Despite all the drunk driving, drugged driving, sex in public places, 5 am wandering in random countries, and general Je M’En Foutisme, I have never had a police encounter. I’m by no means a criminal, but it would be remiss to say that I walk in a straight line, pay tithes, or enjoy the presence of children. However, I have come to the conclusion that, in a past life, I was a nun, and the powers that be granted me immunity this time around. I am, in short, a lucky bitch.
However, a recent puente led me and my comrade Bryce R. Masek to Acapulco. Though we had put doubts (a weeks-earlier 20 person decapitation incident, for example, was initially a deterrent) we decided that our yearning for sun and sand trumped our tourist terror, and we headed to Gorgeous Guerrero, destination Acapulco.
Despite my devil-may-care attitude, I’m super anal, which makes me an excellent traveler. We tore that city up, from old fortresses to older petroglyphs to the forbidden Zocalo (which is not an open fire zone but rather a tranquil banyan-tree-laden oasis in a thumping metropolis), we out-fodored Fodor’s; our second night there, we decided we deserved some drinks.
Acapulco is club central, and we weren’t down with the exorbitant covers, so after a couple of cocktails, we decided to take some beers to the beach and enjoy the warm night without bursting our eardrums. The side effects of alcohol, amplified by the insane amount of sun we had been absorbing, were kicking in fast. Bryce relieved himself easily against a rock and no one was the wiser; I, on the other hand, possessor of lady lumps, was hesitant. People were milling about, and I’m no fetishist. A lull in pedestrian traffic finally presented itself, and I rushed to a shadowy area, pulled down my black and white leopard jeans, and christened La Playa Condesa.
I began waddling back to my compatriot, yanking the tight Bebe denim over my luscious thighs, when I heard a voice:
“Buenas noches, señorita.”
I turned around and found myself face to face with the Bravest of Acapulco.
“Buenas noches, officiales.”
(The following transpired in Español.)
“Good evening, how are you?”
“Fine, thank you. You?”
“Fine. Do you have a form of identification?”
“Yes, it’s in my bag over there.” I gestured towards B, who was stretched out on the sand, enjoying the lull of the ocean and the effects of the alcohol. I, on the other hand, had been rendered stone cold sober.
“Is that Your husband?”
“Boyfriend?” Though I was perturbed by the cop’s extreme interest in my romantic life, there were more pressing issues. The skinny one was doing all the talking while his portly friend stood sternly beside him; typical good cop/bad cop, I suppose.
“No! Friend. We’re traveling together.”
“Very good. Well, señorita, I am obliged to inform you that this is a hotel zone. And that…thing…you just did is illegal. As a result, you’re going to have to come to the station, fill out some paperwork, and pay a fine of 1400 pesos.”
“Oh. Okay,” I responded.
The bus in Puebla costs 6 pesos. My rent is 1700. A regular public toilet is 4. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
And then, I remembered where I was.
“Oigan, señores,” I crooned, willing my B cups to grow in front of their eyes, “couldn’t we solve this problem here?” The letter of the day was M: for Mexico, Mierda, and Mordida, or bribe.
He looked at his cohort and pretended to ponder my offer.
“How much do you have?” he asked.
I ran and got my bag; B, immersed in a dream world, noticed nothing.
My wallet contained my NYS driver’s license, which I gave them, and 123 pesos. I explained that yes, I was from NY, but studying in Puebla, and could I ask my friend how much he had. They said yes, and I sprinted as fast as my lungs would allow me to B.
“Bryce. Get up, give me all the money in your wallet, and come with me. I’m about to get arrested for public urination.” Suffice it to say, he obliged.
We trotted over to the cops, and all I could think about was whether or not they had seen my white ass scrambling away from the little puddle in the sand.
We amassed 283 pesos and I offered it to the cops.
He chatted as he counted it.
“So what are you studying?”
“Spanish,” I responded.
“Oh, that’s great! Well, your classes are definitely going well; you speak wonderfully. ”
“Please, officer, we’re students, I really wasn’t thinking, I’m really sorry…”
“What do you think?” He asked his partner. “Should we help them out?”
The partner nodded.
“Don’t worry about anything,” he said, oh so benevolently, “just leave the beach. Now. Have. Good night.”
It was all we could do to avoid cracking up in their faces, and we choked on our laughter as we tripped up the stairs. It was almost 2 am, and we’d done enough damage that night.
In conclusion, a week after our trip, 7 people were murdered in cold blood in Acapulco. The state of affairs is a tragedy. So is the fact that they don’t have public restrooms on the beach.