Liz and I recently joined several of my brother Mark and new sister-in-law Danita's friends and family in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, thus checking the last North American country off our list. Which, since we were born in the U.S., means we'd previously been to Canada. No small feat for people born in Minnesota. We're pretty worldly.
The wedding was at the Barcelo Maya Palace, a beautiful all inclusive resort complex on the Mayan Riviera. Everything was landscaped perfectly, the ocean and pools were aesthetically pleasing, and the staff were well trained at hiding their disdain for decadent, boorish Gringos. A typical day involved a civilized wake up time followed by a light breakfast of literally anything you could imagine and some kiddie pool time with Nathan and Josie, who as you can see, were dangerously close to surpassing the maximum level of adorableness allowable under Mexican law.
Then we'd do lunch, followed by activities ranging from poolside lounging to beachside lounging to fruity drink drinking, to trying to keep this mustachioed, fannypack packing, aqua sock wearing probable child molester away from the kids...
One day we even played two holes of pitch and putt and one hole of mini golf. Exhausting. We'd have dinner in small groups or all together; we had a great time hanging out with/meeting Danita's friends and relatives.
The ceremony and reception were very well done--maintaining the perfect balance between beachy casualness and lifelong commitment making gravitas. Not wanting to screw up my first and likely last best man speech, I was a little nervous. I'd concocted a story about wanting to honor our host country by giving my toast in Spanish, but not having been a Spanish speaker I'd written down some simple heartfelt wishes and had a coworker translate them for me. I then read a recipe for chicken mole I'd pulled off the Foodnetwork website and stuck into Google translate. The reception waiters said they could understand "a little" of what I said. I then went on to say that having my speech translated by a guy who hates me was probably a bad idea, but that I meant to say "May no one build a fence upon the border between your hearts. May your family operate with the ruthless loyalty to one another of a vicious drug cartel. And may the love and laughter in your lives be all inclusive." Touching in its borderline offensiveness, I thought. After some dancing and roboting at the reception, we moved the party to the much anticipated Jaguar (pronounced YAHG-you-are) Discotheque for some scantily clad go-go dancers, smoke machines, roboting, and general buffoonery.
On the day we left and had to leave, however, I woke up with something. To call this thing a hangover would be like calling a case of Ebola "a little bug I picked up." I swear it was sentient--teasing me with brief periods of hinting that it was letting up only to come back with renewed malevolence. It felt like Satan spawning demons in my brain. I sweated and shivered in rapid oscillations; every step felt as if my legs were in serious danger of giving out; my jaw ached for some reason (see previous sentence for a possible explanation); my heart beat irregularly; every breath had to be a conscious decision; I felt like I could barf at any minute yet I had the full knowledge that I wouldn't. Sleep was impossible since every time I closed my eyes for more than 20 seconds I felt like my heart might stop. Eating or even drinking more than an ounce of water? When our plane hit turbulence over the gulf of Mexico I thought "Well, if the plane goes down at least this whatever-you-call-it would be over." It was the culmination of five straight all-inclusive nights followed by poolside dog hair. Next time, partially inclusive might be a better option. With God as my witness, never again. Liz felt too bad for me to even say I told you so. Finally, 12 hours later in the Boston airport, I felt like I might just survive. We got home and I debated whether or not to check my email, foolishly did, and found out I had to be at a nine A.M. meeting with Alzheimer's disease collaborators an hour's drive away (through ~5 inches of fresh snow) at Harvard. Oh well, might as well rip the band-aid off quickly I figured. In hindsight, several of my symptoms might have been caused by the minor case of travelers diarrhea I had brewing, but Montezuma ain't got nothin' on Don Julio when it comes to vengeance.
