Dateline -- Tulum, Mexico. 10:32 AM
We have travelled more than 3800 miles, including 5 hours on a brand spanking new 737-900, with the electrical outlets embedded in the seats, another 1 hour on the customs line which stretched from Cancun to Isla Mujeres, and another 1 and half hour shuttle ride with young Alberto, who spoke no English but still understood that I needed to stop at a store to purchase a 6 pack of Corona, thank you Alberto.
All to arrive at our eco-friendly cabana hotel, aptly named The Beach.
Sadly however, The Beach offers no beach.
In fact, none of the hotels along the Mexican Riviera offer any beach. Because the good Lord, in all his wisdom, or his spite for my militant secularism, has blanketed the entire coast with fuckin' seaweed.
It's as far as the eye can see. If it had legs and a spiteful mind, I'm sure it would be creeping up the beach and helping itself to my huevos rancheros.
In the vernacular of the day -- FML.
On the flip side, the hotel is beautiful. The bar is fully stocked and Ernesto, the bartender, seems to be fond of my broken restaurant Spanglish.
"Chupame my verga" is always good for a laugh.
Plus, I have a veritable treasure chest of opiates that will make all that angst, or at least a good portion, go away.
First world problems at best. In the words of John Cleese, "Adapt, adopt and survive."
Also, if any of you are wondering about the wisdom of telling the world I am on vacation and away from my home, keep in mind that my horse-strong brother is housesitting.
And he has legs as thick as 55 gallon drums.
55 gallon drums packed jelly-tight with seaweed.
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