When you hear Dominican Republic, you probably think of sunshine, beaches, a few drinks, and a whole lot of fun.
For me, it was all of that.
Plus new friends, way too much alcohol, a body covered in bruises I have absolutely no reasonable explanation for, approximately twenty hours of sleep across seven nights, and the unexpected revival of a story that had been left unfinished a year ago.
But before I tell you about the trip as a whole, let me give you a little context.
I met this guy a year ago, during another business trip. We talked for a while until, somehow, the conversation ended with him blocking me.
Maybe I touched a nerve. Maybe I said something he didn’t like. Honestly, I don’t remember anymore.
Fast-forward one year.
When the group for this trip was announced, I realized he was the only person I already knew. So, naturally, I texted him.
Long story short, we started talking again.
We travelled on the same plane. For the first two days, we were practically Siamese twins — together on the plane, together on the bus, together around the resort.
He even spent the first night in my room because I didn’t have a roommate.
Now, don’t get any funny ideas.
Or do.
I’m not saying a word about that particular experience.
The next day, however, he started flirting with my friend a little too much. Later, he told me he liked her and that he needed my help with her.
For the first time in a very long time, I was genuinely shocked.
Maybe because I had never met someone quite like him before. Maybe because I simply wasn’t expecting it.
Either way, nothing happened between them because she was very much not interested.
I went on with my trip and, somehow, ended up getting close to his roommate instead. We danced together a few times, which apparently reminded my dear friend that he has a particular weakness for unavailable women. 😂
I sometimes think he genuinely believed we were living in a cave with no other humans around.
Anyhow, we stayed friends. We laughed a lot.
But honestly?
He wasn’t the point of this trip.
I was.
And so was everything that happened around me.
The Dominican Republic meant mornings when I was already drinking a Cuba Libre at nine because apparently the general rule here is that by noon, you should already be properly drunk.
It meant getting almost blackout drunk for the first time in my life and genuinely believing that some higher power had decided I wasn’t allowed to die on vacation.
It meant sleeping so little that, by the end of the week, I was operating almost entirely on adrenaline, caffeine, and whatever was in my glass.
It meant a bus that we successfully turned into a party bus because we brought a speaker and decided to introduce a little Romanian culture to the Caribbean.
And yes, when I say Romanian culture, I mean exactly what you’re thinking:
Alcohol and manele.
Obviously, we also had seven-star women.
We have standards.
It meant losing weight because, somehow, I managed to eat relatively well while spending my nights dancing bachata.
It meant discovering that my body can apparently survive several consecutive nights of dancing while receiving almost no sleep.
It meant nights that ended far too late and mornings that started far too early.
And here’s the funniest part:
I voluntarily woke up at 6 a.m. every single morning.
Don’t ask me why.
I genuinely don’t know.
I was awake. I was there. I had every opportunity to watch a Dominican sunrise.
And somehow, I never actually managed to see one. 😂
I have no idea how that’s even possible.
I went to the Dominican Republic, woke up at six every morning, and still managed to miss every single sunrise.
Honestly?
That’s almost impressive.
One of my very few regrets from this trip.
It meant laughing until my stomach hurt.
Dancing until my feet hurt.
Waking up exhausted and doing it all over again anyway.
It would have been about clubs too, if we had somehow managed to actually leave the resort at night.
We tried.
We really did.
Apparently the Dominican Republic had other plans for us. 😂
And then there was the boat party.
At some point, a torrential rainstorm decided to join us.
Most people would probably take that as a sign to stop partying.
We looked at the rain, looked at each other, and apparently decided:
Fuck it.
So we kept dancing.
We kept drinking.
We kept screaming and laughing and acting like the rain was part of the experience.
Because it was.
Nothing was going to ruin that vibe.
And maybe that’s what I loved most about this trip.
I wasn’t trying to make everything perfect.
I wasn’t trying to control every moment.
I wasn’t thinking about what came next.
I was just there.
Living it.
Testing my limits — and, occasionally, my patience.
Meeting people I probably would never have met anywhere else.
Having conversations I probably wouldn’t have had anywhere else.
Dancing with strangers.
Laughing with people who, a week earlier, had been complete strangers.
And realizing that sometimes you don’t need a life-changing experience.
Sometimes you just need a week where you remember what it feels like to be completely, unapologetically alive.
The Dominican Republic gave me that.
And if you ask me what I’m taking home with me…
Well.
I’ll be going home alone, with a suitcase full of dirty clothes, a suspicious amount of Caribbean sand that somehow made its way into everything, some absolutely fantastic pictures, a body covered in bruises that make me look like I was hit by a truck, and memories I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I’ll also be taking home new friendships, a few stories that will probably never make it onto this blog, and the undeniable realization that “one more drink” is almost never one more drink.
It’s usually ten.
And I’d do it all again.
Not tomorrow.
I need to sleep first.
But I’d do it again.
A hundred times over.
Because some trips give you pictures.
Some give you stories.
And some remind you that you’re still very much alive.
The Dominican Republic gave me all three.
And honestly?
I’m keeping every single one.
Until next time 🤍
