He's a dancing machine

"What should we do today?"

"What did we do yesterday?"

"I don't remember, but it was pretty great."

"Let's do that again."

"Done"

Going on vacation takes some getting used to. Especially for me since it had been a good 7 years since my last week of downtime in Tulum. A getaway that was marred by sargassum, broken ATM's and a run in with the Mexican Federales, who fleeced me for $277.93.

This magical week in Antigua was 180 degrees from that. 

There was no sargassum, as I had learned my Caribbean lesson and booked a hotel on the leeward side and  avoided that costly and stinky mistake. Furthermore, there was no need of an ATM or even money since Ms. Muse had introduced me to the wonders of the all-inclusive vacation.

This was rather new phenomena that resulted in a signature Antigua Rum Punch appearing in my hand shortly after breakfast. And happily, throughout the day.

That is not to say I denied myself on previous vacations. But the notion of never having to reach for my wallet or keeping a running tab in my head of overpriced hotel cocktails, was quite liberating.

How liberating, you may ask.

On our fourth night in paradise, we found ourselves in the hotel lounge, adjacent to the dining room. There, we joined a large group celebrating Darrell's 60th birthday party. Who's Darrell? Who knows. 

But after blowing out the candles on his cake, this spry ex-military guy from Long Island was up on the dance floor. And so were the 7 other couples he brought down from Suffolk County to celebrate his chronological milestone. All giving the floor joists a good run for their money. And before I could say to the bartender, "...a little less punch and a little more rum", Ms. Muse and I were also in the mix. 

I don't mind saying that dancing is hardly my strong suit. In most cases, I'd rather sit down to a bowl of boiled broccoli than incur the humiliation brought on by my two left feet. But like my new friend Darrell, I'm in my 60's and frankly don't care anymore.

Plus, it's hard to say "No" when everyone else in the joint is making with the hip swaying and pelvis thrusting. And that includes all the staffers, waiters, waitresses, hostesses, hotel receptionists and even the bartender who leapt out from behind the bar, grabbed the microphone and started belting out songs.

I knew I could resist no more when Anisha, the jovial waitress who had brought me some special Scotch Bonnet Hot sauce the day before, was literally bumping butts with me while I attempted to escape the fray.

And so yes, dear reader, yours truly, sufficiently lubricated and well beyond the international border for the preservation of dignity, kicked up his flip flops. 

It was a bachanalia I won't soon forget.

You know, assuming I could remember.