OK, I'm back but I don't know for how long.

The period between when I moved to my new apartment and I went over to apply at the dating service covered about six months. That time, however, was not spent totally in hibernation. I was sitting, feeling very independent, racking up money toward that mythical early retirement, and it occurred to me that it was time for me to take a vacation.

I've never had much time when I wasn't in some sort of serious relationship. Maybe a couple of years after high school, a couple of months between wifes 1 and 2, and now six months between 2 and 3. So, where could I go? What could I do? Alone? And then it hit me - the brochure.

I had carried a brochure all across this country, making sure it moved with me from town to town. It had even survived my life-cleaning just completed. I had picked it up at a travel agency twenty years before and fell in love with that advertisement.

In the 60's Club Med was a hot, new deal. First of all, it was one-price-inclusive, something fairly rare then. Second, it was a French company. At the time, I was hotly in crush with Brigitte Bardot, so anything French must be good.

I dug out that brochure, my hands shaking, as I realized that for once in my life I had both the money and the independence to fulfill what had been a dream of mine twenty years ago. A dream to go and hang out with lots of girls in brief swimsuits, hopefully for them to find me attractive as girls never had before. Like I say, a dream.

I perused the words over and over and finally, realizing that there might be further information by then, went to find it at a local travel agency. I found that Club Med had all kinds of resorts, ranging from family-friendly to almost nudist, for singles or couples, all over the world. I don't know how I decided which I should go to, but it had to be a singles (of course, I thought proudly), and I would prefer it if they spoke English.

Now, a word of caution about this tale or fulfilled dreams. In my early twenties I was a different person than in my early forties, physically, mentally, in every way. But I didn't let that stop me. People seldom do when in pursuit of dreams. It never occurred to me, either then or while at the resort, that I would be out of place. Later, however, that was a different story.

Later I would look back on some of my experiences with something approaching embarrassment, but, you know, I wouldn't give up those memories even if I could. Embarrassment and all, it's one of the few things I've done in my life just for me. It's still one of those few things that brings a smile to my face every time I think about it. But it would have been better if I'd done it twenty years before.

So, before you knew it, I was winging my way to Playa Blanca, Mexico. I didn't know at the time that that particular Club Med was one of the so-called "party" resorts in this hemisphere. But, if I had known, that would have been all right with me. I was single and seriously in search of all those "parties" I felt I must have missed out on during all those years of marriage.

The only catch, of course, was that all the singles at Playa Blanca, all those partyers, were in their 20's and I was not.

Anyway, we landed in Puerto Vallarta, famed resort of the rich and famous in Mexico, hangout of the Hollywood elite. The airport in Puerto Vallarta? Watch the movie "Pure Luck." They filmed some in that airport. See it? Been there, done that.

There were a number of planes arriving with people heading for the resort, so after a short wait we all crowded aboard a bus. Not a big Trailways bus, you realize, more like a school bus, a Mexican bus.

I've been to a lot of Mexican towns, ones with names like Tijuana and Juarez. But they're border towns with their own flavor. Puerto Vallarta was deep within Mexico, different, and was divided basically into two parts.

To the north, along the coast, could be seen large, fine hotels, no doubt full of large, fine American tourists. To the south, the direction we were going, lay the "Mexican" part of town, where the squalor and dirt and poverty mixed with large mansions in stark contrast.

Playa Blanca lies 120 miles south of Puerto Vallarta. But before we could hit the road the bus stopped on the edge of town. The driver turned in his seat, smiled a smile of missing teeth at all the young people (and me), and shouted, "Cerveza!"

Amid loud cheering, we all trooped off the bus and watched as the driver enlisted a few of the more muscular men to help him cart case after case of beer from the liquor store. More cheering and we all piled back on the bus, multiple church keys (remember those) were handed out, the driver slugged down most of a bottle, put the bus in gear and we lurched off down the road.

Let me tell you a secret about Mexican buses. They have special permission to drive right down the middle of the road. That line? It's to help the drunk bus driver keep on the road as he centers his hood ornament on it. The bus is hitting its max, about 50, and the beer is flowing, trying to counteract the heat.

All other vehicle knows that the proper place for them is off the road, preferrable FAR off the road, when they see a bus approach. And if another bus should be coming the other way, well, let's just say that our driver had never lost a game of chicken in his life and wasn't about to start now.

We might have been scared if we hadn't all already had so much beer in us. Amid refrains of "Ninety-nine bottles of beer," the guys were doing their best to shout over the road noise coming through the open windows, dripping sweat and beer from every pore.

The object of their attempts at communication was, of course, the girls on the bus. The party was in full swing and the flirting and hormones were becoming overwhelming. Territory was being staked even as I watched.

But we arrived safely (depending on your definition of that word) and turned down the road leading to the resort. Since the place was about 50 miles from the nearest town, the only traffic on that curving road was the buses carting tourists to the resort and then returning to Puerto Vallarta.

The road was scarcely as wide as the bus, palm trees brushing the sides at times. At other times it was a steep mountainside on one side and nothing but air on the other. Every time we came to a sharp curve along the mountainous part the driver would honk his horn. Continuously. A warning in case there was another bus coming the other way that we were committed to that curve, owned that curve. To back off.

And then we were there. My adventure begins. We were all herded into a large outdoor amphitheatre, an open area used for games, etc. with large stone steps leading down. The whole thing was shaped like a half circle, forty feet across, maybe twelve feet from top to bottom, built in tiers. We were all given a drink (we needed one by now, having gotten so dry during the short walk from the bus), and were welcomed.

As we sat there, still dressed to some extent for plane travel, I noticed people, all in various states of undress (small swimsuits seemed to be the rule), all with drinks and wearing various shades of plastic necklaces, standing up above us, all around, watching us intently. Funny thing, some of them were holding TWO drinks.

I really didn't know what was going on with those people on that Saturday as they shouted out "you'll be sorry," but I would find out on Wednesday. More later about them, later in the week when I was one of those above and another group of people were below.

And tomorrow we'll continue.