Last month, my friend Juliet flew to Mexico to meet me in Tulum. On the airplane to Cancún, she ran into four Tulum-bound New Yorkers she knew, one of whom was coincidentally seated next to her. (They talked business.)
Upon arrival, she split a van with the five New Yorkers she’d intended to meet there, drove the 80 miles from Cancún to Tulum, then unpacked at Papaya Playa, a resort where you can do yoga on a surfboard in the ocean — and ran into four more New Yorkers she knew. She even ran into one New Yorker she didn’t know — but whose purple ombré hair she recognized from her stylist’s Instagram — at the hotel’s breakfast, on the beach, and when she wandered onto the wrong cabana’s porch and intruded on an intimate moment between Purple Ombré and her boyfriend.
“I can’t believe we came all the way from New York so you could have awkward run-ins with the same people you run into there,” I marveled. By the end of her stay, she could have drafted multiple football teams with all the New Yorkers she’d hung out with on the beach.