Playa was a series of dreams. Impossible to retrieve, they were memories destined for reminiscences over telephone conversations between friends now living in different worlds.
The youth of Playa, still too young to leave the small town and too old to stay away from drugs to break their boredom, were just memories that would eventually turn legend and continue to define that world. They were the exhale before the start of another sentence, but in that moment, among those people, they were heroes and antiheroes. When the night beckoned to them- cloaked in darkness, adrenaline high, perfection- they unsheathed their tongues and became who they wanted to be in a sea of cigarette youth, bored of the pristine beach, bored of tourist season and hurricanes and tropical rainstorms and bored of speaking Spanish and bored of their parents who could not tame them.
The town was hot, savage, and carnal; the bated breathe of secret lovers in an abandoned alleyway. There was something magnetic about the night; the days spent under the sun that screamed Vogue and Glamour and the oily muscles of men and women.
I was unsure of how I fit in, but I went along with it. It is the Mexican way. And it was more an absence of such a feeling that made my presence justified. It was how everyone felt.
All those who are great or will become great pass through, and they reminisce the rest of their lives of the time they spent there, wishing they could reach back through the years of their memory; to youth, to careless, irreverent, impeccable grandeur. It is only after Playa has sifted through our fingers like so many grains of sand that we can see it clearly below us- for what it was, what it is, and who we were when we lived in that grand illusion. Our lives hold their breath for the moment we can converge again into the sunrise over that monumental, crystal water.