When I arrived at the airport early Saturday morning, I realized I was about to be on my own, on a Caribbean island full of drunken college students, at an all-inclusive resort. My friends and my family were all extremely concerned.
The break got off to a rather smooth start. I didn’t lose any important documentation, didn’t miss the plane and decided to stick to soda until my feet were on Bahamian ground. We got to the room, got our “get drunk” bracelets and moseyed over to the bar for a victory beer.
Overwhelmed by the rigors of travel, the group I was traveling with decided to rehydrate at the bar before dealing with personal hygiene. After developing a friendly relationship with the bartender and thoroughly quenching my thirst, it was time to get ready for the night.
The buffet dinner at the hotel was a blur of Caribbean food served Barone style with an interesting looking wine dispenser. The red and white barrels resembled an ornate Kegerator with wine inside. I grabbed two – or six – glasses and sat down to whatever made it onto my plate.
I quickly learned the strategy of drinking as much as I could wherever I went was not a good idea. By the time we arrived at Club Aura, at the Atlantis resort, the club was spinning and my shiny shoes were jiving.
Fist pumping was another trend on the break. It is easy to do when your drunk, it’s handicap accessible (see the article on my arthritic foot), and endorsed by Mirror Managing Editor Jess Mitchell, who also happened to be living it up at the same late-night hot spots I found myself in throughout the trip.
The next day’s weather was cloudy, which meant we had to drink. We set out on a mission to set up beer pong, but were only able to find one broken ball in the hotel. My two roommates – who slept in the same bed every night – and I got in line three times and accumulated 20 beers (but no solo cups). Flip cup ensued, and once again I found myself buzzed before dinner.
The next day I woke up for breakfast and ate a monster hangover-buster. I wore a bright striped shirt to dinner that night, which looked good after four bottles of wine and earned me very many looks around the resort, none of which came from my girlfriend.
The next morning reminded me of the final scene from “50 First Dates,” as I viewed a series of photos and one video reminding me of what my life had been like over the course of the week. I learned that I am a phenomenal dancer and can pull off a shirt with any and all colors under the sun.
The fourth night we went on a booze cruise. It wasn’t too fun, the drinks weren’t too strong and the only people dancing were girls with hair under their armpits.
The next day, after enjoying some 151 Rum-fueled snorkeling, one of my roommates and I enjoyed a gift from our local friend and ate (or actually drank) dinner at the hotel restaurant.
The day we left, I learned that high altitude hangovers are not fun, customs agents don’t enjoy jokes and a woman still has a shot at the White House.
Upon arriving home, I was told that I look like garbage by my mother, father and sister. I looked in the mirror, agreed and proceeded to sit down and attempt to recount the events of the past five days.
And after recording these last few words of my article, I will now begin scouring the Internet for Spring Break ’09: Europe edition.
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