip to Mexico (sans the rents) resembled as closely to a first all inclusive vacation with friends should. A nonstop party fueled by way too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Unfortunately it was never duplicated for the older we get the less stamina we have.
I never expected my second trip to resemble anything near the first. We were staying in Riviera Maya, a much calmer situation than Cancun. Instead of a large group of travelers, we were only just two (females) this time. It was a quieter vacation; a lot of tanning and relaxing. We amused ourselves with trying to figure out the status of the relationships surrounding us. I caught an instant crush on a beautiful man from Italy who seemed to always be two steps behind us...with his overly pregnant wife. Our resort was flooded with a high school graduating class which also proved to be excellent entertainment. Every evening we’d get dressed up for dinner accompanied by grape juice wine (the red wine in Mexico always tastes more like grape juice than alcohol). We'd later sit at one of the bars in the outdoor theatre for the nightly entertainment.
It really didn’t require much work to become friends with the bartenders and of course I thought one of them to be quite attractive. It was difficult to communicate as he didn’t speak very well English. Although the Spanish language makes me weak in the knees, I don’t speak it. I’m not sure how it happened, and it’s not so much that I can’t remember, but I’m really not sure what occurred. We were at the bar, fairly drunk. I went to use the ladies room and as I was drying my hands the hot Spanish speaking bartender was suddenly at the doorway. I’m not sure if anything was said, but he entered the woman’s washroom and pretty much pinned me up against the wall in the sexiest kiss of my life. The thought still gives me goose bumps. We spent the rest of the night’s meeting behind the bar to make out, not really being able to communicate any other way. On our last evening in Mexico we exchanged phone numbers, I’m not sure why. We messaged each other a few times and when I was returning the next year I initiated contact again. We met up one night in Playa Del Carmen at a club. My bartender had been practicing his English (and French) and we could finally have a real conversation. He made jokes about getting married and insisted on trying to teach me how to dance. I told him I could only white girl dance. He brought me out to the beach and just like that we jumped right back where we had left off with our lips. 

That was almost three years ago and I have not been back since. I have to admit, on these cold (single) winter days, I somewhat regret not taking him up on his proposal.
I mean, I could be in Mexico right now.
Merde.


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