Spring Break at Georgetown always conjures up demons, and the most recent “week of vice” was certainly no exception.
As of January, reports filtered in from Hoyas near and far who were planning strange and inadvisable outings. One small band apparently flocked to the Florida Everglades for the world crocodile wrestling championships, only to head on to the body-wrestling haven of Key West-Georgetown. Another intrepid group with which I occasionally communicate was deliberating over a possible venture to Las Vegas, that demented money-sucking hole that plagues the West Coast. Even today, rumors circulate about the denouement of the secret B-Frat trip to South Padre Island, where Texans eat people alive and tequila acts as the currency of choice.
But without a doubt, nothing compared in ill-fatedness to the ill-fated adventure to Hedonism II in Jamaica, a fool’s journey of 15 Hoyas and their trusty flasks of Myers’ Rum to which I had the misfortune to bear witness.
Hedonism II is a resort created for those godless Americans who refuse to obey conventional norms; for those who prefer nudity to the noose that is clothing; for those who drink themselves silly and then go water-skiing; and for those who enjoy sex in exotic places like “poolside.” Unlimited alcohol is the cornerstone of the resort’s package deal, and it flows liberally around the clock. Drugs of all shapes and sizes are peddled like Girl Scout cookies, and just like dutiful Girl Scouts, the dealers make you feel truly guilty if you don’t try their wares. Rules guiding human behavior do not exist: It is Thomas Hobbes’ worst nightmare and best wet dream all rolled into one.
The resort draws crowds of all shapes and sizes, but there exists a certain hierarchy that shapes the place’s elan. At the top reside long-time Hedonists, mostly 30- to 50-year-old members of swinger clubs, who come down as a club and proceed to sleep with each other. This crowd views Hedonism as a bubble-world in which they can safely explore their weird fetishes with impunity, and they are very defensive of the “Hedo-way.” Next come the boss-and-secretary crowd, the 50-year-old guy with a much younger escort. For obvious reasons, these people tend to be rather shy and disdain conversation about “life back in the States.” A third group is composed of strippers and ex-strippers of all ages, who wish to relax a bit and compare boob-jobs. This group tends to be the most student-friendly, likely due to the “innocent” aura that college students (usually unintentionally) seem to give off.
Last, least in number and lowest in prestige, is the pool of single guys, students and young professionals, who lurk around and freak out the elders with their commitment to alcohol consumption, erratic behavior and spontaneous outbursts of idiocy. For some reason, members of this crowd are called “Guidos,” and we Guidoed with the best of them.
For all of their differences, these different species of hedonists seem to share essentially one goal: to get really, really weird. Accordingly, one who despises divergent sexual preferences could still be quite content in this environment, as long as this person loved, say, to do acid and then go sailing. The only sin that exists at Hedonism, the one quality that will draw pressure, is prudery. To true Hedonists, prudes close their minds to exploring vice in its many forms, and as such, are doomed to live boring lives. The very sight of a prude hence depresses the hedonist; the prude is to be pitied, and when you are on vacation, the last thing you want is to pity.
It should then be no surprise that, by our last day at the resort, our once-prude group had fallen all the way down the spiral of doom. One member of our party distinguished himself by singing “Suspicious Minds” at the on-site piano bar and then proceeding to strip naked, hop from table to table to bar, pouring drinks on himself and groping the giggling 40-somethings who watched. Another fool grabbed the microphone at the talent show and rattled off a magazine of dead baby jokes, after which he was summarily banned from drinking at the resort. Two more spent the week pent up in their flophouse of a room, competing in the “Most Drugged-Out Spring Breaker” competition. The most depraved of our party simply refused to ever wear clothes and became known as the “Naked Guy.” But don’t laugh; he ended up getting so entrenched in the casual sex scene with strippers named Aeon and Miss Texas that he was asked to return next year, all expenses paid.
We left Jamaica with distorted memories and broken but bronzed bodies, and in one case, a chronic bloody nose. Hedonism by no means was the best place on earth, but we did reach new nadirs of human behavior, the goal of any Spring-breaking college student worth his or her salt. And though we remained light-hearted during the quiet plane ride back to Washington, undoubtedly we all felt the same thing in our guts: The worst decision our parents ever made was letting us out of their sight.
Brendan Franich is a senior in the School of Foreign Service. His police record is long and distinguished.
