By day seven, as I stumbled out of my room into the Acapulco sun, I was greeted by the sight of an empty bottle of prescription pills the sting of my sunburned chest, the pounding of my head, and a foggy memory of what I did to cause this seemingly inexorable brain ache the night before.
“Tequila poppers!” someone exclaimed. “It’s only noon... go away,” I lamented in return.
Despite warnings of drug violence, I packed my sandals in my rolling suitcase and boarded the flight to southern Mexico. To set things straight, while there is undoubtedly a problem with drugs in Mexico, there is certainly not a problem in obtaining them. Tiny plastic bags and rolled up peso bills lingered in corners at night, while packets of prescription drugs popped out of beach totes by daylight.
It is no secret that “sex, drugs, and house music,” as the pseudo-official slogan of Acapulco claims, are rampant on Spring Break. It’s perhaps only the sheer volume and density of these three that leave such an impression. The lights in the nightclubs flash brighter and longer, and in terms of sex and drugs — just think exponentially. The whole thing felt a lot like eating large amounts of caviar: deliciously indulgent, but expensive, leaving you so damn sick of it by the end that you’re not exactly sure what to do next.
That being said, it’s hard to be so self-righteous as to say it’s not delightful to pass out in the hot sun with a Corona in one hand and a tequila shot in the other. As for sweat-drenched fist-pumping, well… it can’t be done on adrenaline alone until sunrise.
