Hey there, fellow trippers. Tomorrow I am off to sunny, Caribbean-esque Cancun on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. I haven’t been out of the country since September and needless to say, I am a little restless.

I’m off to Oasis Cancun, an all-inclusive resort that has just gone through a major renovation. I expect my days will be filled with sun, sand, surf-and-turf and probably a bottomless margarita glass (along with a couple of other surprises that I cannot wait to tell you all about). Until then, let me delight you with a tale from my last visit to Cancun.

It was August 2009 and I was in town visiting the Ritz-Carlton property there. (I was the plus-one for my gentleman friend, who is also a travel writer. Ahh, the true power couple.) After four days of wine tasting, cooking classes and spa treatments it was time for us to fly home, separately, unfortunately. I made my way through the terminal at the Cancun International Airport, looking for a spot to grab that necessary pre-flight beverage.

Look, don’t judge me for my airport behavior, okay? There is absolutely NO local flavor at an international airport, especially in Cancun. So don’t hate on me for stumbling into a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. for a snack and an alcoholic treat. Anyway, I ordered some sort of meal, I really can’t remember, but I’m going to guess it had shrimp. And, of course, I ordered a margarita on the rocks with salt….

…BIG mistake. And I am telling you this story, partially because it is humiliating and also partially to warn you. Apparently it is customary at this particular Bubba Gump Shrimp, at the Cancun International Airport, for all patrons that order a margarita to get up and dance in front of the entire restaurant while all the waiters come out and shake the drink for you. Can you see where I’m going with this? I was alone, I was sunburned, and I was forced to shake and shimmy by myself in front of ladies and gentlemen on guys’ getaways, girls’ getaways and lovers’ getaways. F*ck. My. Life.

I mean, really? Really?! As if dining at an American chain restaurant in an airport isn’t depressing enough, you are stuck in a terminal waiting to go home from what I assume would be a fantastic vacation, most likely bummed out, and all you want is a drink to help ease the sadness you feel at returning to your nine-to-five desk job. And now you have to bounce around like an idiot in front of strangers while six Mexicans sing Mariachi music.

The silver lining is now I go into this a little bit wiser, a little bit calmer and a little bit devilish, because you know I am not going to tell my travel companions about this little secret in hopes that I can pass the shake-and-shimmy torch.

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