Like many other males in their 20s who live in the frigid latitudes of the United States, the long and harsh winter months have many of us often planning well in advance for a sunny escape.
Since my particular line of work happens to coincide with many college spring break schedules, I am privy to witness the debaucherous behavior of the revelers in all of its alcohol-induced glamour. This year, I decided to switch up my usual spot in the Sunshine State for the white sand beaches of Mexico.
While many of you may consider such travel arrangements a golden ticket to loose college girls farther than the eye can see, that was not at all the reality of the situation on the ground. Instead, the town where I had naively conceived as popular enough yet infinitely tamer than Cancun was overrun by high school-aged girls from stateside.
Now, it would be easy to go on via countless anecdotes about the behavior that occurred right in front of me, but I would rather tell you the best display of sluttiness that was the most disconcerting.
On the last evening of the trip, I strolled down the infamous Quinta Avenida (even though it shares the name of Fifth Avenue, rest assured that it’s a tad less classy), which houses most of the nightclubs and late night bars in addition to street vendors hounding you to live up to their high expectations of frivolous, American consumers.
As those of us on ROK know, a girl who claims to be well-traveled actually spends the vast majority of her vacation hooking up with as many dudes as possible. Nevertheless, as the tale goes, the Easter holiday took place that very same day, and I happened to still have a few hundred pesos that I preferred to use instead of being monetarily raped by exchanging them back to dollars.
Strolling down the street around midnight with the humid air of the Caribbean accentuating the party ambiance at every turn, one of the city’s major clubs was swarmed with voluptuous, young partiers waiting in line to enter.
Equipped with mini-skirts and shorts barely below their crotches, I thought that I had the luck of a leprechaun who had found his pot of gold in the forum of sexily bronzed, busty bodies. Sure enough, I told myself, it would only be a matter of time before moseying on my way to getting a college flag.
March Madness paled in comparison to the bounce that was playing out right before my eyes and the eventual slam dunk that seemed all but certain.
“Where did you all get those cards and bracelets? I noticed they’re not charging your group cover,” I inquired to get into a social mood and pry for other information pertaining to their whereabouts.
“Oh! Well, our whole group got them at the hotel in advance!”
My initial reaction: Jesus Christ—whose own celebration was, at best, on the back burner of these girls’ minds—they must be really down to party if they’re that organized.
A mere few minutes later, I joined the caravan on the rooftop terrace and gawked at the spectacle. Scantily clad bodies were fist pumping with one hand and downing a cocktail from a neon plastic cup in the other with others dancing on a platform for all to see.
I began to wonder if this is how a scene from the original Girls Gone Wild from the 90’s would have been filmed if it weren’t for the simplicity of now finding similar porn on the internet at the click of a button. Alas, into the grinding, ass-romping mosh pit I went to take in the moment.
Then, something freaked me out. On the entire outer perimeter of the dance floor was a group of middle-aged adults staring, scowling, and seething with contempt yet standing aimlessly. I kept trying to put two and two together but could not come up with a logical answer to appease my curiosity.
After sitting down next one of the lurkers in his mid 40’s or so, the elderly chat came out in full force so I could get to the bottom of this mayhem.
“Beautiful night tonight isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Nice change from back home,” he said in a soft voice.
“Where’s back home at?”
“In Michigan,” the responses became short and ripe with discomfort.
“So, you must be with that large group, I take it? It must be a group trip of some sort?”
“It’s their school trip.”
“Oh…so you…are all teachers?”
“Parents. It’s their senior trip”
“Is this how everyone celebrates Easter in Michigan?” I couldn’t resist, and what made it even better was just how much he didn’t appreciate the comment.
My expectations of Michigan being “pure” did not live up to the commercial.
A whirlwind of thoughts invaded my mind: This is your child’s parentally chaperoned senior trip? Not in Rome to visit the former stomping grounds of heroic gladiators at the Coliseum? Not in France to appreciate the immensely talented artists and sculptors of the Louvre?
It all came crashing down in one swoop. These girls, who had rightfully made themselves the objects of all the men’s objectifying, were most likely barely 18 years old with some probably even younger. All of their licentious behavior was being casually condoned by their parents, who idly stood there as onlookers to a circus.
Although I am not a father, my paternal instincts emerged in a way never previously experienced. What kind of man would allow his teenage daughter to act that way in public? Where is the responsibility in raising her to be lady-like?
And to top it all off, why would you plan in advance to go to one of the busiest nightclubs in the city as a parent with your kid? Furthermore, why would you even pick such a place as a senior trip destination in the first place?
All I know is that I don’t think there were busy taking tours of Mayan ruins or enrolling in Spanish language immersion courses during the day. After bearing witness to this level of decadence—and not to mention the select few who eventually needed help walking out of the place—I’m not really sure, in matters of cultural decline, which way is down from here.
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