Once upon a February, four couples decided to escape from the arctic blast of Denver and head to Mexico. We didn’t think we could afford much – most of us being social workers – but with one doctor in the crew the eight of us were able to score an amazing deal on a $3 million home on the beach.
I had never really traveled in a big group like this before, except with family. To add an even more interesting dynamic, my partner and I were the only gay couple. Luckily our friends were all socially liberal. But how liberal would we all be when the time came to relinquish our need for control?
Upon arriving in Mexico, we sunk into paradise. The home had three master bedrooms plus a “casita” attached to the house. We were diplomatic when we all chose rooms. Some generously passed up better spots to accommodate others.
We’d really spend the most time on the gorgeous back deck. The infinity pool had a swim-up bar, while the hot tub poured warm water into the other side. Beside the hot tub was a large fire pit begging us for a good evening burn, though the night weather was still warm. It was all tied together by a gorgeous ocean view.
The first evening unfolded perfectly. One woman made pitchers of sangria while some of the guys grilled food. The rest either bobbed around the pool or laid poolside to read under the beautiful sunset.
The next day we decided to lunch at a restaurant up the road. We didn’t expect the food to be authentic; the joint was owned by a Canadian surfer who could have passed for Fabio’s stoner brother. He prided himself on knowing the area well and his ability to get anything we needed. He probably meant drugs. But we took up his offer and asked if he could get us some firewood. After giving us a funny look, and taking a bit too long to think about it, he said he would have firewood for us the next day.
By day three our diverging preferences reared their heads. The non-smokers started quarreling with the smokers. One of them even went as far as to hide another’s cigarettes. Sangria girl began having her specialty beverage in hand practically when she woke up, and decided that rest of the travelers should be doing the same. Even I became irritable when my iPod was not docked to the house speakers. In one way or another, we all began caving in to our need for control.
The Canadian had our firewood by day four. He charged three hundred pesos – about thirty US dollars. Feeling ripped off, some of the guys argued about the correct way to get deals in Mexico. Frustrations were more heated when we filled the pit with the wood but couldn’t get a blaze going. Everyone stood around trying to convince the others he or she knew the best way.
Finally, the fire caught. Half relaxed, we ended the evening by kicking back and laughing together again, and trying to choke down more sangria.
Our friends awoke to frantic knocking. The neighbors had, none too friendly, come over to find out who the hell we were and why we were starting fires. They scolded us as moronic for not realizing that a three million dollar home’s fire pit would run on gas, not wood.
To our horror, we’d realized we built a wood fire over an active gas line. We could have killed ourselves, or even worse, burned down an expensive property. Our control issues had indeed gotten in the way when in our arguing no one realized the pit fired up with a mere flick of a switch.
We begged the neighbors not to tell the owners. And in a scramble to hide the evidence we began working as a team again. We scooped the warm ashes from the pit to the nearest trash can – which was unfortunately plastic, and the ashes melted a massive hole through it.
During our last evening in paradise, half of the group scurried through Mexican Walmarts to find a trash can identical to the old one, while the others searched for a liquor store to replenish the wine used for the sangria.
As we traveled back to Denver, we were humbled that we got home safely instead of being blown up. Even though we were all social liberals, we realized we could make stupid mistakes when focusing egotistically on our own sense of control.
