Wasted in Margaritaville
A bad trip can be made better with tequila.
I almost didn’t take this trip. The idea of traveling around Mexico’s tequila country in a van, drinking from morning until well, morning, seemed the type of vacation I should have taken in my 20s. But after a few margaritas one night, I listened to the stories of friends who had gone the previous year, and my curiosity got the better of me. Had I known that I’d spend the trip imagining how to knock off two of my fellow travelers and make it look like an unfortunate accident, I might have reconsidered.
There were nine of us on the weeklong trip touring distilleries: Julio (our well-connected leader), Paco (our sober driver) and seven fans of tequila. While we’d been friends with Julio for years, many of us had only just met each other. Drinking began after we checked in at our hotel in Guadalajara and from there on, only stopped for sleep and breakfast. Needless to say, breakfast consisted of quiet, non-crunchy fare. Due to Julio’s friendships in the liquor industry, the week was a unique blur of food, tequila and distilleries. The flood of food and drink seemed to be endless. Meals provided by our distillery hosts were banquets with options beyond the corner taqueria: smoky chipotle carne asada combined with the creamy texture of spicy guacamole, green-bean tasting nopales (cactus) and sweet grilled green onions were additions to warm corn handmade tortillas, crispy chicharrones were served with earthy black beans and sharp cheese. All were washed down with crisp, oaky tequila.
On the first day, I was already prepared to toss one couple off the trip. The trouble began after a tour and tequila tasting at Pueblo Viejo, in the Arandas region of the Mexican state of Jalisco. We sat down to lunch with our hosts in a saloon-style building, complete with swinging doors. As the entire table toasted each other, Sally saluted our friend who had taken us on the trip. “To Julio,” she slurred. “To Julio’s margaritas. You’d probably have to blow him to get the recipe.” Our more modest distillery friends stared at their plates. Everyone else stared at Sally.
An hour later, after a failed trip through the swinging doors resulted in Sally falling face down after the door hit her in the backside on the way out, she passed out on the edge of a fountain shaped like a shot glass. Her mouth gaped open, as if she expected the glass to tip and offer her more tequila. Her arms were stretched over her head, pulling tightly on her black, too short dress. The wind had blown her skirt up over her stomach, giving us a view of not just her black lacy underwear. That was Sally, always charming.
We said goodbye to our hosts near the Sally fountain. Each time I spoke to someone, I tried to maneuver them so that they were facing away from the view. I didn’t want to be remembered as that woman who was on the trip with the drunken exhibitionist.
In the van on the way to the next distillery, I passed around one of several bottles of tequila that we’d been given by our new friends at Pueblo Viejo. There were no cups, so my husband pulled out his pocketknife and deftly cut our empty water bottles in half and I began to pour. Sally and her boyfriend, Todd, quickly turned up the volume on a spat that had apparently begun in the morning.
“I should have known better than to let you hold the watch. You’re so irresponsible,” said Todd, his voice already tequila-foggy. His skinny frame was folded into the back corner of the van.
“I didn’t lose it. It’s here somewhere. Besides, it’s too expensive a watch for you to take on vacation,” retaliated Sally, who was propping herself up against one of the tinted windows, which gave her pasty skin a tinge of green.
“You’re already drunk. It’s disgusting. I know you lost the watch, you bitch. Why don’t you just admit it?”
“Bitch? I’m a bitch? You asshole. Get away from me!”
Todd snatched Sally’s half-full glass of tequila from her, sloshing the liquid across the back seat, while the rest of us sneaked glances at each other and rolled our eyes hard enough to affect the tides. If they fought like this every day, it would be a long and painful trip.
The fight wore on through our next distillery visit, and by dinnertime, they weren’t speaking to each other. I was amazed it had taken them that long. Sally sulked back at the hotel, and Todd accompanied us to the first ten minutes of dinner, until he slumped in his chair and had to be carried back to the hotel. Sally insisted they stay in separate rooms.
By breakfast, it seemed as if the fight was forgotten. Todd wore his watch on his tanned wrist, and nobody said a word about its sudden appearance.
In the van that day, I thought of a plan to avoid another painful day of fighting. I admit, I briefly considered dosing their food or drink with something to make them sleep, but a quick survey of the other travelers turned up only the relatively harmless Advil and Imodium. I turned to Plan B. Since Sally and Todd were already driving me crazy and they seemed to lack the talent of spacing their drinking out through the day to avoid getting hammered before dinner, I had decided to get rid of them early. I poured a small amount of tequila in everyone’s water bottle cup except their two cups, which I nearly filled. They were sitting up near the front of the van this time, so they didn’t notice the difference. The small amounts were finished quickly.
“Come on, you drink too slow. Look, we’re already finished.” I held up my empty cup to illustrate, and Sally and Todd quickly chugged their tequila and offered their cups for a refill—which I provided gladly. I relied on their competitive nature and figured they would want to match what they perceived to be everyone’s level of drinking.
I ignored the stares from my fellow travelers, knowing that they’d approve of my scheme when I got a chance to explain myself. It was harder to ignore the elbow in my ribs and angry glare courtesy of my husband. “I’m putting them down early,” I whispered to him, hoping he’d be discreet in passing the word around. After a while, I noticed the smiles and winks of appreciation. I hoped my plan would work.
That day, Sally and Todd passed out before dinner, and I was thankful for such a simple secret weapon. Too much tequila for them allowed the rest of us to finally enjoy ourselves. Unfortunately, word of the plan hadn’t gotten around to everyone quickly enough, and my friend Robert was lost by dinnertime as well. I spent every day for the rest of the trip making sure that Sally and Todd had full glasses so that we could delight in our evenings without their company—and I could avoid a Mexican prison.
Jill K. Robinson is a freelance writer and editor. Her work has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle, World Hum, Journey, Lonely Planet, Frommer’s and more. When she’s not traveling, she’s at home in El Granada, California, or Guanaja, Honduras. She’d prefer to drink good tequila than use it as a weapon.