Public Enemy Number Two

Fun travel hack: Don’t kill 4 piña coladas in Cozumel before getting on that cursed ferry to Playa Del Carmen. While I understand that the ferry is a valuable public service, there are no windows and the ocean hates it.

Being Rum Drunk is Less Fun than Tequila Drunk

After a 30 minute agony tour, the ferry let us out and we had to collect all of our luggage and start dragging it down the dock. I did not think it would be far, but I was wrong because it ends in a shopping mall with a cobble stone street.

After walking 200 miles over rough terrain we finally got in a taxi and then had to get another taxi so we could fit all the luggage. That's how much luggage divers have. We needed an additional 12 passenger vehicle for luggage.

Once we arrived, we began an unnecessarily long check-in process. I think it was meant to feel extravagant, but it felt like punishment. There is an iPad and a water dispenser with leaves in it and they need your ID for some reason.

Are we still in Mexico, why is everything being so formal right now?

Me, Vomit Champion

To preface this story you need to know something about me: I am a champion when it comes to vomit. I’m an absolutely stealthy, rockstar level, barfing professional.

So, yes I had to vomit. I drank a bunch of rum, I got motion sick in a windowless torment chamber on the rough seas of the Gulf of America, then hiked for 200 miles dragging luggage that weighs more than I do. In the Mexican heat.

That is the actual recipe for a vomit cocktail.

The Resort Arrival

My boyfriend took care of all the formalities. He reminded me later that I did not participate in the check-in process and I was hurt. I did participate by handing him the passports.

After that I reached the white guilt stage of rum-drunk, where I started apologizing to everyone about Trump in the lobby of this hotel. I was busy.

Once we were finally checked-in, we got on a golf cart (actually two golf carts, one for the luggage) and some guy takes us on a bumpy journey to the farthest building on the property.

Despite the bumpy ride I still did not vomit, but only by sheer force of will and by the grace of gods that I do not believe in.

At last, I reach the hotel room toilet and eject the piña coladas.

Mission completed, I remain a vomit champion!

When I try to flush I remember I’m in Mexico and the plumbing can't even handle toilet paper. It wasn’t clogged, but there was no water pressure. I pulled the lever and I knew instantly that the water was going to go down slow.

So there we were on the first day with an uninspired toilet that was clogged, but not really. And they have to send a guy.

This vomit did contain piña colada, but it also contained the majority of my lunch. So yes, it did appear to be a loose shit but I assure you, and everyone that it was vomit. This was so devastating we had to tip the guy for his silence.

You know he was thinking “who took the big shit and clogged this toilet only moments after checking in?”

He got the toilet to drain but there were still these tragic rings all the way up and down the inside of the bowl. It was revolting.

Since it was bedtime and technically the water had drained, I thought surely this can be a tomorrow problem. It still didn't really flush, but I can vomit over the balcony and only do number ones this evening. No need to endure more embarrassment tonight.

Unfortunately for my boyfriend, tacos don't agree with him and he could not eject them over the balcony as we had agreed. He snuck out of the room in the dead of night and hiked to the public restroom.

It was not nearby, either. We were still in the very far reaches of this resort. The ocean was closer than the restroom but he wasn’t going to shit in the ocean. That would have been hilarious and he’s not that funny.

It's Morning, Let's Fix the Toilet

So in the morning we hike to the front desk to explain how inconvenient it is to sneak out of the room at night to take a secret public bathroom shit. They promised to fix it before we get back from our planned dives.

The dives were amazing, but I know you're here to read about the shit stuff. No one wants to hear about all the cool stuff we did. This is a platinum tier travel story about feces.

We're talking about shit, which is the holy grail of disaster vacation content.

That afternoon, we return to the room and find that the toilet has indeed been fixed. Unfortunately, the maids took one look at the ghastly (presumably shit encrusted) toilet and quit their jobs on the spot. That is what I believe happened.

The toilet now worked perfectly, but it still looked like a porcelain monument to a Shakespearean-level ass disaster. (Even though, and I can not stress this enough, it was not shit.)

This began my descent into madness.

The grotesque crime scene in the toilet upset me so deeply I can’t even describe the volcanic level of rage that I felt. Not only because I was denied the dignity of having this... incident discreetly erased by housekeeping, but also because it was NOT. SHIT!

What if I have to vomit again? WHAT THEN? Vomiting in public like an amateur is out of the question. How am I supposed to enjoy my trip with this presumably shit-caked toilet bowl implicating me every ten minutes and casting an accusatory shadow under me each time I pee?

They promised to clean the tragic toilet the next day.

The next day the rings of blame remained untouched. The presumed guilt was unbearable. I began to wonder if I had blacked out and done something unspeakable. Maybe it is shit?

I was trapped in an vicious cycle of unearned shame

The next morning I went to the desk, in proper person to look this customer service lady in the eye and confront this domestic monstrosity that was most certainly not shit. I was on the verge of a full psychotic break and I needed to clear my name.

This is the third time we've talked about this. I just want to stop discussing this deeply unfortunate situation that occurred in my bathroom. That I did not do.

I was already internally composing a review from a place so dark that it was basically an unhinged novella of shit and rage. I felt obligated to warn them before I unleashed a critique as devastating as the toilet that bore false witness against me.

By that afternoon it still wasn’t cleaned up and at this point, I think they're doing it on purpose to fuck with me. That’s how judged this visually damning reminder of drunk me from three days ago made me feel.

Hurricane Karen Leaves the Resort

I was leaving a day earlier than everyone else because my friend had the audacity to be born and schedule her birthday during my vacation. I had to check out of the hotel and hand over my wristband like a prisoner being released. A prisoner who is presumed guilty, but could not prove it.

I am explaining that I checked out so you know that I have physically left the hotel. More importantly, they know that the Karen who’s been complaining about that big shit she took is finally gone.

Mere hours after my departure, my boyfriend comes back to a pristine toilet. All evidence of tragedy shits from the ghosts guests past had been disappeared. As if that weren't romantic enough, they delivered champaign, roses and chocolate.

From the moment I arrived at this resort until the day I checked out, that toilet was the epicenter of my emotional ruin. Then, as soon as I left, they tried to seduce my boyfriend like I was the problem all along.

My Reviews

So now you understand why no business should want me to write a review for them. Because I will make it about me. About toilet rings and betrayal. About the systemic failure of customer service to relieve the pain of a woman falsely accused.

Even my 5 star reviews aren't constructive. I wrote an entire review about a dive shop where I talk about barracudas and contemplate a lesbian relationship with their hot divemaster. That's not even the first time I've written about a lady crush I had on a divemaster, I did it in Grand Cayman, too. None of this has anything to do with the actual business.

Frankly, Trip Advisor doesn't deserve this stellar content. That's the whole reason I'm writing here now. This level of narrative power is dangerous and too good to just give away to global corporations for free. So I am putting this on my stupid little website where I can use the word shit freely.