So where was I? Oh yes, puking out my guts and my hostel bathroom. Now, the situation wouldn't have been quite so bad had the blaring music come back and lasted from about 8 PM until 4 AM. It's unpleasant enough to puke up the sandwich you ate for dinner, especially when it includes entire chunks of mushrooms (I need to chew my food better), but somehow even more unpleasant when you're listening to really, really crappy techno on repeat. Then, just to add insult to injury, my air conditioner decided to stop working and it was probably the hottest night I'd stayed there. So, I got out of bed every couple hours to go puke my guts out, and then in between those puking segments I was lying under just a single sheet in the hottest room you can imagine. OK OK-I admit I'm being slightly dramatic, but when you're trying to sleep and you can't because you're sweating profusely, 80+ degrees with humidity makes any room starts to feel like a Bikram yoga studio.
Needless to say, (but I'm going to say it [or rather write it] anyway) I didn't get much, if any sleep. I texted Joel right away because we were supposed to meet for breakfast in town before leaving on the bus (he was heading to the airport and I to Cancun to figure out my passport situation) and I told him I wasn't sure if I would be able to muster my strength to get out of bed. Now naturally, the day that I began my vomiting streak, Joel finally felt better. Because, of course.
So Joel came to meet me at the hostel and had breakfast (just looking at it made me want to hurl). We finished packing up my stuff and checked out, then dreaded to the station to catch our 10:30 ADO bus to Cancun. The ride back was bittersweet; we chatted idly along the way while Erin Brockovich played in Spanis on the TV screens. He and I went through a lot and I'd certainly consider him a good friend. Even though our relationship kicked off with my threat to mace and/or stab him.
In Cancun, we had our emotional, but not over-the-top emotional (I mean, we'd see each other again in Boulder so big deal). Then he nabbed a cab to the airport, and I to the Ramada.
Now, before Joel left, we made a major mistake by not checking the amount of cash I had left. A mistake that would come to haunt me more than once over the next few days.
My friend in the States had booked me a three night stay at the Ramada in Cancun and thought it had been paid for. His card was on file with them, but for God knows what reason, they needed the PHYSICAL card in spite of having ALL of the details for it when the reservation was made. People are idiots.
I told them I didn't have enough cash for three nights, food, cabs and a passport, and guess what look I got? Yes the "I don't give two shits" look. I paid her for one night in cash and decided to figure out the rest later. I then asked the receptionist where I could get passport photos taken because I had an appointment with the consul of the next morning. She gave me these very vague directions and I asked if the place was in walking distance and she said yes. however, since I could barely understand her muddled Spanish and I still had no idea where I was going, I decided to take a cab and just tell the cab driver to take me to a place where I can get passport photos taken.
It was actually a lady cabdriver, which was my first one in Mexico, but whatever I'm not sexist. She seemed to know where she was going. I walked into the sketchy looking little photo shop where they take graduation photos and quincinera ones and all that good BS. I asked them for passport photos, they told me to take a seat, and so I did. They said they would be with me im just a moment and that it shouldn't take longer than 10 minutes.
Now, remember that I had been puking my guts out all night day, I looked like total shit, and I hadn't been able to shower. So keep that in mind as you listen to the next part of the story. I walked into the photo area, where this old man took one look at me give me a concerned expression and asked me if I wanted to "fix my face" or at the very least "comb my hair." Wow, what a compliment! Take me now, sailor!
I told him no, I did not want to fix my face, I'd rather remember this horror of a trip with a picture to match. He took the photos, handed them to me, and I returned to the hotel where I began yet another puking session the onset of which came from half a Gatorade.
I spent the rest of the evening watching Coraline, which if you haven't seen it is creepy as all hell, and fell in and out of sleep and delirium, ready for my appointment with the consulate the next morning. Or, at least I thought I was...
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