When we booked our spring break at a popular Mexican resort town, I checked the reviews. Every single hotel has a thread that looks like this:
No. 1 “We had the best time at Rio Magic Azur Playa! The staff was amazing, the beach was great, and the pool had just the right amount of chlorine — shout-out to Bruno, the hotel chlorinator, who also was our waiter one night in the fantastic restaurant where we had lobster tails marinated in anejo tequila, then saw a show that made Cirque Du Soleil look like an elementary school gym class where the kids are trying to climb a rope.
“The room had an ocean view on both sides — don’t know how they managed that — and came with thick robes they just insisted we take home. Ten stars!”
Sounds nice, you think, until you read the next one:
No. 2 “Not all the towels had bloodstains. We didn’t spend a lot of time in the room anyway, due to the mildew, the construction noise on the other side of the wall and the irritable carrion bird that took up residence on the curtain rod and cawed at all hours for food.
“We spent most of our time at the pool because the beach was choked entirely with sargassum weeds thick enough to support one of the black vehicles full of men with dark uniforms and submachine guns who patrol the area daily, extracting a “sun tax” from guests. It’s mostly a party hotel for young people. (Shout-out to Bruno, who hosed the floors down every night.) We paid for an “Ocean View” room, but it actually looked out on a billboard with a poster of a George Clooney movie.”
Well, I’m not staying there, you think. You read the next one:
No. 3 “Stay at the Rio Magic Azur Playa for the time of your life!!!! Upon arrival, we were given champagne and small cubes of wagyu beef, then carried to our room by four porters who had a stern, dry grip on our limbs.
