I Almost Got Married in Mexico to a Boy Who Didn’t Speak English
Oh to be 16 again
His name was Ricardo.
Or maybe Eduardo — something that ended with o, anyway. Let’s call him Romeo and leave it at that.
How I loved him though, whatever his name was.
My parents had taken my brother and me on a family vacation to Puerto Vallarta.
Trigger warning: This might make those of you who are parents uncomfortable.
Unless, of course, you are a parent who was also a teenager in the 80s, then you know these two things to be true:
- We are lucky to have made it out alive from that decade.
- And we are all the better parents for it since lessons have been learned.
At least most lessons, such as not giving your children a separate hotel room while in another country.
Or, maybe, ever.
A school friend of mine had been on this same trip to Mexico the month before. Her parents knew the tour guide, a red-haired woman named Linda (don’t ask me how I can remember her name and not my five-minute fiancé).
Linda, whose side hustle appeared to be ferrying kids away from their parents on vacation, told me about a local man who would take me…
