Aaron and I spent the last two weeks honeymooning at a resort that we found all too easy to compare to the titular hotel in HBO’s The White Lotus.
Most mornings we enjoyed a ginger shot alongside our daily smoothie and a tropical fruit bowl side dish with breakfast that was to die for (I repeat: a SIDE DISH… with BREAKFAST!). We had a plunge pool in our room’s garden, exotic fruits fell from tall leafy trees, we “ooh”d and “ahh”d whenever we spotted the hotel’s spider monkeys, and we even considered joining one of the resort’s yoga classes. “Considered” being the key word here. It’s not March-May 2020 anymore.
The hotel was glorious and we pinched ourselves every single day of our stay. But it wasn’t the resort’s beauty and calm ambiance (they burned incense in every bathroom!) that inspired me to turn to Aaron on day four and say, “Are you getting White Lotus vibes?” to which Aaron said, “I’ve been thinking the exact same thing.” It was the guests that we were holidaying alongside.
On our second or third evening, we stifled a snort when a glamorous American lady we were sat next to at the bar complained loudly about her Cosmopolitan’s vodka to cranberry juice ratio being off. “It’s just not right,” she shook her hair despairingly as if retelling a heart-wrenching tragedy. Another day, Aaron raised his eyebrow at me, silently telling me to listen in as a couple we met from New Jersey the night before were reeling off – in excruciating detail – the experience they had with their airline and everything they allegedly did wrong to an unsuspecting couple bobbing along in the pool. To quote them directly (because I pulled my phone from my bag when I cottoned on to the anecdote they were telling with Oscar performance worthy drama): “Seriously, it was THEIR job so I’m SORRY but NOT my problem. Do your JOB properly.”
Yes, we were holidaying with the cast of our very own series of The White Lotus. (Although, I can confirm, without any dramatic death-centred finale.)
To pause this post for a moment, in case any of this reads as judgmental… that’s because it is. No, really, it’s not intended to be. Our fascinating and entertaining vacation neighbours left us retelling anecdotes to each other all day and all evening and, I’m sure, for years and years to come.
Let me explain some more.
One night, Aaron and I were enjoying the last bites of our meal as part of the hotel’s Italian evening. A live singer was completely selling all the romantic crowd pleasers: Can’t Help Falling in Love, Fly Me to the Moon and Can’t Take My Eyes Off You. Aaron continued his tradition of being the first to clap – immediately (and loudly) – after they had finished and then claimed smugly, “I started that”, when the hotel guests also erupted into applause.
Shortly after the singer finished For Once in my Life or L-O-V-E, the restaurant was joined by a hungry looking raccoon.
As two Brits that have predominantly holidayed in Spain, Turkey or Greece, this was a novelty for us. Surprised, we couldn’t take our eyes off the little guy. It was quite exciting. Even so, it never – never – crossed our minds to interact with our newest furry hotel guest.
Enter: A larger than life American guy who Aaron and I laughed with earlier that day because he shouted, “Tequila!” before 9AM as he and his wife clinked shot glasses.
“Come here, buddy,” American Guy was cooing.
Aaron and I exchanged amused but uncertain looks, mirroring each and every other couple’s expressions that we were dining with that night.
Much to his wife’s annoyance, American Guy continued: “You’re so cute! Sit boy.”
And much to our surprise and – against our better judgement – delight, the raccoon sat. Of course, the little dude thought he’d be receiving some scraps of leftover fettuccine for complying but American Guy took this as a green light to continue.
I turned to Aaron. “Do you know who he reminds me of?” One eye still observing American Guy. “You know when Buddy arrives in New York and he tries to hug a raccoon and it attacks him?”
“He’s just like a dog!” The American Guy announced loudly. “Come here,” he continued, moving closer and holding the palm of his hand out to try and stroke the raccoon.
But, the thing is, this wasn’t a dog. And he did not want to be petted.
Although American Guy continued like this for a further 10 minutes, nothing all too bad happened, even if when the raccoon left, it looked like it understood they’d been used for some light holiday entertainment.
As the raccoon begun scurrying off, American Guy’s wife pleaded with him that he sit down now and he finally did as he was told, looking much like the disappointed raccoon as he sat sulkily.
A day or so later, we observed a new guest that was hard to ignore – a guy in a matching silk shirt and silk short combo (“It’s Versace,” he told us later. It wasn’t. It was SHEIN.), with a dark brown mullet and a raspy, loud and tuneful voice. “I haven’t seen him without a can of beer in his hand,” I stated, sipping my third margarita, as if I had a leg to stand on. Even so, from then on, he became Can Man.
Later that evening, in the hotel’s more bougie of its two restaurants, we were sat on a table nearby to Can Man (can of beer, true to form, to his right). Aaron passed Can Man on his way into the toilet. Can Man, Aaron relayed, shook his head violently as he dried his hands and screamed, “TEQUILA!” as he strutted out of the bathroom and returned to his wife. Yes, they were off their face but, I have to say, they couldn’t have looked more in love.
What we didn’t expect was to spend the final few hours of the next evening with Can Man and his wife, Courtney. We learned they’re from Toronto and live corporate, city lives but want to move to the country, own some land and – almost as a direct quote – intend not to be near another human life for miles and miles.
Can Man liked impersonating different English accents, was quick to find ways to jokingly insult us and took it well when we bit back (“Man, I love British humour,” he’d smirk). He’d taken to calling the brilliant but we’d thought quite serious barman, “Grandpappy.” He claimed light-heartedly that his estranged dad owned the hotel and many of the other hotel staff were his uncles. We immediately knew we weren’t the first couple Can Man had told his farcical story to; it was a rehearsed tale that his wife pitched in with at all the right places. “Can I have another four tequilas please, Grandpappy?” he asked in a sweet but theatrical tone. Aaron and I cringed. But we needn’t have; to our surprise, a giant toothy grin spread across the barman’s face: “Of course, grandson.”
We said our goodbyes and, whilst it was a fun couple of hours, we had a pool day planned the next day and, as we hitched a ride in the hotel’s buggy to breakfast that morning, I began to feel a bit of dread. Our day of snoozing and reading in the sun wasn’t going to be interrupted, was it?
That’s the awkward thing about holidays. Or for me and Aaron, at least. The giddiness and sunshine of a summer holiday means every few nights we might like to get to know a couple we bump into on our travels (and by “travels”, I mean the journey from the restaurant tables to the bar stools). A few beers, a few stories exchanged, a last minute round of tequilas and then we say our “goodnight”s.
But, call us unsociable: We, under no circumstances, want these “friendships” to become a daily fixture.
But we needn’t have worried.
When we said hello the next day as we bobbed up and down in the slightly rough Mexican sea, Can Man and Courtney barely acknowledged us as they squinted briefly in our direction. “They don’t remember us, do they?” I muttered (joyfully) to Aaron.
We were but a three-hour black out of their very own honeymoon.
We watched as Can Man left Courtney’s side and continued walking deeper and deeper into the sea, his arm outstretched tall above his head with a cigarette at the tips of his fingers as his body submerged further and further into the blue-green water. Another guest (who Aaron had complimented on his martini-themed t-shirt the night before, to which the guy said he would “peel it off his back”, give it to Aaron and buy a new one for himself) said, amused and maybe a little worried, “Hey, I’ve never seen someone walk through the sea with a cigarette like that before.”
Can Man looked back and grinned wickedly, speaking as if he was performing a Shakespearean monologue, his other hand coming to his chest as he passionately announced: “Well you’ve never seen a sea monster like me before, have you?”
Courtney threw her head back laughing, her eyes twinkling.
“Another two margaritas, please!” became our catchphrase over the last couple of weeks, as we perched on the bar’s stools to catch a few minutes of shade from the beautiful Mexican sun. As did the question, “Did you hear that?” after one of us heard some kind of awful/rude/hilarious/ridiculous/entitled (delete as applicable) anecdote.
The thing about The White Lotus, I think, is that viewers love to hate the sophisticated, stunning and sometimes morally corrupt characters. I would never behave like that if I was filthy rich, we think. We love believing that we can’t relate to them, giving us a kind of smug-from-the-sofa superiority complex as we sit in our loungewear stained with bolognese sauce from dinner the night before and throw our fifth Maoam wrapper of the evening to the side. (Just me?)
But, actually, we see enough of ourselves and our aspirations in these characters to keep us hooked as we navigate the show’s glorious depiction of wealth, glamour, class and so much more. Oh, and of course, the theme tune helps.
The couple from New Jersey were passionate hospitality professionals and completely obsessed with all things food and drink; something Aaron and I spent a few hours discussing with them over chilled tequilas that one night. American Man was a performer – a storyteller – and it was hard not to laugh when he got to a punch line (even if there were a few too many). So I quickly stopped bothering trying to stifle the giggle he so easily drew from other guests. And Can Man, for all of his melodrama, was gentle and kind as soon as his wife would scooch up lovingly beside him.
Glamorous Cosmopolitan lady? Nah, she absolutely sucked.