After years of bumming around the world, sleeping in no-star motels in South America and trying not to vomit in yurts heated only by the burning of petrified yak shit in the former Soviet Union, it would seem I’ve become boring in my older years. I recently got back from a luxurious weekend spent basking on the ocean-side cliffs of Negril, Jamaica, at one of the world’s best boutique hotels, Rockhouse. Yawn, right?

Which is why I won’t bore you with all the quiet fun I had. (I tore through the first book of the Hunger Games trilogy and half of Foucault’s Pendulum.) Oops, I guess I did just bore you with all the quiet fun I had. And since that seal’s broken, I might as well continue. Besides reading, these three photos pretty much sum up what 72 hours in utter indulgence looks like.

Endless fresh coconut water.

Nonstop cliff jumping.

And righteous sunsets.

Now, if it makes you feel any better, my next vacation is to Miami on April 1. And before you groan and think my adventures have officially come to and end, brace yourself for this. I’m not going for the beaches; I’m going for Wrestlemania. Seriously. You thought a poop-powered yurt was somethin’? You ain’t seen nothin’…

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