Papas & Beer

I'm sick, I'm unemployed and I'm finally completely broke. I feel like I'm Pete Campbell in an elevator and some asshole named Bob just asked me how I'm doing.

I've decided I need a little course correction so no more alcohol until I am gainfully employed. #Goals

But that said, this last weekend was a fitting grand finale. If you'll take my hand, I'll take you on an epic adventure south of the border.

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Part 1

"Drop Bears are real man!"

I'm sitting in a hot tub in the community of Las Gaviotas, just outside of Rosarito Mexico. I'm extremely intoxicated because I don't actually know how to make pina coladas. I'm on my second glass of rum ice slushie. I've also been drinking since 8am because I am sleeping on a squeaky ass bunk bed. Now there is some Australian surfer bro trying to tell me what a drop bear is.

"Ya man, they're like these man eating Koala bears that drop out of trees and eat your face off. Drop bears."

"Ya...but....Koalas...aren't...really...............bears."

A Newport surfer bro has entered the fray. He talks impossibly slow. In the time it took him to get those six words out I am able to finish my drink, do a cannonball into the pool and return to the hot tub.

"So Drop Bears are like those crazy guys in Florida that eat the bath salts?"

"Ya man, my mate got eaten by a drop bear last year. Real tragedy."

I should back up a moment. It's the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend. I came down yesterday with five friends and we have a house in this sprawling gated surf community. There's a private beach with probably 200 surfers out right now. I can see tennis courts, pools, shuffleboard, golf and a bunch of beautiful mansions full of people grilling and listening to Chainsmokers. It's essentially a playground for white kids from Orange County.

But that isn't to say that we aren't in Mexico. No within moments of crossing the border last night, we had people washing our windows in Tijuana. This morning when I went out for liquor, I hadn't driven a mile before I had a machine gun pointed in my face. This place does not fuck around.

We spend the afternoon drinking at our house, a three bedroom, three story flat with a rooftop that beckons an incredible ocean view. It was mysteriously decorated with statues of busty mermaids and provocative paintings of Frida Kahlo, the perfect place to blast music and play drinking games.

When we ask our neighbors what we should do for the night they say "Papas and beer."

I don't necessarily understand what they mean by potatoes and beer. It sounds like a fine suggestion for a meal but I'm unsure if it's a place, restaurant, bar?

I walk downstairs to check my phone. I had forgotten that I had thrown up a Facebook status about being in Rosarito. The texts starts flying in, 'Go to PAPAS AND BEER!!!!!!"

Around 4pm the girls take over the blender and they are able to make far more palatable cocktails than my abomination from earlier. We fire up the grill and cook some fresh caught fish and start playing some drinking games. We start shotgunning beers, taking fireball shots, it's shaping up to be just like a Palm Spring trip with less gays and more surfers.

I head down to the clubhouse to ask the staff how we should get to Papas and Beer for the evening.

"Eh, it's like a 7 minute drive, just take your car."

"Ya, but we will be drinking."

"You won't get pulled over, even if you do, $20 can get you out of anything, a bribe is cheaper than a cab."

It was refreshing to know that the official statement of our resort was that bribes were cheaper than cabs. Eventually we found a man with a bus who agreed to shuttle us into town for a few bucks.

Our pregame was aggressive and involved the Justin Bieber song "Sorry" being played over 10 times. I'm told I was so drunk at this point that I thought my singing was actually good. This is the danger zone of drinking. What follows is pure conjecture but could be completely false. We loaded up the van around 9pm and embarked on one of the wildest nights of our lives.

The first thing I noticed when we pulled up to the bar was the sheer size of it. This was no shitty Mexican dive bar, no this was a full blown Vegas-esque night club. Aside from the convoys of military men driving by with sub-machine guns, you may feel like you were in Barcelona, Bahamas, Ibiza or one of those shitty Spring Break clubs in Panama City.

There must have been 2,000 people inside. Multiple stages, a beachside dance floor, mechanical bull, girls in cages and of course a giant pool. Imagine the most lit Senor Frogs you have ever been in and multiply it by 1,000. This is Papas & Beer. I didn't expect much from Rosarito, I certainly didn't expect the biggest night club in the world.

As I walk around I realize that most of the male clientele is shirtless. Women are arbitrarily swimming around the pool, some clothed, some not. Guys are pouring beers on themselves like they are in hour 13 of a frat party and every time a big song gets played, the dance floor is hosed down with champagne. 80 foot video boards are playing music videos from the 90s and CO2 cannons blast your face every few steps. It has the feel of a more debaucherous Do Lab.

I see signs that bottle service is available for $40 USD, buckets of beer are $20 and a handy Papas & Beer bumper sticker will cost you $1 or free for 'girls who show their tatas.' Rest assured, some 18 year old Newport women went home with some free bumper stickers for their 3 series BMW that night.

Because of the excessive amount of Adderall that I had been hoovering at our pregame, I fade in and out of a black out for most of the night. At some point a Mexican man hands me a half full bottle of vodka and just tells me to keep it. Looking back, it was likely roofied.

I know for sure I slipped and fell off of the dance floor multiple times, and I may have taken a straight up nap in the sand at some point. These are things that might get you kicked out of a bar in America. Not in Mexico. You may get kidnapped or robbed, but no one will ever cut you off.

Fortunately for me, I have responsible friends and I made it to the safety of Las Gaviotas before some enterprising young felon could grab me for ransom. It's amazing that I've made it this far in life without dying.

Part 2

"You guys want to play Danger Can?"

I'm sitting in the hot tub again with my Newport/Australia friends. I'm pretty sure the combined IQ of all 8 of them still hovers in the mid double digits.

I'm feeling surprisingly fine because the girls have cooked up a spectacular breakfast and also taught me how to make proper pina coladas. If nothing else, I will take that knowledge with me the rest of my life.

I'm afraid to ask, but against my better judgment, I take the bait.

"What is Danger Can?"

"Broooo...........you've...............never...............played...........danger.............can?"

It's like reading Crime and Punishment waiting for this guy to finish a sentence. He looks like McConahey but with bleached blonde hair and a whispy mustache. Shitty facial hair is really having a moment.

I shake my head, fortunately one of the Aussies picks up the instructions from there.

"Basically mate, what you do is, you shake a can up really good and we chant DANGER CAN, DANGER CAN and then you smash it on your forehead and try to break it in half."

I'm dumbfounded, but also starting to understand why these guys are all borderline mentally disabled.

We go around the circle a few times screaming danger can, smashing the aluminum against our foreheads until the can springs a leak. One of the Newport bros dutifully pops the rest of the can open and chugs it.

I think I prefer the gay men of Palm Springs.

My group kicks the tires of a winery tour but decides that after our big night at Papas maybe we would be better suited to play some card games and shuffle board. We even host an epic putt putt tournament on our home's 9 hole course. I was defeated by a hole in one on the ninth.

After a few hours of leisure we decide to head down to Puerto Nueva for a proper lobster dinner. Fun fact: if you ever take a group down to Puerto Nueva #2 your waiter doubles as a magician. Dinner and a show. They also have a specific way of preparing lobster unique only to them, I would definitely check it out. We all had lobster, lots of beer, sides, etc for I think around $50 a person? And this is probably the most expensive restaurant in Baja.

Following dinner was a GoT party and a beachside bonfire. We crafted s'mores and made friends with some San Diego folks who shared some lovely herb with us.

Unlike the States, Mexico allows drinking on the beach. There is nothing more peaceful than listening to the waves crashing on the rocks while you enjoy a cold beverage next to a fire. I laid back in the sand and thought about never leaving. Alas, the beach was also covered with a fuck ton of crawfish and for some reason in my stoned state that kinda freaked me out.

The following morning we loaded up the car and began the trek home. We grabbed fresh coconuts on the side of the road and a man with a casual 36 inch machete hacked them apart until they were ripe for drinking. We flirted with the idea of Go-Karts or something on the way out of town but after: a gallon of fireball, a liter of rum, a gallon of vodka, a liter of tequila and 300 Tecantes we figured it was best to get out of Mexico.

And getting out of Mexico (on the busiest day of the year) as it turns out is NOT EASY. The drive from Rosarito to the US border took us 7 hours, mainly because Mexican drivers are fucking insane and Federales just close random streets whenever they feel like it.

Seriously we got on a ramp toward the border with our gas reading 80 miles to empty, we crossed the border at 7 miles to empty. We moved one mile during that time. This ramp is lit though. There are street vendors slanging everything from fresh fruit to fucking puppies.

Yes, puppies. You can buy a god damn three week old pup at the US/Mexico border for $20. You may have to stash it in the glove box with your cocaine though.

We made it back to Venice nearly 10 hours after we left. It's a three hour drive sans traffic, every piece of my body ached and I was starting to feel that rumble in your stomach after you drink too much Mexican water.

The takeaway? Mexico is fucking awesome, but it's not for the faint of heart. You have to suffer a little bit to survive this trip, but isn't that what makes an adventure awesome? If we wanted a mellow three day weekend we could rent a place out in Palm Desert, or even book a room in Terranea for the weekend. But as always, the trip is always defined by the company you keep.

The crew I rolled down to Mexico with was fucking awesome, we all had each other's backs nothing bad happened. 17 hours in a cramped car flew by and outside some potential Montozuma's Revenge for me, we came out the other side no worse for the wear.

The moral of the story is that wherever you take good people, good food and good drinks, you're going to have a good time...and if you ever find yourself in bad traffic some crackpot Game of Thrones theories and true crime podcasts are a good way to pass the time.

TL;DR Mexico is great, would go again. 5 stars.