On the first day you arrive in Acapulco, you might temporarily forget why you came. As the car whisks past the airport, you see palm trees, but you also see Wal*Mart and Costco and KFC and Starbucks, and you think: oh, no.
You are, however, thrilled by the sun and sand and guacamole and salsa fresca. You’re in your own private villa, after all; there is a man who brings you icy drinks while you splash in the pool, and a woman who cooks breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The moist, humid air caresses your skin; you begin to relax.
The second day, you are delighted by tacos al pastor, assembled on the lightest tortillas you’ve ever tasted, by the pile of tender roasted meat, the crunch of white onions, and the sprinkle of feather-light cilantro, topped with a hint of pineapple-y sweetness.
On the third day, you happily tear into a pan-fried fish dressed with a bare squeeze of lime juice.
On the fourth day, you’re officially over guacamole and salsa. You don’t want to see another tortilla for months, maybe years. Everything seems to taste the same: breakfast, lunch and dinner.
That’s when you remember that the food doesn't really matter at all; you’re in Acapulco to watch your little sister pledge her love and devotion to the man she loves. To watch the face that you have known and loved all of these years transform into pure joy. She is the most beautiful girl in the whole world on that day. She looks like a princess straight out of a fairy tale; her feet seem to float across the sand.
You watch as she stands hand in hand with her beloved on a sandy beach at twilight, while a flock of birds wheels over the ocean in the distance. You watch her eyes shine as she says her vows; you see her hands tremble as he slides a ring onto her finger. You feel like your heart might burst with happiness.
This is why you came to Acapulco: for the memories. To sit around in your pajamas, sharing stories with your family. To learn how to play “42." To drift in the pool for hours. To laugh until you cry. To escape the creeping fingers of WIFI. To dance beneath the stars until the wee hours of the morning.