Churros and Adios.

I'm innocently floating around the pool reading a book when I hear an American woman to my right screech;

'Oh my gosh! You're in the water with, like, paper!'

'Oh my GOD!' I screech back. 'You've brought your own drinking tankard to a free bar!'

I then stare mutely at her until she turns away and continue my paddle.

For every ten absolutely delightful people you meet there's always a universe balancing arsehole. The French and I made an agreement early on that whenever we witnessed somebody being shockingly awful we wouldn't get wound up but instead would stop what we were doing and give them a slow applause.

The people who dictate what they want and never say please or thank you. The people who never tip. That's the worst offence really. The logic being that its an all-inclusive and so tips are included in that. Surely! Am I right?! NO you're not fucking right.

Gilberto, one of the waiters who hasn't had a day off since we've been here and is always 100% on the ball, tells us (we ask, he doesn't offer the information freely) that he earns 76 pesos an hour. That's just over three quid. So when you see someone clicking their fingers or kicking up a fuss about something so puerile it makes your eyeballs sweat its hard not to physically attack them. For the most part its the English and the Americans who are guilty of this. The only people that are never ever rude and tip just because someone smiled at them are of course the Canadians.

I have never met a Canadian I didn't like. They learn all the waiters names too.

And my obsession with visiting Canada is just growing and growing. The fact that we flew over Canada to get here makes me feel a bit bilious. I came so close and yet still no cigar. I've spoken to quite a few of them in passing here and pretty much all of them have invited me to stay at theirs. Or recommended a great place where the trees are tall and the lakes wide. We went out to Bucerias for dinner again the other night and met a group of Canadians who were sat at the next table. Over the balcony there were lots of locals dancing away to some live music being played in the square.

Lisa is there with her husband and two other couples. She recommends a restaurant for us and suggests we come back on Saturday afternoon for a live music party on the beach.

'It's kinda the local happy hour between 3 and 6pm, lots of dancing, its fun.'

'Do you live here?' I ask.

'No, we just holiday here in the winter for 4 or 5 months.'

FOUR OR FIVE MONTHS!?

She kisses her husband, gets up and starts shimmying toward the street.

'Hey you wanna come dance?'

'Oh that's so kind but I'm afraid I'm British.'

She sashays off to the rhythm and I wonder once again what it must be like to be rich.

We've met a fair few people here who are on semi permanent holidays.

One elderly Canadian couple at dinner last night told us they were here just for a week on the back of a month in Fiji and before that New Zealand for two months.

'We couldn't face going back to the weather in Canada just yet.'

Uhuh.

The French and I are very good at picking up languages and within a week of being anywhere can pretty much communicate with anyone. Where the French excels though is his ability to seemingly soak up the essence of a country. He not only speaks to everyone in Spanish, he does so with his whole body and makes everyone around him feel like he's a local and their long lost friend. He SOUNDS Mexican. I watch men swarm around him, changing his ashtray, making sure his drink is never empty and somehow discussing Arsenal with him. They see him coming and his drink is poured before he gets there. He hugs them all, asks them how that thing went the other day that they were talking about and how are the three kids etc. His achilles heel however is accents. He has a complete tin ear for them and its hilarious. He comes back from the bar and tells me he's just overheard some French Canadians and the way they speak is bizarre. I mooch over to eavesdrop and discover they are in fact from Birmingham.

Another prize winning occasion:

'So where in Scotland are you from?' He asks.

'Dublin.'

He's been eyeing the jet ski's since we got here.

'I went on one in Acapulco a few years ago. It was awesome.'

'Go on one then.'

'No, no, no. I'd rather spend the money on restaurants.'

'Okay.'

A day later I find him watching the jet ski's yearningly.

'It's really cool if you stay on top of the waves...'

'Go on one then.'

'No no no. It'll be super expensive.'

Yet another day later I watch as he smokes a cigar whilst his eyes never leave the jet ski's skimming across the ocean.

'For the love of Christ just go book one!'

He strolls indifferently over to the hombres in charge of the jet ski's and starts chatting. He returns 5 minutes later having made blood brothers of them all.

'I got them down to thirty quid for half an hour. For both of us.'

The following day I get on my jet ski and think 'Yay! I'm saying YES to life!' And almost immediately regret it. Its the turning I found problematic. Anyway, The French satisfied his need for speed and I survived so it's another thing ticked off a bucket list I never wrote.

Body boarding was a lot more fun for me. I felt like I was 8 again, catching the back of a wave and shooting towards the shore.

There have been lots of highlights but the local fiesta two nights ago was one of the best moments, not least for the fresh churros that were so delicious I gave the woman a rose to thank her (I also paid for the churros...obviously). The reason I had roses in the first place was because a couple sat at the next table to us in a bar bought them for us. Just because. They were, of course, Canadian. And yes, they have invited us to British Columbia for a vacation and some fishing on the lake.

I've promised myself a trip to Canada if I ever get published. The French says 'when' not 'if'.

I find a booze stand offering a cocktail called 'Adios Mother Fucker' and ask the woman what's in it.

'Is Tequila, gin, ron, vodka and just tiny bit pineapple.'

I settle for a margarita.

We eat at a stand and pay less than you would for a pint in the UK. We watch huge fireworks which are set off in the middle of the square by a bloke with a fag dangling out of his mouth. There's no barrier, no health and safety. If you're stupid enough to stand too close you're probably asking for it. 

The holiday is over and we have to vacate the room in about thirty minutes. We haven't even packed yet. But we're ready to go home. We've had a ball, enjoyed it all. We now know we're not all-inclusive kind of people and won't do it again. But it was just what we needed this time round. The French is getting wound up by other holiday makers having the audacity to breathe near him. We're both done. We'll endure the 11 hour flight back, find a train and collapse in to the flat for a few hours kip before dinner at my mum's. I love travelling. I'd love someone to pay me to go places and write this stupid blog. The only thing better than travelling is probably coming home. See you soon Xx