Being the journalistically acute sleuth that I am, and acting upon a stern warning from an editorial staff craving a juicy story about something relating to sexuality, I solemnly stomached my new assignment, boarded a plane, and stormed the beaches of Acapulco in search of that elusive blockbuster story.
What I encountered when I arrived in Acapulco was the most surreal, insane, and savage experience of my life, packed into seven days and nights of mayhem that I still have yet to come to terms with. Upon returning to Bowdoin this week I have found my hair thinning at an unprecedented pace, endured an entire week of nightmarishly fitful sleeps due to alcohol withdrawal, and my ears have been ringing to the tune of Bob Sinclair's "Sound of Freedom" since leaving Acapulco. I can confidently say that I've taken at least a year off of my life in only one week and the sad part is that I would absolutely be willing to do so again.
From our insulated haven tucked away in the placid arctic tundra of Maine, we here at Bowdoin are protected by an overbearing security staff, 1 a.m. party curfews, Vineyard Vines pastel clothing, and the severe overuse of the word 'awkward' coupled with a condescending look every time something actually fun is about to go down. Not so in Acapulco. The only awkward thing I found in Acapulco during my seven-day excursion was a 100-foot light up cross on the bluffs overlooking the pit of sin and debauchery that was Spring Break '08. While there have been a number of recent articles commenting on how Acapulco is undergoing its own Renaissance and becoming a more classy and glitzy locale by recovering its former 1950s glory, my recent experience in the trenches would beg to differ on nearly all accounts.
In order for me to fully accomplish my journalistic endeavor to expose the heart of true Spring Break, I hand-selected a crack group of willing and well-trained partiers known only as Team Awesome. Equipped with fake Prada shades, a football, SPF 0 tanning oil, new board shorts, sarcastic pickup lines, and enough hair gel to coat a Slip-n-Slide, we ventured into the unknown. For those of you who think that Spring Break is a rejuvenating affair, prepare to be shocked as I lead you vicariously through a day in the life of Team Awesome on Spring Break '08 in Acapulco.
The average day began at roughly 9 a.m. when we could commence the morning ritual of stretching out the right rotator cuff to relieve the soreness from a long night of fist pumping. Then, loud house music would immediately set the ambience of the room for the next hour while we performed the delicate and time-honored ritual of piecing together the previous evening while showering and lathering up in enough tanning oil to force the Mexican EPA to investigate a possible oil spill in the pool later that afternoon.
Promptly at 12 noon the Copacabana song would fill the air with a foreboding of the surreal day that lay ahead. It would be filled with hazy 90-degree sun, beautiful sand, gorgeous people, beach vendors, man volleyball and pool contests featuring Trisha from Real World Sydney, who, by the way, is way friendlier in real life that on the show. After consuming assorted chilled beverages reminiscent of battery acid, Team Awesome mingled with the friendly Midwestern state schoolers who had never heard of Bowdoin and, for the most part, couldn't locate Maine on a map anyway so it was useless to even attempt to explain. By day three, we had convinced the entire hotel that we went to the University of Phoenix... online.
By 6 p.m. with a solid eight hours of tanning, selfish partying, haggling beach vendors for useless stuff, and losing poolside competitions, we headed back satisfied to home base for the coveted afternoon nap. For dinner at around 9 p.m., we had the delicious all-inclusive buffet which included chimichangas, unidentified guacamoles, powdered milk, and Modelo Cervezas (which, by the way, is the Natty Light of Mexico). After rehydration from our El Puro five liter tub of water, we began the nightly ritual of peacocking for the night's festivities by dressing up in square-toed Italian leather shoes, big sunglasses, button-down shirts (only one button is allowed to be done up), well-coiffed pompadours, and the rubber chicken necklaces we purchased from the beach vendors earlier that afternoon.
After some more assorted male bonding we finally left the room for hotel mingling which included a hard-alcohol-only pregame party that would make any Bowdoin Security staffer's head explode. By 2 a.m., it was out to catch a harrowing ride in one of Acapulco's famous highly modified 1970s-era VW Bug cabs, during which our cab driver, known only by his pseudonym, Ricky Racer, would attack the streets with six people in his five-by-five steel coffin at extremely unsafe speeds. After the cab ride, the welcome sight of the Palladium came into view. According to the savvy Acapulco vets we met while down there, the Palladium is supposedly the No. 4 club in the world.
After bopping on stage to loud techno music with some of the most intense partiers in the Western Hemisphere and losing one or two of the group, we assembled the remnants of Team Awesome for the famous 4 a.m. "Dance with the Devil." The Devil, who defines exactly what Acapulco has to offer, charges the stage in full silver body paint, with a massive feather headdress and flaming torch. After he takes center stage, he wastes no time in making the bold claim that he can give you "Sex, Drugs, and House." After hearing his synthesized voice on the 50,000 watt sound system, I have to say he convinced me.
By 6 a.m., we realize that the sun is on the horizon and that the night is starting to wind down, so we race back to our hotel and party on the beach until 9 a.m. when we have the sudden epiphany that Team Awesome did not go to bed last night. Oh well, its only three more hours until the Copacabana song hits again.