Baja, Mexico: Cabo (Day 8: 12/28, Sunday, 1 of 2)

I am, of course, hungover, which prevents me from photographing my lovely breakfast of huevos con machaca, courtesy of Spencer's, the hotel dining establishment, and a 1/2 liter of whatever flavor Gatorade "yellow" is, from the hotel amenities and gift shop.

(Apparently, they sell sports drinks in squeeze bottles, which makes it quite convenient when one doesn't want to lift one's head off the dining table. What would be more convenient is a baby bottle, which would make it unnecessary for the imbiber to even use his or her arm to squeeze, but that is a conversation I should and will be having with PepsiCo.)

We've agreed to meet Miguel and Crew at Playa Medano, and from hence, we go, driving to a beachfront resort, where a golf-cart for 20 shuttles us from Point A to Point B, covering a distance of less than 50 yards, but I guess people who stay at resorts don't like to walk or something.

Already, picking my way through a sea of prostrate bodies in varying shades of tan, I think I much prefer La Paz to Cabo. This whole spring break mentality, the too old and too young, both groups egging their peers to profligacy, constant haranguing by beach peddlars trying to sell you sarongs for 30 bucks, bikini contests on crowded beaches, and the MC screaming, "The judges must be one hundred percent macho, not fifty fifty. No one from San Francisco" and "I don't hear you shouting! If you are not shouting, that means you're a FAGGOT"--I die, but not in the Rachel Zoe good way.

I know it's all cultural, just as they, apparently, have Mexican bingo with pictures (a beach, a sun, whatever) and one card named "El Negrito" with a black person on it.

But, fuck that.

Anyway, Miguel is an event coordinator, party guy, very rico suave, and so is his crew of folks, among them one Frenchman who speaks better Spanish than English and a Londoner named Kaylie who is what I imagine sorority girls to be like, but nice, a "dancer" (does that mean gogo?), and lacking in the ability to detect sarcasm (strange, because I always conceive of the British as having dry wit, but...maybe that requires wit. Schwing).

Kaylie shares her British Cosmo with me. I get more tan (tanner?). Life, as it were, is decent. Sitting on a beach, ogling and resenting the filthy-rich their gleaming yachts, all burnished metal and helicopters perched like alien dragonflies. It could be worse.