Playa del Carmen. Words which now strike fear into my heart, and make me want to run for cover. This place was every inch the tourist resort hellhole I do my utmost best to avoid at every cost. Arriving on the bus with my Oz companion in tow, and having now said a fond farewell to our two other travelling buddies, the place looked promisingly lively and bustling. A five minute stroll down the main street, however, quickly revealed the ugly truth, and I realised that a week there would at best drive me to the Tequila, at worst leave me a rocking, gibbering psychotic wreck. Lined with shops selling Mexican kitsch of momentous proportions, hordes of lobster burned or deep tanned tourists swill the streets, Mexican shopkeepers are at least are honest in their sales banter 'Come in amigo, so I can rip you off', Haagen Dazs (x 3), Burger Kings (x 2), Starbucks....I was struck dumb with horror. The thought of staying in this place for a week made me develop a tic in the side of my face. I needed to get out of here. Many years of travelling the world with mum and dad have taught me the art of finding the essence of a place, and so I successfully rooted out some 100% genuine, no-tourist tacos for the evening, without the tourist price tag, and I rolled into my hostel bed for a horribly uncomfortable sweaty night. As a result, I woke the next morning with an even stronger resolve to get myself out of there, whatever the cost. Which meant, following another phonecall with my plane ticket company, that I was booked out to Boston via Dallas the following day, and only had to survive one day of beach loungers and topless bathers. I made my escape at 3.30am the next morning. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and settled back in my plane seat.