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some visiting college friends and i drove our rental car, the world's fastest ashtray, to an all-inclusive beach resort called Playa Blanca in Santa Clara: a coastal area about an hour and a half from panama city where guests are royalty

the theme of my visit was overindulgence or perhaps guilty pleasures as i was taunted with open bars, mountainous buffets, eager staff, excessive sunshine—it reminded me of the days i could slice through college like a hot knife through butter, not having to worry about any real world things like getting arrested or cooking

in the mornings i would dig my feet into the cool sand that had been sleeping all night—the ocean was that familiar 7:00 AM calm, with tiny fishing boats dancing and nodding on the surface like bobble head dolls—flocks of birds hovered over the water looking for fish

breakfasts were masses of scrumptiousness—bright tropical fruits, crispy ribbons of bacon, freshly squeezed mango juice, potatoes, stewed beef—all in an open air dining room that looked out at the tan sands and aqua waters of the pacific

my afternoons were nomadic, spent roaming around wearing only dirty blue jeans, a straw hat and a smile, the whole experience being sort of dreamy, this giant playground of pleasure

once damage was done at the resort, we wandered for something new, something original, pulling off the highway and onto a bumpy dirt road: at the end of it was this perfect little beach with giant bending palm trees, miles of blank sand—not a footprint to be seen

we laid out and basked in our coolness—it was really like a GQ photo shoot of some young guys, shirts unbuttoned, dark sun glasses, the sun glimmering off our skin and cooking it like a rotisserie chicken, sand in our hair, no one around...like a Corona commercial...miles away from ordinary

we ate dinner at a tiny rural restaurant with tired wooden benches, sand on the floor and the menu etched on the wall with a marker, twangy Latin music buzzing out from the kitchen and the owner, a small old lady who looked like she was tired—some hearty stew and several rounds of $0.25 domestic later we were ready to wind down

you couldn't've drawn up a the last scene of the night any better—good college buddies, lounging on soft hammocks under thatched roofs, waves lapping up onto the shore only a few feet away, a perfect bugless starry night, and the beach to ourselves (the sand, the same cold sand i had felt that morning was hot and exhausted from a day out in the sun): we drank the night away until it eventually deteriorated into sand wrestling, bad karaoke, and unsuccessful gymnastic moves—we were loving it—no dress codes to go by, no stuffy bouncers to sneak past, no tuff people to give you a hard time—it was just right

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