Viva la Revolución

The struggle for freedom isn't reserved for the battlefield.

Allow me to ease my lawyer’s mind and preface this story with a disclaimer: In Mexico, the drinking age is 18. Which I assume applies to the legality of consensual acts that take place while drinking—kissing members of the opposite sex who may or may not yet be 21, for example. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’ve never been good at taking real vacations. I know that sounds like every character Diane Keaton has ever played, but it’s true. The past few years, whenever I’ve taken time off from work, it’s been either to visit someone or to attend a wedding—neither of which has yielded the desired rejuvenating effect. So when Jules suggested we kick off 2008 by taking a vacation to Mexico together, it took little convincing for me to agree.

She insisted I leave all of the planning to her, knowing that if I were put in charge, we’d somehow end up with a packed urban itinerary rather than an ocean view. “We’re going to Puerto Vallarta,” she said definitively. “Our hotel is miles away from anything culturally enriching, so you’ll have no choice but to surrender to the relaxation and margaritas.” I wasn’t protesting.

The minute I stepped off the plane, I was amazed by the fact that even the warm air in Mexico felt more relaxed. If it could talk, I imagined it would drawl something along the lines of, “Sure, I’ll winnow drowsily around you. Whatever … ” When we arrived at our hotel, we promptly changed into our bikinis and made our way to the pool, where the rest of the hotel had set up shop hours ago. “Hola, ladies,” a boyishly handsome attendant named Jorge greeted us. “Can I find you two some chairs?” We gladly accepted, and Jules gestured to a spot that had caught her eye.

The spot, as it turned out, was “the Point,” a section of the poolside real estate that jutted out onto the beach and remained in the sun all day, thus making it the most desirable place to be. Though a harem of leggy blondes was occupying the Point currently, Jules was dead set on snagging seats there the next day—the Point was the Aztec empire to her Cortés, and she was determined to win the territory.

We found two runner-up chairs nearby and settled in, but after baking in the sun for what felt like five hours, I glanced at my watch and saw that it had only been 45 minutes. “I’m going to take a walk and see if there’s any place to check email,” I told Jules. “Can’t you just relax?” she retorted. After catching up on emails, doing time at the hotel gym and unpacking my suitcase, I was beginning to wonder whether I could. Like standby mode on my computer, even when I was completely “at rest” I somehow remained ready to spring into action at the slightest flicker of movement. I decided to use my restlessness to pinpoint a spot for dinner.

“Is there a problem, señorita?” a familiar voice asked behind me. I turned to see the gallant Jorge, he of the earlier seat-finding—and, I noted, he of the adorable dimples. “No, just decompressing,” I smiled. He nodded knowingly—apparently, he’d seen this kind of twitchy American behavior before. “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend a spot for an authentic Mexican dinner?” I asked. Jorge rattled off the hotel’s assorted eating options. “No, I mean someplace outside the resort,” I clarified. “What do you like?” I added.

“I like a lot of things,” he smirked, and slowly looked me over. I blushed and noted that I wasn’t entirely opposed to his Latin lack of subtlety. Maybe it was his youth or his accent, but it worked on him—and on me, apparently.

After enjoying my shyness for a few long seconds, Jorge finally let me in on his favorite spot—a signless little restaurant outside of town. “I’m going there tonight,” he told me. “My friend is the bartender. We go to university together in Mexico City, and it’s his last night in town. I can give you a ride?”

Jorge’s spot didn’t disappoint. In fact, the margaritas were the best I’d ever had. We were invited to stay for an after-hours going-away party in the bartender’s honor and, in spite of the fact Jules and I were older than the average partygoer by close to a decade, we accepted. The night was straight out of Authentic Cultural Experience central casting, complete with a mariachi band playing on the patio; local girls huddled in the corner, eyeing us suspiciously; and a yet-to-be-dismantled nativity scene at the door. I couldn’t believe we’d lucked into it.

Jorge led us in a Mexican toast: “Trago Hidalgo/ chinge su madre el que deje algo.” After I’d successfully learned it, I asked for the translation. “The first line means, ‘Drink Hidalgo,’” said Jorge. “You know Miguel Hidalgo, right? He was the Mexican leader of the independence movement, and he was known for his decisive action. When people say, ‘Drink Hidalgo,’ it’s like saying, ‘Drink it all,’ or ‘Go all in.’ The other part mentions your mom but basically means, ‘Fuck whoever leaves anything in their glass.’” Poetic, I thought. We threw back our tequila shots, and Jorge offered us each another.

“Thanks, but I better not if I’m going to go the distance tonight,” I said.

“What is this ‘going the distance?’” Jorge asked. “I’ve heard this before, but I’m not sure what it means. Like in the Cake song, right?” I tried to explain that it was related to the idea of pacing yourself, and Jorge nodded politely, but I could tell he wasn’t really buying it. Following his own linguistic lessons about “going all in,” mine about “holding back” rang very “uptight gringa.”

“You’re cute,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

“I shouldn’t,” I said, leaning away reluctantly. Could I? But, no! He was still in college, for crying out loud.

“Were you going this distance today?” he asked. It took me a minute, but I realized he was referring to my demonstrated need to accomplish tasks during chill-out time. “I don’t like this distance,” he continued, gesturing to the space between us. “Worry about going the distance at home,” he said. “Tonight, Hidalgo.” I was about to inform Jorge that I wasn’t really the Hidalgo type, when he grabbed me and kissed me full on the lips. What the hell, I thought, giving in entirely. Like most of what happened in college, I could always blame it on the tequila.

The next day, I made my debut on the Point. From the minute we set foot on the sacred spot, I understood why the entire hotel seemed intent on residing there. Initially, I would have thought I’d prefer the triangulated view from the sundeck, with the infinity pool in the foreground, the ocean beyond it and the bar in periphery. But something about the uninterrupted sea laid out in front of me—that one and only focus—made for a feeling of peace I wasn’t sure I’d ever experienced. Or maybe it was the high from my taboo make-out session with Jorge. Or maybe it was just the fact that I’d been on actual vacation for 24 hours and it had finally sunk in. Regardless, I was ready to make a commitment to the Point, to throw myself in—metaphorically, of course—with no tequila required. Hell, I was nearly ready to change my name to Hidalgo. “I didn’t think I could ever be one of these people!” I marveled to Jules, after spending a day sprawled out on the Point and finding that I was utterly lacking in desire to ever leave it. “Apparently, you’re just full of surprises,” she winked.

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