We opted for an easy morning after a solid few days of partying that had cost me a fair amount of brain cells. Instead of staying in the hostel, me and Amie spent the day watching YouTube videos and eating horrible and strange Mexican snacks from Oxxo. Eventually we left to go to the mall to pick out new outfits to kill some time. Out of guilt for all the money we had been spending recently, me and Amie left the mall empty handed. A few of the guys had decided on going to City that night which was one of the most famous clubs. As a result cover was a premium price, and there was no way in hell that I was paying it. That night we decided to go to our favorite bar, Congo, because it was cheap as hell, and everyone usually ended up there at the end of the night anyway.

We hailed a van cab, rolled up to the front of the club, and instantly had half a dozen promoters trying to grab our arms to sell us party packages. Negotiation is key in the bar scene if you plan to not toss your weekly budget out the window. So we took our time, pretended to be torn between choosing which bar to go to, and walked away to contemplate our options. There was absolutely no chance that we were going anywhere but Congo, but the theatrics paid off. We were usually able to get the price down by close to half in exchange for  bringing in a large group from the hostel. As for drinks, only a rookie would get everyone to buy open bar bracelets. If you were careful enough, you could choose a partner and pass each other drinks from under the table and split the cost of one bracelet.

Two guys from France who were staying at our hostel approached us at our table, and I noticed they didn’t have bracelets. So I offered to grab them drinks, but one of them declined. I laughed and asked “Oh God, so what are you on then?” expecting some weird Mexican cocktail of substances, but he shook his head and said “Nothing”. My laugh froze in my throat as I realized he was sober, but not just for the night as he told me, but in general. I just kinda stood there with this dumb shit look on my face as I wondered why the hell someone would come to a place like Cancun sober. I could hardly stand being at a house party sober, let alone at a Mexican club packed with creeps from every corner of the globe who dry humped your leg any chance they got. So he countered my offer with a dance. I had a massive crush on him since he arrived at our hostel, so I died inside as he lead me in a Salsa. If his anatomic perfection didn’t make him an 11, then his dancing skills definitely did. We went back to our group after a few songs. I noticed his other French friend slammed every drink I gave him like a total  champignon (yes, I am aware that is French for mushroom ahahah). We then watched the guys from City trickle in as the night went on and me and Amie turned to each other and high fived. Congo was a vortex, deserters always came back eventually.

Among them was Wilson, another Aussie mate who had rolled into Hostel Quetzal with his quieter and less obnoxious Indian travel friend, Arsh. Our dysfunctional family was laughing, and screaming, and taking shots and dancing while Arsh and Wilson were being absolutely showered in Mexican cougars. Arsh had chosen one and was dancing with her all night, and they were shameless as they sloppily made out. We were all loudly recapping our nights and laughing telling stories when he poked his head into our circle and threw up his arms shouting “SHE ATE MY LIPS LIKE A CANDY” with his thick Indian accent. I bit down on my lip trying hard not blurt out his uncanny behavioral resemblance to Raj from The Big bang Theory. That would be a tad distasteful said my seldom present conscience. Wilson of course then bee lined for Amie and garbled out all kinds of pickup lines so terrible that they were awesome.

I watched Wilson with admiration for his bravery and persistence. Wilson was no Brad Pitt. He was barely even a Seth Rogan (Sorry Seth Rogan). He was  one of those guys who kind of missed social cues, struck up long conversations just as you turned to leave, and crept into your personal space no matter how many times you stepped backward to send the message. After a while of eavesdropping, I realized his pickup lines weren’t just bad… they were really weird. Like as in just not making sense weird, and then I heard him mention that he had taken acid. Why in God’s name he would choose acid was beyond me. It began to over take him, which only resulted in more gibberish. The night was pretty much over at that point, and  we all decided to grab the next bus home. We all clambered up the dangerously steep spiraled staircase to our rooms at the hostel and said our good-nights.

I was lucky enough to have Wilson as my bunk mate. He of course continued his incessant babbling, totally missing the cue that I was getting in my pajamas, climbing into bed, and that it was time to get out of my face. He was a harmless man, and the only hurt he really caused was keeping me up a bit later than I wanted to. He was crouching (yes, crouching) at the foot of my bed and crying laughing at just about every thing I said. I was trying to make him laugh after all, and when I put on Amie’s Melbourne accent, he accused me of turning into her. When I realized he was dead serious, I sighed and rolled over.

“Good night Wilson, get off my bed, you bogan.”

And I listened to my bunk mate haul himself up our ladder as he giggled and talked to himself. I had a moment of clarity that I was starting to change. The Canadian in me would have let him hover by my bed all night if he had to, too afraid of hurting his feelings or worse causing a bad trip. But I laughed too, and told Wilson to shut up and stop moving so much one last time before I popped my earplugs in for the night.