abientotmonbeau asked: What's the most amazing place you've even been to? :)

Thanks for the question - asked almost two months ago - ABientotMonBeau!

The most amazing place I’ve ever been would probably be a tiny little beach town called Zipolite on the southwestern coast of Mexico, in between Puerto Escondito and Guatemala. It was the summer of 2007, and I had recently landed what was then the job of my dreams, doing PR for a major Champagne brand in New York, and my best buddy had just left the job where we had met to go to law school. We planned and booked the trip about 2 weeks prior to departing: Mexico City, Zipolite and Oaxaca in 10 or 11 days.

The splendor of Zipolite cannot be told outside of the context of our trip. Here goes: We were doing the trip on the cheap, and so we spent two nights in Mexico City at decent hostels, doing lots of the Distrito Federal stuff: the cathedral, little cantinas, stuff like that. When we left the city for Zipolite, we took an overnight coach to Oaxaca (during which my cell phone was stolen), and upon arrival hightailed it across town to the second-class bus station for our departure for Zipolite. Being two blond, gay, francophilic Americans, neither of us spoke Spanish, and Andrew decided that because of my French skills, I spoke better Spanish than he did, so he read phrases from Lonely Planet while I repeated them in my marginally-better Spanish.

Matthew: “Dos boletos para Zipolite, por favor?”

Andrew: “Say “ordinario”!”

Matthew: “Lo ciento, senor. Dos boletos ordinarios para Zipolite.” Aside: What does that mean?

Andrew: “It specifies the type of bus we need to be on.” Oh, poor French-fried gays. We requested the local bus, natch, and what should have been a 4-hour trip down from the mountain town of Oaxaca to the Pacific shores of Zipolite became a 9-hour wild goose chase on a bus that ended up stopping, oh, every 20 minutes or so. It was a yellow school bus - they have them en Mexique - with holes for windows; Andrew landed in a busted seat that plied his 6-foot frame into something resembling Rodin’s The Thinker. By the time we hit rainforest, still about 4 hours from our destination, the bus had become packed, with passengers standing in the aisles, some so close to me that I had my first taste of Mexican hair braid. (Skip it.) When I saw that we were only 10 km from our destination, Pochutla, I got up to grab our bags from the back so that we could get the HELL off of the bus as soon as we arrived. The last 10 km ended up taking nearly another hour, which I spent standing squeezed between an unamused Mexican mountain family.

After splurging for a taxi from Pochutla to Zipolite - about 20 km still - we arrived at Hotel Lo Cosmico, a tiny group of thatched huts nestled in the rocks on the half-mile long beach of Zipolite. It was magical - cosmic, indeed - and we set to drinking our Sols and Negra Modelos.

We had planned on 3-4 days in Zipolite, allowing for another 3-4 in Oaxaca and a brief trip back to the city before our return. On the second day in Zipolite, after a few hours of reading on the beach, Andrew and I took a dip in the ocean, which approached our beach through a tiny cove that resembled the Sicilian coast - all huge rocks worn by centuries of Pacific waves. Being a nude beach, Andrew took advantage, but prudish American that I am, I kept my (still rather tiny) bathing suit on. We spent about 2 hours in the water - nothing for a boy raised at Montauk and Fire Island beaches - when I began to lose control; the undertow, of which we were warned by a makeshift rockside “sign,” had pulled me dangerously close to a group of surfers, and worse, the giant rock formations. Andrew kept his bearings and managed to climb up on a rock, but every time I approached, the waves would knock me off the rocks and then hit from behind - the worst part of a bad undertow - and slam me back into them. I was getting bruised and the wind had already left me; I grabbed Drew’s hand and got my footing, but the next step was, as they say, a doozy. I stepped directly onto a sea urchin - after having sliced my other foot on a jagged edge when a wave knocked me - and buckled in pain. Drew, at this point naked on the rock about 50 meters from shore, led me back to the beach, but not without a round of applause from the 8 or so sunbathers on the beach.

We climbed the stairs to the main hut, where the Austrian-expat proprietor offered to take care of me. He and his Swiss wife proceeded to offer the best in Zipolitean medical care - a freezing cold hose for my gashed big toe and urchin-butchered feet. Screaming bloody murder - “JESUS FUCK ALMIGHTY GOD DAMN FUCKING SHIT” - I retired to our hut, where Drew sat on the edge of my bed as I passed out. That night, we drowned our sorrows - and my wounds - with Tequila and beer, and the next morning headed into “town,” basically a long road resembling a suburban driveway that connected the 3 food huts and general store of Zipolite. Finding nothing but rubbing alcohol (which we purchased), we headed to Pochutla for Neosporin-esque cream for me and ointment for Andrew’s mosquito bites, which numbered 75 on his back alone. For the rest of the trip, after I swabbed the 25 sea urchin spines with alcohol and covered them with cream, I would take to Andrew’s back, dotting each bite with the magical ointment that quite amazingly removed the sting. Needless to say, with 25 spines in my foot, I wasn’t exactly gunning for another 9-hour bus ride; we ended up staying an extra 3 days on the beach before heading to Oaxaca. Zipolite in August proved to be quiet (but for my screams), relaxing, and marked by a scorching heat and cool ocean breeze. I’d go back in a heartbeat … but would be sure to take the directo - and some Neosporin - next time.