The last night spent in Saly, we moved to a resort. I’m not the resort type at all, but I’m along for the ride and grateful for the good company. That said, you are going to indulge the sailor and listen to me grip about nothing at all for a few moments, as I simultaneously lay out the final hours of my trip and unabashed lame-itude.
By day, the Palm Beach Resort is stuffed with hip young staffers clad in red Baywatch-style uniforms. They corral the young and old into various water activities. We guests even wear bracelets because “everything is included” in the price (except Coke Light but I digress).
The pool would alternate between serving as a rest home (I’m thinking of the movie Cocoon) and Romper Room.
This was taken while most guests were away at the buffet-stlye feeding trough- I mean lunch (hey, I was there too!).
Once night falls there isn’t much to do in the way of water activities, so the resort rightly puts on its African version of Paradise Cove. If it’s any indication, when I lived in Hawaii I only went to Paradise Cove once, and left early after deciding that I could take no more of the Carnival Cruise-type atmosphere. Here in Saly, however, I stayed and watched, and even made a video for your viewing pleasure:
After that foray into superficial cultural exposure was over (I know: Shut up, Megan and just enjoy the entertainment put on for the white people), we found ourselves seated poolside to enjoy the blue view. What to do next? The stage show was over, and ABBA’s “Mamma Mia” was the current track on the speakers.
“There’s a boîte here that goes till dawn. J’ai envie de danser!” Says the other woman in our group who has far more energy than I ever had.
Uh oh. No way. I do not envie de danser. Cue the flight sentiment.
Neon is nice. But it’s the international signal for Megan to go to bed.
I hate discothèques. Boîtes. Night clubs. Whatever you want to call them, this scene has never been for me. I vividly remember walking into a dance club called “Magique” at sixteen years old and immediately deciding that this was my own personal version of Hell. Served my first (and last) Tequila Sunrise, which was doubtlessly mixed using only the cheapest headache-inducing alcohol, I looked around and tried to figure out why this activity had such a broad appeal.
“Maybe I just need to be older to appreciate this,” I told myself, pining for my bed or even a room where I could hear the voice of the person next to me.
This hypothesis did not shake out in the affirmative. Guess what? I’m older, and through my 20s and 30s, I have not changed my perspective on these places. Call me a curmudgeon, but my early preferences have only strengthened in my wizened old age.
I didn’t go dancing, and instead I quickly got up and announced that it was bedtime so that I could get an early morning run in on the beach. A legitimate excuse, seeing as how it does get Africa Hot here very quickly after sunrise.
Now be honest, what is more aesthetically pleasing? This photo, or the image of a sweaty, sticky thumping room filled with people who try to coolly swill overpriced drinks while waiting for the alcoholic content to propel them into awkward social interaction? Yes, I am biased- that is my interpretation of what it means to go out dancing. I know that yours is different.
If you find me in da club, bottle full of bub….then I’m probably passed out on some chairs next to my smokes
Why do I find myself writing now about my dislike of clubs? Well, for one I am off on a tangent because the resort is largely unremarkable by big hotel standards. Most of you who know me well don’t need to be told that I don’t like clubs, and as such understand why I loved living in Ireland. Old man pubs will always win the day for me, and unless a court summons is involved, there really is no chance that you will ever find me up past my bedtime and out into one of these strobe light sideshows.
The hotel staff laughed when I came back and I told them that this was the best time to be outside. “Il n’ya personne!” (no one’s out here!)
