The theft that threatens our most basic right

From the second I spotted a gigantic Ziploc bag full of pot underneath the hotel shuttle bus driver's foot, I knew I was living my parents' worst nightmare of what "spring break" means. "Ganja," pork, artificial cheese and leopard skin shirts. For those of you who didn't get to go on traditional spring break to "Random Tropical Place Where People Will Braid Your Hair With Ugly Beads for Outrageous Prices," that pretty much sums up my spring break experience. To my parents' utmost horror, I spent half of spring break in Montego Bay, Jamaica. Despite my mom's desperate pleas and endless begging that I remain in New Jersey for yet another "great break" (read: sitting at home alone in my pajamas every day watching Jerry Springer and infomercials for ButtMaster 2001 while waiting for my parents to return so that I could have use of a car), I somehow manipulated my parents into believing that it would be a "valuable learning experience" to go to Jamaica. Suspiciously well-priced airfare and free lodging at an all-inclusive resort -- thanks to my a capella group, which would be performing in Jamaica -- seemed to sell the deal to my parents. Off to Jamaica I would go. Hopefully, I would return. If not, hey, "no problem, mon." No more tuition to pay. No more freeloading from the financially dependent unemployed student. We all seemed to be winners in this scheme. But for those of you who were unable to manipulate your parents into thinking that Jamaica was a good idea, or who simply didn't want to spend your break in Jamaica or another cliched Hair-Braiding Central location, here's what you missed. Memorable Experience #1: Arriving days after the rest of my a capella group had been in Jamaica, I had the luxury of taking the hotel shuttle from Montego Bay Airport to the resort solo. After 10 uncomfortable minutes spent with Delroy the Driver sitting entirely too close to me ("Ah, you are not married, no ring. Let's go to the beach later, ya mon? I show you a real good time"), a buck-toothed woman in her forties named Marge and her dashing husband Ray, King of the Obscenely Long Mullet, boarded the shuttle. Spotting a huge bag of "the Ganja" underneath Delroy's foot, Marge lunged at Delroy like a lioness at its prey, throwing her half-chewed cigarettes to the ground, salivating as her eyes lit up like the fiery end of a bong. Then, in a Southern accent as thick and juicy as fried chicken, Marge, in all her eloquence, burped out, "Ray, you gotta see this! This here guy's got the Mary Jane! We gonna have a real good trip yeah!" Twenty dollars later, Marge and Ray were snuggling up to a gigantic Ziploc bag of pot, slowly taking out each leaf and stuffing them individually into their socks. (For whatever reason, this seemed to be the logical next step.) I had arrived in Jamaica. Ten minutes later I called my parents: "Yes, everything's fine. The shuttle worked out great." Memorable Experience #2: The Pork Pit and Margaritaville. Growing sick of the confines of our all-inclusive resort (in Jamaica, "all-inclusive" means enough nachos and artificial cheese to feed the entire former British Empire and billions of cats roaming the premises), we ventured out into the city of Montego Bay for some action. What spring break would be truly complete without a trip to the MTV-famed Margaritaville? But first, a bathroom stop. A glowing pink neon sign outside a dilapidated building beckoned us inside as it blinked "Bacon, Ham, Pork! Bacon, Ham, Pork!" The smell of frying pig reeled us in, as it would any Penn student. Thank God for the Pork Pit. (Yes, that's its real name.) But it was at Margaritaville where we discovered Spring Break in its true short-skirted, tight-shirted, sunburned glory. Annoying, drunken college girls danced on speakers like hookers on Pat Pong in Thailand. Sweaty guys in Abercrombie shirts surrounded the dancers. And a personal favorite: a girl wearing a skin-tight leopard print tube top with a beer in one hand and a whistle into which she would repeatedly blow to produce ear-piercing shrieks. Spring Break. Woohoo. When one girl asked various Jamaican men to spank her tight-jeaned bottom, for whatever reason, it felt like it was the right time to go. With the enthusiasm of Tito Puente mid-concert, one chivalrous man began to play her butt cheeks like a Puerto Rican bongo. Yes, it was definitely time to go.

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