Mind you, some things have not changed. Being that it’s October, the leaves are all orange and on the ground now, and the air has turned crisp and cool. I just recently pulled my Roughrider mittens and scarf out of the closet, and if you don’t know who the Roughriders are, then Google it, because I just can’t even with you right now. And speaking of the Riders, just like in 2012, there is uncertainty of our making the playoffs, and a run for the cup. And of course, being that I live in Canada (if you comment something with an Eh! joke or something about aboot, I will punch you square in the nuts) it’s getting cold enough that the potential for snow is making everybody cling to thoughts of summer, when they were sitting on a sun-filled beach, and actively planning trips for this coming winter. But it also has me looking back. Back to the simpler days of 2012, back to my trip to the Dominican in February of that year. I actually wrote this post in October of 2012, but I’ve reworked it for today. To read the original, check out www.datingolivia.wordpress.com
In February 2012, two of my best friends married one another, and I was in the wedding party. The wedding was a destination wedding, which took a group of about 30 of us to the Dominican Republic. Those of you who haven’t been – go. It’s beautiful. It was my very first trip outside of Canada and the U.S., and all the saving and working two jobs I did to get there was worth every single penny.
I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone on the trip. Sure, I’d always thought it would be a cool story, and staying at an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean meant that there were more than enough beautiful men to go around for all of us single ladies. But I never thought it would ever actually happen. Not to me anyways.
There are three things Canadians should know when traveling to this part of the world. Now, I know that most of you reading aren’t Canadian, so I’m not sure if this information will be useful internationally, but now is as good a time as any (minus the impending doom of winter) to think about moving. Just a suggestion.
The first thing you need to know about going to the Dominican as a Canadian is that the people there seem to think we Canadians are rich and therefore cheap as fuck when we barter, because we obviously should want to pay $60 Canadian for a trinket that we could buy at the dollar store here for $1.25. Now, I get this misconception because compared to them, we do make a fortune. But still. I had to work two jobs for well over a year, and pinch every penny to get there.
The second thing being that our reputations as a nice nation precede us, because before we even left the airport, we had people singing our praises just for being Canadian. We were affectionately known around the resort as Punta Canadians, and there was even a Canadian flag (and only a Canadian flag) behind the bar in the main lobby.
The third is mostly for the ladies. And I’m guessing this goes for ladies all around the world. It seems as though the combination of being rich (or looking like it), and also having a vagina makes you instantly popular with the locals. The men were big fans of ours. Our group of girls got approached more than once by local men trying to pick us up. (Granted, most of the time they were also trying to sell us shit, but still.)
The one day, I decided to fly solo. Some of my friends were off on an excursion that day and the bride and groom were busy with wedding prep. So I decided to take my iPod (it was 2012, I didn’t have my iPhone yet), and a book, and go chill by the beach for several hours to get my tan and afternoon all-inclusive drunk on. Even on an island far from home, I loved my solo time. Being single as much as I had been in my adult life meant that I had become a great companion to myself. I could hold my own. I was fine till I decided to go to the main lobby for something and bumped into a guy who my friends and I had met the day before while he was trying to sell us something. Except this time, I was alone, and the only thing he was trying to sell me was himself. I can’t remember his name, but he walked with me across the resort from the lobby to the beach, and then sat there on the beach with me for a half hour trying to convince me to move to the Dominican to be his girlfriend. Now don’t get me wrong. He was cute, he seemed really nice, and the idea of living in a beautiful tropical locale like that was not at all unappealing. Call me old fashioned, but I wouldn’t have been able to set up roots in a different country thousands of miles from home after only meeting this guy for a half hour.
Then, there was Jose. I think it was our first or second day there, and we had discovered that the best place for drinks was the main lobby bar. Mostly because the staff was super nice to us because they knew we were Canadians, but also because they had some really cute bartenders back there. Jose was one of them. He was hot. So hot in fact, that if we were back at home, a guy as hot as Jose would have never even looked in my direction. And I am not an ugly girl. I think that I am an attractive woman. But back in North America, he’d be one of those “way out of my league” kind of guys.
But we weren’t in North America, we were in the Dominican. The land of my infinite beauty. So anyways, Jose made it perfectly clear that he was into me. We’d go to the bar and order drinks and he’d stare (not creepily, just like, pay attention to me), lick his lips at me (also not as creepy as it sounds), wink, wave to me across the lobby, and tell me I was beautiful when I ordered a drink from him. I ate that shit up.
*I should note here that this trip happened two weeks after I broke up with Dave #4, the guy I lost my virginity to at 26 years old, and my first serious boyfriend. I was vulnerable and hurt and considering how often Dave ever complimented me (0 times) the whole time we were dating, I was in desperate need of male attention. Just throwing some perspective out there, because this all makes me sound pathetic as hell once I actually type this story out.*
Jose and I flirted, and I made sure to go see him anytime I was dressed up, as well as anytime I was in my bathing suit ready to hit the beach. (See, I sound just as creepy!) I even went to go see him when I was in my bridesmaid dress, but he wasn’t working then. That time was actually not for nothing though; we all got tons of compliments walking through the resort in our dresses, because well, of course we all looked stunning.
Then, the last night we were there, we decided to go to the disco. With the help of one of my friends, I went and told Jose about it, and told him he should meet us there after he was done work. He said he would, and I felt giddy. So I went back to the hotel room, got all dolled up, and then hit the bar for some liquid courage before Jose was done work. We were hanging out in the lobby when Jose was done work, and when he came to tell me he’d see me at the disco shortly, he also took it upon himself to give the kiss I had been dying for all week.
We went to the disco, and Jose went home to change, and came back to find me. This is where the trouble with holiday hook-ups dawned on me. We danced, and made out on the dance floor. Cause I am a classy lady. The unfortunate thing was that he wasn’t a great kisser. That was disappointing. He was the hottest guy I’ve ever made out with, and he had these pillowy soft lips that look so yummy, but the kisses were not good. It was a big letdown. His dancing also leaved a lot to be desired. Now, yes, I was a bit tipsy, but I was not even close to being drunk enough to find him jack-rabbit thrusting his package into my crotch on the dance floor (and not even to the beat of the music) appealing at all.
Then, in his broken English (oh yeah, forgot to mention, that he spoke very small amounts of English – I know. Awesome right?!) he asked me to go back to his place with him. Now, some of my more…uh…we’ll say “liberal” friends, wondered (out loud) why I didn’t go with him. Hmm, I wonder guys? Maybe it’s because he can’t even kiss, so what if he can’t fuck? Maybe it’s because I just met the guy less than a week ago. Maybe it’s because I had just ended the first adult relationship I was in, and I was not ready for a rebound like that. Maybe it’s because I liked someone else. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that we were in a different country, and he lives in a village somewhere that I don’t know, god knows how far from the resort, and oh yeah THAT’S HOW PEOPLE GET ON THE NEWS BACK HOME WHILE THEY ARE ON VACATION!! Yeah, maybe, just maybe that last one is the best reason ever NOT to hook up while on vacation.
Oy vey. Yes, Jose was a great vacation story. I will remember him and the trip fondly for many years. But the last thing I needed was to wind up pregnant or get an STD from a man I will never see again, who barely speaks English, who probably hooks up with oodles and oodles of girls just like me who are wanting to let loose a bit while on vacation.
Making out with Jose while I was on my first tropical vacation, after ending my first serious relationship was just perfect enough. Why make it more than that?
So the moral of the story is, if you hook-up on vacation, be safe. And you better listen to me or I’ll tell your mom.
[Editor's Note: Is it weird that none of this sounds creepy at all to me?]