Noelle Hancock’s Diary:

Friday, 7:35 p.m. (on the plane):

Ahhh, spring break. That great bastion of debauchery when one realizes that alcohol was invented for ugly men, the skin color God gave you was merely a suggestion, and a mother’s parting words (well, my mother’s anyway) are, “Noelle, please do not bare your chest on television.”

10:55 p.m. (later that night):

My friends and I have arrived in Acapulco armed with about 12 disposable cameras among us to document our (mis)deeds, figuring that — if everything goes according to plan — we will probably not remember the majority of the trip anyway. (Author’s note: We would later take these cameras to the local developer in shame, not really knowing what was on them, but positive that whatever it was would soon be available on the Internet thanks to the pre-pubescent teen behind the counter.)

Saturday, 9:15 a.m. (OK, who’s kidding who here?) 11:30 a.m.:

After having endured three New Haven winters, I am fully embracing the tropical untundra-like splendor. If hell is as hot as they claim, I say bring it on poolside with a bottle of Cuervo.

5:04 p.m.:

During these types of vacations, you’ve always got that one friend who takes the “wake and bake” philosophy too far. You know the one: the tanorexic, who essentially changes ethnicities over the course of the trip. The one on my trip has decided to subscribe to the “Charlie’s Angels” Theory: I am the athletic one, our other friend is the big-chested one, and so she has decided to be the dark one. (Author’s note: Her tandemonium resulted in our arriving to Acapulco with a Caucasian and leaving with an African-American. When we got back, her boyfriend was very excited, saying that he’s always wanted to have an interracial relationship.)

10:30 p.m. (nighttime reflections):

Our hotel is certainly nice enough, despite the fact that it apparently manufactures its own “eau de cologne,” the smell of which could end a friendship. And its main restaurant has this bizarre obsession with transforming every meal it serves into a face. But we are eating our kitty-face breakfasts and the puppy-burger feasts with no major catastrophes. —

Sunday, 11:50 a.m. (I spoke too soon):

Today we have realized that the “Day o’ Rest” wasn’t invented solely for college kids who are too hung over to do anything but hang over their respective toilets. That’s right. The hotel bartenders have the day off. The Catholic nature of this country is infringing upon our boozefest. My friends and I are complaining loudly and without shame, having secured our place in hell a long time ago (or, as we like to call it, our final place of party).

3:02 p.m.:

No longer inspired to remain poolside, we have set out to explore the city to meet the people, if you will.

5:12 p.m.:

After being told by a number of natives that the Spanish word for “cool” is “cool-o” and that we should “be sure to use it often,” we decided to stop taking the Mexicans’ counsel, especially regarding such advice as, “The water? Sure you can drink it!” and “The ice? — No problem!” (Author’s note: By the end of the day, we were all brushing our teeth with tequila.)

Monday, 12:11 a.m.:

We are unleashing ourselves upon the spring break club scene. It’s that long trench where pimps and thieves run free and good men die like dogs —

12:12 a.m.:

–well, the ones with no game anyways.

4:40 a.m.:

We have spent the night dancing around, having fun and avoiding the guys wearing mesh shirts and/or A.C. Slater-like black pants. A while ago I spotted a girl, who (besides having great taste in clothes) appeared to be as lonely as I felt, standing near a wall. So I started dancing with her, and it turned out that our dance moves were completely in sync! I was later saddened to realize that the wall was actually mirrored, and I’d been dancing with myself for the last 10 minutes.

5:01 a.m.:

A minute ago, upon leaving the club, we glanced over and saw some poor college kid passed out face down in an alleyway. What friends was this dude rolling with that would just leave his ass passed out in an alley in Mexico? But bygones — there was a man down, my friends. As I approach, I wonder whether or not I will have to conjure the mouth-to-mouth skills from my lifeguarding hey days, and I wonder how beneficial CPR could actually be, given that my breath is 95 percent saturated “con” booze at the moment. The only words he can utter are the name of his hotel. So we have stuffed him in a cab and paid for the driver to take him there. We are now trying to erase all of those “foreign country urban legends” from our minds and hope he won’t, like, wake up in a tub of ice missing his liver (or what’s left of it).

Tuesday, 2:55 p.m.:

The shuttle ride back to the airport has ruined my Hanes Her Ways, as our driver literally scared the crap out of us by hauling ass around narrow, twisty roads of Acapulco’s cliffs. At one point someone screamed (OK, it was me), “We’re gonna crash! Did you see that guard rail?! — yeah, me neither ‘CAUSE IT ISN’T THERE!”

Post-vacation reflections, 4:44 a.m. (the night before this column is due):

Well, now that my friends and I have made it back, there’s only one thing left to say. I hope that everyone, at some point, is lucky enough to have such a fantastic vacation. But if it is not in the stars, do not despair, for you can always vicariously enjoy ours. You know where to find the pictures.

Noelle Hancock is a junior in Saybrook College. Her column runs on alternate Fridays.