By Lindsay Morris, Staff Writer
Two weeks after graduating college in Milwaukee, I landed a
magazine-editor job that took me to the East Coast. "Do you
mind that travel is a job requirement?" my boss-to-be asked in
my final interview. Um, of course not.
I could count on my fingers the number of places I'd ventured
beyond the borders of Wisconsin, my home for 22 years. Sure,
I'd been to Disney World--twice. And I'd traveled with my
high school's math club to Minnesota's Mall of America. But
I'd never left the United States. I didn't even have a
passport.
So, you bet I wanted to phone everyone back home when my first
press trip was announced: Aruba! Most of my friends had stayed
close to home, and some had suggested that New York might not be
the safest place for a wide-eyed Midwestern girl like me. I wanted
them to see me now, with four months' residency under my belt
and an international flight on the calendar. Yes, I knew it was a
press trip and not a vacation. But that didn't stop the beach
Boys' "Kokomo" from playing on a persistent loop in
my head.
Get There Fast and Take It Slow
I showed up at
the airport about four hours before departure (I didn't want to
miss my flight) and checked in a suitcase that resembled R2-D2 in
height and girth. After breezing through customs, I sat down and
phoned my parents to let them know I'd made it with plenty of
time to spare.
Hours later, at Reina Beatrix Airport in Oranjestad, Aruba, I was
welcomed with open arms by enthusiastic middle-aged women clad in
loud prints and visors: my fellow travelers.
Upon entry to our casino hotel, I was handed a mai tai, which I
promptly downed. I sized up the large group, which consisted of
corporate-event planners, travel agents, one other journalist and a
husband and wife along for a free honeymoon. And there I was, the
youngest of nearly 30 attendees with whom I was sure I had nothing
in common.
I spent the next two days anxiously absorbing exciting and somewhat awkward experiences. After a day of touring surrounding properties and venues, we took time out for spa treatments (my first massage). The next day, we piled into ATVs and rumbled across the desert landscape past cacti and the island's iconic trade-wind-shaped divi-divi trees. "Doesn't this remind you of the Southwest?" asked one of the women. I nodded. I'd never been to the Southwest.
We rode a catamaran out to sea for reef diving. I'd never snorkeled, and suddenly, I was in the Caribbean Sea: face-to-face with a parrot fish and colorful coral--and frantically flailing toward my instructor when my mask filled with saltwater.
Get Away From It All
That evening, our last night in Aruba, the itinerary called for a night of partying with a trip to a local hot spot. Apparently, that meant climbing on a so-called "party bus" that blasted the '80s calypso hit "Hot Hot Hot" en route to a single Orenjestad bar.
We rolled back to the hotel at about 10 p.m. and several attendees made a beeline for the casino. A 30-something woman, one of the youngest on the trip (aside from me), asked if I wanted to check out a bar next door. I'd been drinking legally for only a year, and I was, off to my second international bar of the night with someone in her 30s. I felt so grown-up, especially when I wasn't carded at the door. I pocketed a Balashi beer coaster as a souvenir.
We hadn't knocked back more than a couple of pints before she was spirited away by a lusty local. As the two canoodled in a corner, a cluster of young Venezuelan tourists suddenly appeared on the dance floor. And I had drunk enough to think that joining them was a good idea.
Defy a Little Bit of Gravity
They tried to teach me the merengue and paired me up with Manuel, who could swivel his hips like Ricky Martin and sashay across the floor like Fred Astaire. I was no Ginger Rogers, but I was footloose (and slightly tipsy).
I trailed the group outside to get some fresh air on the terrace and soon found myself alone with Manuel, who offered to walk me back to my hotel, and I accepted. Naively, I ended up bringing him upstairs to my room.
As we stood on the balcony looking out at the revelers below, he reached for me, and I pushed him away. I told him about my boyfriend back home. He wasn't worried; he had a girlfriend back home. She was 13 ... and he was 15.
What?!? Gross. This was not happening.
Again, I said no, but firmer this time, and pulled him out the door. For whatever reason, he finally gave up and shuffled off down the hall. I stared after him and reflected on my night, sobered by a wave of what-if consequences.
Tropical Contact High
The other night, I stumbled upon a photo of myself kneeling on a beach in Aruba nine years ago. And I'm grinning from ear to ear despite being surrounded by 26 older press-trip attendees--much older. That photo is one of a dozen chronicling my last days as a travel virgin who got lucky. As I flipped the last page, a Balashi beer coaster fell out of the album and into my lap. Really lucky.
Destination Dossier
Destination: Oranjestad, Aruba.
Month: September. Warm and breezy with temps rarely dropping below 80 degrees.
Time Spent: 3 days.
How I Got Around: ATV, taxi and the Kukoo Kunuku Party Bus.
Memorable Moment: Falling asleep to the rhythm of a steel-drum band.
Travel Confession: I Got Lucky in Aruba originally published on Travels.com
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