“Feng, come out on the balcony! There’s a loud American guy somewhere in the condo who is developing a hilarious business plan to open a restaurant in Mexico. It includes importing true American workers because Mexicans are too lazy.”

“Oh, him… You should have heard what he thinks of his wife—I mean, ex-wife. Ask Mark. He told the entire building about it yesterday when we were eating. I don’t know who he was talking to on the phone but…”

“Really?”

“Yep. Something about the fact he was going to fucking kill this fucking bitch if she wasn’t fucking giving him the fucking money.”

Playa del Carmen is full of people like our sixty-something newly-fucking-single condo neighbour—angry, lonely guys who drink too much tequila and end the night at the karaoke downstairs singing Living on a prayer as if they truly meant it. In a way, it reminds me of Jacó, Costa Rica or Phuket, Thailand, places where foreigners think they can upgrade their life easily (the “upgrade” is more about getting laid easily than the general quality of life and local culture).

There are also plenty of people who haven’t divorced yet in the streets of Playa del Carmen. You’ll see couples pushing fancy strollers, their firstborn judging by the tired look on their faces and the giant diaper bag they carry everywhere, as well as more experienced parents on a family vacation with kids of varying ages—they are invariably quickening the pace when walking past R-rated storefronts, like the penis-themed ice cream and waffle shop.

The party crowd doesn’t mind the “I don’t give a dick” neon sign. In fact, they take selfies in front of it, then go sit in the bikini-butt bar stools next door. Once in a while, someone celebrates something—a birthday, a divorce, an engagement, a milestone and people stand up on a chair, start dancing or doing shots, something both at the same time and yes, it’s only 2 p.m.

There are Mexicans too in Playa del Carmen because after all, we are in Mexico. The city gets a hell of a lot more normal once you step away from the pedestrian “Quinta Alegría,” the 5^th avenue that runs parallel to the beach. The Quinta is where you find restaurants that say “Mexican food!” as if it was almost unexpected in Mexico. You can also eat Argentinian, Thai, Korean and Venezuelan cuisine in fancier restaurants, buy souvenirs, book tours, get a massage, taste tequila and shop at one of the malls.

And of course, you can watch gringos making a fool of themselves.

The local version of the Quinta is the Trenta, seven blocks up. The Trenta has “Mexico food!” that doesn’t say “Mexican food!” but that locals are happy to wait thirty minutes for because it smells delicious, even though it’s served on plastic plates in a non-Instagrammable hole in the wall. There are supermarkets, convenience stores, clothing stores where t-shirts don’t say “Playa del Carmen – Mexico” and tons of collectivos picking up passengers going to places that aren’t in guidebooks.

Both avenues are just minutes away but a world apart.

One thing is for sure, Playa del Carmen is a great place for people-watching.