Introduction
I was once so lucky to meet a man who was too big to fit inside of one name. You might have known him too, and if you did, you were so lucky! We were friends for a decade, roommates for a while, and for the last four years of his life, me, him, and my partner Derek shared a kind of bonded love that no amount of words will ever capture.
But I’ll try.
Greg Corbin had a list of alter egos almost as long as the number of his friends, who are legion.
Greg’s unique ability and capacity to connect with people in meaningful and exuberantly present ways, were legendary. This outrageously heart-generous man was truly a legend for legions. And this, you might say, is my heart-generous way of contributing to Greg’s legacy. This is my Gregism Legacy Legend for Legions … project. I think he would like the too muchness of it all.
So this is my story. My gift to you, in memory of the last absolutely glorious time I got to spend with this dynamo of a human being, and fair warning – I go on and on. With pictures and videos and back stories. Since they’re the freshest in my mind and last stories I ever get to tell about the great big life I got to share with this man who touched my heart in ways I know I will never quite be able to transmit with the mere mortality of these words, I’ve decided to indulge in telling it all the long way.
Grab a cup of tea, curl up under a blanket, and hunker in. Be prepared to laugh, to be shocked, maybe even to judge me, or Derek, or even Greg, at times, a little bit, and definitely to cry. The ending is a real heartbreaker, especially if you’re a sucker for plot twists and red roses, as I will be, forevermore.
If there’s something Greg taught me, and that I hope to impart in some small way to you, it’s that this business of being human is messy, is ascendant, and can be, if you let in the possibility for it, a high tea of hilarity riding an ocean of symbolism.
⋄⟡⋄
This is the story of a trip that was supposed to be one of many.
Greg had built a life that revolved around connection. He spent time and energy creating experiences for the people he loved. They weren’t small gestures. They were elaborate, intentional acts of love. He wanted people to feel something. To feel joy, surprise, delight. And he got genuine happiness from watching us experience those things.
My relationship with him was deeply intertwined with both everyday intimacy and heightened experiences. Phone calls, inside jokes, alter egos, rituals like the Cantina, the scavenger hunts, the restaurants. There was a rhythm to our connection. It wasn’t casual. It was immersive.
Café de Olla and Pepe’s Taco became more than restaurants. They were anchors. The staff, the routines, the food, even “Mr. Mexico” and those Pepe’s Taco boys became part of it. They became characters in this story, part of the world Greg had created and invited us into.
Throughout the trip, there was this constant oscillation between joy and intensity. We were having the time of our lives. We were laughing our heads off. We were drinking, exploring, playing games, making videos. There was absurdity, humor, chaos, and so much affection.
But underneath that, there were also glimpses of something else.
Greg’s complexity was everywhere. He was generous, thoughtful, hilarious, deeply loving. But also impulsive, intense, drawn to risk, someone who lived right at the edge of things. He could be “healthy, obnoxious boy” one moment, focused on fruit and vitamins, and then swing back into partying and drinking the next.
There were also threads of transition.
Greg was changing. He talked about becoming someone different. Moving away from being a party figure, toward being someone grounded in family values, leaning even more deeply into experience and connection. He wanted to continue improving his home, shift his identity, build something more wholesome.
But that transition wasn’t complete. All these versions of him were still present.
This story is full of experiences.
Excursions, the pirate ship, Survivor Island, the ATV tour, massages, the spa, the beach, the red rose in the ocean. That moment with the rose stands out as something symbolic. It captured something mythic about our connection. Standing in the water, holding something perfect and unexpected, talking about the future.
We were making plans.
Real plans.
Living together.
Spending winters there.
Building a shared life in that place.
There was also this sense that I was documenting everything more than usual. Taking more photos, more videos. Almost like something in me knew to capture it.
At the same time, there were moments of danger and vulnerability.
My fall on the mountain.
The motorcycle incident.
Greg hitting his head multiple times.
The intensity of drinking.
The unpredictability of “Chriiis” and “Ricky Rooster Randy.”
And then the balcony moment.
At the time, it still felt like part of the chaos and intensity of the trip. Greg triggering my trauma, and then reassuring me that he was in control.
But that moment became deeply significant in hindsight.
The final stretch of the trip felt different.
There was a shift. I remember feeling overwhelmed, emotional, almost like something was ending, even though we had plans to return. That walk to Café de Olla where I felt that ache in my throat and couldn’t explain it.
A sense of urgency, a sense that this mattered so much, a sense of trying to hold onto the moment.
The last experiences were quieter in tone. The Italian dinner. The final photos. The blanket I bought him for his future home. Small details that now carry an enormous weight.
Then the goodbye.
A long, intimate, deeply emotional goodbye. Holding each other. Expressing how much we loved each other. Fully expecting that we would see each other again.
And then the final moment.
Me sitting in the Uber. Watching Derek hug him. Thinking about getting out and going back for one more hug.
And choosing not to, because there would be another time.
⋄⟡⋄
Before I get into the tale of the last supper and whatnot, though, I’d like to tell you how in those days immediately after, Iryss and I took a look at the Life Of Greg, after the ferociously too early end of it arrived, unwanted by any of us. We realized he behaved in a certain kind of way that many of us benefited from. We distilled it into a formula. It goes like this:
➜ Step 1. Do a nice thing for someone.
(Make it personal.)
➜ Step 2. Delay your own gratification.
(Make it a surprise.)
➜ Step 3. Add some theatre.
(Make it extra.)
Creating this dedicated part of my website for Greg, social media vehicles for the sharing of your interpretation of this formula, as a way of catalyzing and capturing the inimitable magic Greg inspired, is my act of devoted, enduring love for this dear man and the innumerable ways he made my life shinier. Maybe, somehow, in this, I will survive life without him. Maybe, somehow, in this, you will too. Maybe, somehow, in this, each of us finds more magic … and maybe, from the great beyond, our beloved Greg will find his way to nudge the magic a bit, from over there.
They say, in the forest, something that can kill you is near something that can heal you. It’s the magic of an alive ecosystem. I’m lost in a dark forest of grief right now that feels like it could end me. I’m hoping that inviting you to join me in this Gregism Gregacy Legend for Legions project, we’ll create something together that truly celebrates the ethos of what a spirit like Greg Corbin came here to inspire and heal in us. This is me looking for the thing that will heal me, while my grief feels all too crushing and deadly.
I like to picture Greg sitting somewhere in sparkly underpants underneath the tailored menswear he was getting ready to don more of, delighting in all of what we’ll create together, inspired by his very Gregismy way of surviving everything that makes living hard to survive.
Me sharing this pictorial and video montage of Greg’s last two weeks of life is my Gregorian chant to you. May you laugh, cry, forgive, be inspired and go forth and perform your own versions of how Greg did what he did for us.
That’s what the Gregacy is: the new world we are going to create that must exist because he died.
May this help us all survive what losing him did to us.
The Gregacy is a gateway – to living better, by loving more, and laughing more. It’s here, and will be, forever, on my website:
www.GeoRevHooping.com/Greg
Let’s create a ripple of actions that bring a little more Greg into our ecosystems.
Join me.
And now, the tea.
Let me show and tell you about my time with Greg’s last weeks.
Prequel: The Origin of Poontang
If you knew Greg, you know that this man could tell a story like no other. He was incredibly expressive and often required about 15 square feet of space to tell a story, acting out all the different parts with his whole body. His stories were infectious and stayed with you long after they were over. I have to begin this entire memoir with one such story that Greg told us, because it changed our world and got stuck in our heads in the worst way. I can’t tell the story of the last two weeks of his life without explaining it. Unfortunately, it revolves around a naughty word, but it came to mean something entirely different to us.
Of course, we’ve all heard of “poontang,” the vulgar slang popularized during the Vietnam era, often used in misogynistic context or in sexually aggressive language. That is not how we used it. In fact, part of the reason this story needs to be told is to separate what that word has historically meant from what it became inside our friendship.
Greg told Derek and me this story almost two years ago. It was just a random night at my house, the three of us sitting around the dining room table, and it went something like this. I want you to imagine Greg telling it the way he did, fully animated, pausing for effect, acting out both sides.
He had invited a young man back to his house after they had gone out for drinks. As they were talking, Greg noticed that the guy had a habit of signaling that he was following along in the conversation by offering small verbal confirmations. Where most of us might say “yeah,” “okay,” or “I’m with you,” this guy would say “okay,” but his pronunciation was shaped strongly by the tonal patterns of his native language. The result was that it sounded, unmistakably, like “poontang.” If I had to spell what Greg heard, it would be something like “ppphhhhpppUNTANG,” with a heavy tonal contour layered over the English word.
After a few exchanges, Greg realized what he was hearing, and it absolutely delighted him. So he started leaning into it. He would say something, pause deliberately, and then glance over, waiting for it, just to hear that “poontang” land again. The way Greg told this story had us in stitches. He acted out both sides of the conversation, stretching the pauses, exaggerating the timing, and we were laughing so hard we could barely breathe.
That was the beginning.
The three of us started repeating “poontang” almost immediately. It became a kind of verbal stim that we latched onto hard. For years before that, we had already been saying “m’kay” to each other in that same rhythmic, repetitive way, and this just replaced it. Evolved from it. The sound, the timing, the hilarity of it just fit perfectly into the way we already communicated.
The word detached completely from its original meaning.
Over time, “poontang” became a word that meant everything to us. It could be good or bad depending on the context. We identified as poontangs. If someone else was doing something stupid, they could be a poontang too. There was “poontangery” out in the world, and sometimes many, many poontangs in a single day. But it could also be light, playful, and affectionate. You could just be poontanging, whether you were working hard, or hardly working.
It became this full-spectrum word. Positive, negative, absurd, affectionate. The more ridiculous it got, the more it replaced our normal vocabulary. It became part of our private language, something that belonged entirely to the three of us. And we were very aware of how inappropriate it would sound to anyone else, which only made it harder to contain.
We used to joke about how it kept trying to slip out in public situations when we weren’t together. I would be at the border, trying to import supplies, standing in front of a border agent who looked like Rambo, and I would have to physically bite my tongue to stop myself from saying, “So what you’re saying is… poontang poontang poontang poontang.”
We also just… said it. Constantly. Repeatedly. I would estimate that between the three of us, we said “poontang” somewhere between 30 to 50 times a day, every day, for the last 600 days.
You can do the math.
And somewhere out there is a young man who will never know that his simple, tonal “okay” changed the language of our friendship and started a tidal wave of poontangery throughout Canadian society.
The Arrival
The view from Greg’s Casa (2025)
Greg has been traveling to Mexico nearly every winter for the last fifteen years, and Puerto Vallarta was his favorite city. He had a little casa, and it wasn’t just a vacation spot for him. It was his place.
The apartment itself was charming and a little irregular, brightly painted, full of art and cactii, and he loved it deeply. Every year he added to it in his own way. Wind chimes, a bidet, coloured lights, upgrades to the furnishings and appliances. He took pride in it. He was building something there, year by year.
What really made it special was the location.
His building sat high up on a mountain in Cinco de Diciembre, above the Zona Romántica. It was a dense, layered neighborhood, a mix of condos, Airbnbs, and makeshift homes stacked along the hillside. The road to get there was an extremely steep, uneven cobblestone road, that turned into a trecherous dirt road.
There was no parking in front of his building, and nowhere to turn around. Ubers would try, but most of them refused to go all the way up. Usually they would drop us at the top of the steep cobblestone section, and we would walk the rest of the way ourselves. Greg, of course, was fit enough that he often just walked straight up the whole thing like it was nothing.
I always found it kind of unbelievable that there were so many multi-story buildings packed onto the top of that mountain, along such a difficult dirt road. But because of that, the view was unreal. Completely unobstructed. Ocean, jungle, city, everything.
His apartment was a two-bedroom, but the heart of it was really three spaces: the kitchen and dining area flanked by the living room and the master bedroom. All three were connected by a long, narrow balcony that ran the length of the unit, and we used it constantly, moving between rooms along that outside edge with the view always right there.
The master bedroom was where Derek and I stayed. It had the ocean view and a king-size bed. It was Greg’s room when he was there alone, but he always gave it to his guests. He loved having people come stay with him. That was the whole point.
He had been inviting me for years before I finally went. We didn’t financially prioritize it for a long time, even with him offering to share his place. But in 2025, Derek and I made it work for the first time. Greg hosted us, and it was an unforgettable vacation that inspired us, big time.
So we spent the entire next year planning to go back in 2026.
I spent that whole year studying Spanish. By the time we returned, I knew over a thousand words and could hold basic conversations. Greg and I talked constantly leading up to the trip, on the phone and over text, going over everything we were going to do.
But when I look back on those conversations now, it wasn’t really about the plans. It was about being together. Just being with him, in the place he loved most.
At first sight, I fell in love with Puerto Vallarta too.
⋄⟡⋄
Right before we left, there was a major cartel-related violence event. It happened on February 22, just three days before our flight. There were coordinated attacks across Jalisco, including in Puerto Vallarta. Businesses were set on fire, roads were blocked, vehicles were burned. It was all over the news.
For a day or two, we genuinely didn’t know if we were going to be able to go. A lot of people were telling us not to. And to be fair, there was some real risk. You’re never guaranteed safety anywhere, but in Mexico that reality feels more visible. Instability, accidents, violence. Those are things you accept as possible when you travel there.
The violence did seem targeted against the infrastructure and government response. There weren’t reports of civilians being murdered in PV. Still, for a while, we thought the trip was probably cancelled. It was really sad.
Meanwhile, Greg and his dad, Ray, were up at the apartment, completely tucked into what felt like a mountain fortress. The building had an iron gate, bars on the windows, and sat high above everything. They stayed in, all stocked up, and waited it out.
Greg wasn’t too concerned! He told us there was quite a bit of poontanging going on Sunday, but that there was significantly less poontangery by Monday and Tuesday. He had food, water, and plenty of booze, so he was playing video games while his dad kept up with the news. It definitely disrupted their usual routine, but from everything I heard, they actually had a really nice time just being there together.
He sent me pictures and videos, and you could see smoke rising in multiple columns, in his neighborhood. I think a lot of people would have been rattled by that. But not Greg. He was calm. Not reckless, he wasn’t going out, but he wasn’t panicking either.
They are burning down the Costco in Puerto Vallarta 😮 #mexico #2026
His biggest concern, by far, was when Costco was going to reopen.
⋄⟡⋄
By Tuesday, February 24, my 44th birthday, things started to shift. The airport was operating again. Our flight wasn’t cancelled. So we made the decision. This trip meant too much to us to miss!
I had been working so hard for months to make this trip happen.
Our flight left at seven in the morning, which meant we were up at four, so we didn’t even bother going to sleep. We just planned to sleep on the plane.
For the second year in a row, I spent my birthday, February 24, in that strange in-between space, not really celebrating, just stressed and getting ready to leave. Derek was incredible through all of it, helping me pull everything together in the final hours before we had to go.
Even though I had a full year to prepare, I still found myself sewing until three in the morning, because of course I did.
I wanted clothes that would work for me in Mexico. It’s hot there, and we were coming straight from a Canadian winter. I wanted bamboo shorts and dresses with huge pockets. The kind where you can carry everything you need without a bag. I had this vision of being able to move around freely, especially on travel days and when we were out exploring. I had planned to make three dresses, but I only finished two. One was for going out, and one was for everyday wear, with massive pockets.
So Derek and I pulled an all-nighter, me sewing, him helping, both of us running on pure momentum, trying to get out the door in time.
⋄⟡⋄
One of the main things we brought with us was our BedJet.
Derek packed it into our suitcase like it was essential equipment, which, to us, it was. A BedJet is basically a device that blows air into a special sheet so you can control the temperature of your bed. It sounds unnecessary until you try it, and then it becomes your entire personality.
People think they’re inviting me over for dinner, but no. It’s actually a three-hour BedJet pitch.
Greg was the first person I ever gave that pitch to, and he bit immediately. He bought one. He loved it. The three of us were fully converted BedJet heads. The only reason Greg didn’t bring his to Mexico was because Derek and I had two BedJet Minis, and his was too big to travel with.
So we brought one of ours, and the plan was to use it together on the king-size bed. We loved sharing a king-size bed. The three of us would inhabit a king, taking turns in the middle, cuddling, watching Survivor or whatever, completely poontanging.
Now, the sheet situation.
The BedJet works best with a special “cloud sheet” that has channels sewn into it. I had intended to make one before the trip, but because I was working three jobs and sewing until the last minute like a maniac, I didn’t get around to putting the channels in. So instead, I made a version with just a single opening. Which meant that instead of distributing the air, the BedJet just filled the entire sheet like a balloon. It would inflate up around us while we were in Mexico with like four feet of air, hovering over the bed.
Our His'n'Hers BedJet back home. Please contact me for a 10% off referral code if you want to get your own BedJet. Sick of how hot your partner's body is? With Bedjet, you can spoon all night again. Hot from working out? BedJet. Cold from winter? BedJet. Don't feel like toweling off after a shower? BedJet. BedJet wicks up to 8 litres of moisture out of your bed per night. You do the math!
⋄⟡⋄So Derek and I got everything packed up. I had the dresses, we had the BedJet, and that was about it. We didn’t bring any real provisions, so if the cartel situation had still been actively unfolding when we arrived, we would have been in trouble. But we went anyway. We figured that even or especially if something was still going on, and Puerto Vallarta was dangerous, we would rather be with Greg in Mexico than not. Since the plane was still flying and hadn’t been canceled, we got on it.
It was a surreal flight because the plane was almost empty. We had the entire back section to ourselves, which meant we could stretch out and try to get some sleep. It wasn’t good sleep, though, and by the time we landed, I felt like dogshit.
As soon as we got through the airport, I called Greg. He answered and immediately said, “Oh hello, my dear sweet poontang. You don’t feel very good? Do you have enough energy to enjoy a birthday scavenger hunt as soon as you get to the casa?”
The smell of the Mexican banos had revived me, and I’m well acquainted with the Poontang Fairy, so I said yes.
⋄⟡⋄
One thing about arriving at the airport is that Greg had a whole system for entertaining his guests.
Every year, before people came to visit him, he would go to timeshare presentations. He would sit through hours of high-pressure sales pitches, sometimes for an entire day or more, just so he could get discounted tickets for excursions and perks for the people coming to stay with him. It was extremely tedious and annoying, but he did it anyway.
That was how he was. He put in the effort up front so that everyone else could just show up and have an amazing time.
It also wasn’t just Derek and me coming on this trip. Our visit overlapped with his dad Ray’s vacation by a few days, and earlier that month his friend Tina had already spent two weeks with him. Greg loved having people there. He built his winters around it.
Not everyone in his life had the same financial flexibility that he did, and he knew that. Letting people stay in his two-bedroom casa removed a huge barrier. It made the trip possible. Between that and the discounted excursions, his guests were able to do things they might otherwise have difficulty affording.
At the Puerto Vallarta airport, you have to walk through this corridor where people try to get you to sign up for these presentations. They’re not just pushy, they’re persuasive. There are margaritas, friendly faces, promises of rides, excursions, and perks if you agree to attend.
The year before, Greg had already done all of that for us. We arrived to find someone waiting with our names on a sign and drinks in hand, and we didn’t have to go to the presentation ourselves.
He tried to set that up again this year, but because of the cartel activity, we were on our own. So I negotiated with the timeshare sharks myself. They told me we would get access to the resort, including the pickleball courts, and I really wanted to play pickleball with Greg while we were down there. That was the thing that got me.
Greg was very clear about this.
He told me, under absolutely no circumstances, in any way, shape, or form, did he want to deal with another timeshare. So I signed us up. I put down a deposit, agreed to attend the presentation later in the trip, and secured what I thought were a bunch of perks in return.
⋄⟡⋄
The whole scavenger hunt thing between Greg and I actually started last summer, when he was visiting us in Calgary for two weeks. So I need to give a bit of context.
Greg loved talking on the phone with his friends. He was an incredibly social person, closer to more people than most. He had a wide circle, and the way he maintained those relationships was by giving a lot of attention to the people who were closest to him at any given time.
For the last few years, Derek and I were so fortunate to be high on the list of those people.
I’ve been good friends with Greg for over ten years, and we had been really close friends for around six. But over the last five years, especially after I started dating Derek, our relationship has deepened in a big way. We became a central part of each others daily lives.
One of the biggest ways that showed up was through phone calls, because we live in different cities.
Greg was always on the phone. If he wasn’t physically with people, he wanted to be talking to them. The only times he really wasn’t on the phone were when he was with friends in person or completely absorbed in a show or a game.
I wasn’t like that at all, at least not at first. I used to avoid phone calls, even with people I cared about. I would screen them, put them off, tell myself I’d call back later.
But Greg changed that.
Over time, he kind of wore me down, and I became someone who would actually answer the phone and stay on it. Mostly with him. And I’m really glad that he did, because it gave us a level of connection that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.
Over the last few years, I’ve had the immense privilege of talking to Greg for hours a day, most days. We recently spent nine hours straight on the phone together.
So where I’m going with this is that my first scavenger hunt, the one where the “Poontang Fairy” was born, happened the summer before.
Greg had some gifts he wanted to give us, and I first saw him do it with Derek. We had just started the day when he suddenly said, “The Poontang Fairy is here.”
We had no idea what that meant.
He told us, very seriously, “The Poontang Fairy comes but once a year, and she gives you gifts based on how good you are.”
Derek went first. I watched him open his gifts, and they were incredible. Thoughtful, curated, specific to him. Things like organic tobacco, essential oil blends and sprays for his migraines, top shelf cannabis products, all carefully chosen.
So of course I got excited. I remember thinking, wow… I wonder what the Poontang Fairy has for me?
And that’s when I realized I was going on a scavenger hunt.
Greg had gotten up before I woke up, in my own house, and hidden these little rhyming notes everywhere. I absolutely lost my mind. It tapped into this childlike sense of adventure that I didn’t even know I still had. And I can still picture the two of them watching me go through it, just smiling and laughing on a summer day.
The clues were ridiculous. One was hidden in a plastic bag inside the toilet tank. There were notes under couch cushions, in the freezer, underneath the litterbox, all over the house. I was running up and down the stairs, through the yard, completely immersed in it. There were probably eight or ten clues before I got to the end.
And the gift was a brand new set of AirPods.
He gave them to me very intentionally. One of my main excuses for not talking on the phone had always been that I was busy, working, sewing, using tools, doing things with my hands. But these had noise cancelling, so suddenly that excuse didn’t exist anymore.
From that point forward, for the last year of his life, I talked to him on the phone constantly. Hours at a time. That gift completely changed the way we connected.
That was only my first scavenger hunt.
At the end of that same trip, he did it again! Another set of notes hidden all over the house, leading to a dinner reservation he had made for the three of us. I remember thanking him and telling him how generous it was, and he immediately said, “oh I didn’t pay for that, the Poontang Fairy did.”
He said that a lot.
“The Poontang Fairy comes but once a year.”
Meanwhile, this was already the second time she had shown up in a week.
Then at Christmas, she visited again.
We spent two weeks with him last December, and on Christmas Day he created a full Survivor-themed scavenger hunt for me, because we all loved watching Survivor together. He had burned the edges of the paper clues and wrapped them like little scrolls with twine, hiding them all over the house. He made it quite difficult, like an escape room. I needed hints. It took me almost 45 minutes to finish.
That one ended with a really good gift, that I’m going to keep to myself. That was my third scavenger hunt.
The Sweet
So getting back to Mexico, this was the fourth scavenger hunt the Poontang Fairy had made for me in less than one year, and it was on another level entirely.
Greg had planned it more than a month in advance, as soon as he realized our trip would overlap with his dad’s. He never mentioned it. He just held onto it, waiting. He delayed his own excitement purely for the payoff of surprising me, which really says everything about who he was.
As soon as I arrived, he had me moving.
I was going up and down through the casa, into the lower level where the laundry was, outside, searching under a cactus, back through the rooms, following these clues one after another. It had that same feeling as the others, but bigger. More elaborate. Like he had taken the whole idea and scaled it up.
Eventually I got to the final clue, and it had numbers on it, something about a lockbox. That’s when he stepped in, took me gently by the arm, and started guiding me next door.
The year before, that building had still been under construction. I hadn’t paid much attention to it. But now it was finished, this large, polished, multi-story building right beside his place, filled with beautiful units. So I followed the last part of the clues into that building, and that’s when I realized what he had done.
The entire scavenger hunt had been leading to this: Greg had rented us a two-bedroom suite next door.
And not just any suite.
This place was higher up, with an even more expansive view. The building was clean, modern, and finished to a level that felt completely different from his place. His casa was charming and full of personality, but it was also irregular. You could feel that it hadn’t been built with the same kind of planning or standards we’re used to. The floors weren’t perfectly even. There were unexpected steps, tight transitions, little quirks in how it was built. It was part of what made it feel so unique to him. This suite was the opposite of that.
It felt structured. Intentional. Like a resort. Smooth floors, clean lines, marble, everything exactly where you would expect it to be. And somehow, it was still sitting on that same ridiculous dirt road, on the side of that same steep mountain, in a place that felt almost impossible for a building like that to exist.
And the core reason he had gotten the suite was funny.
I was having digestive issues. Greg was having digestive issues. His dad Ray was about seventy, so also, digestive issues. And Derek is a 37-year-old man.
So the four of us were about to share one toilet… while eating a diet almost exclusively comprised of meat, corn, beans, tequila, and extremely aggressive salsas.
Greg looked at that situation and immediately decided, no.
So he solved the problem the way Greg solved a lot of problems. He just threw money at it and got us an additional villa with multiple bathrooms, so that everyone could suffer the digestive ramifications of Mexican living in peace.
⋄⟡⋄
I had no idea that wasn’t even the biggest surprise.
I genuinely did not know. I thought the suite was the surprise. I thought, this is it, this is already the most over-the-top, generous, completely unnecessary but deeply thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. And then, almost immediately after, we got into the elevator and went up to the top.
The doors opened, and I completely lost it.
There was a rooftop infinity pool. Not just a pool, but one of the most beautiful pools you could possibly imagine, with this sweeping, unbelievable view over the entire city and the ocean. It didn’t even feel real. It felt like something out of a movie, like we had somehow wandered into a place we weren’t supposed to be allowed into.
And Greg is just standing there, watching me take it in. That’s the move.
That was the thing about him. It wasn’t just that he gave you something nice. It was that he designed the experience of you discovering it. He thought about the timing, the reveal, the emotional payoff. He stretched the joy out and made it bigger than it needed to be, just so he could watch you feel it.
So for those three days that our trip overlapped with Ray, we got to move back and forth between his little casa and this incredible suite, going up to that rooftop, floating in that pool, taking in that view, just fully soaking it in. It’s hard to explain just how special that was. Not just the place, not just the pool, but the intention behind it. The care. The way he wanted to create joy for the people he loved.
That was Greg.
And for those few days, Ray, Derek and I got to live inside something he created just for us.
⋄⟡⋄
Greg would always say that there were only two restaurants in Puerto Vallarta: Pepe’s Taco and Café de Olla.
Both of them are going to come up a lot in this story, because for us, they were the center of everything. Half of our conversations, half of our plans, half of our excitement revolved around deciding which one we were going to that day. And Café de Olla, especially, was something else.
So I’ll tell you about Café de Olla. On the surface, it’s just a restaurant. But if you spent any time there with Greg, it became much more than that.
Out front, there was this guy we called “Mr. Mexico.” He looked like a character out of a video game. Big mustache, same outfit, same stance, always standing in the exact same spot. Greg had been going there for 15 years, and he swore that no matter when he showed up, this guy was there. Morning, night, different seasons, didn’t matter. Same position, same energy, every single time.
It got to the point where it felt like he had an activation field. Like if you walked into range, he would come to life.
He didn’t speak much English, so at first there wasn’t much interaction. But Greg and I became completely obsessed with him. Even when we weren’t in Mexico, we would talk about him on the phone, conjecturing. Did he own the place? Did he live upstairs? Had he ever left? Was he there 24/7? It became a topic of discussion we returned to often.
And then there was the food.
Yes, it’s in a touristy area, and yes, it’s probably a version of “authentic Mexican” curated for gringos, but we didn’t care. That’s what we were. It was delicious, and more importantly, it was part of the experience. Greg loved taking people there. You could feel how excited he was every time we walked in.
During that trip, there was basically one decision to make each day: Café de Olla or Pepe’s Taco. That was it. Those were the options.
We would always order way too much food, telling ourselves it was for leftovers, but we mostly just stayed there for hours, enjoying the atmosphere, the music, the mango margaritas. Enjoying each other. Greg’s place sat up on that mountain in the middle of everything, so we would either Uber or walk down into town and end up at one of those two restaurants.
That first night, after the infinity pool, after I proudly made the reservation in Spanish, we went straight to Café de Olla. You can see us in that moment, the happiness of finally being there together.
The restaurant itself is covered in little sayings, written all over the walls, layered into the space like part of its personality. And throughout the night, these musicians move through the room. If you give them a few hundred pesos, they’ll play for you, but it never feels transactional. It feels like a gift.
You hear them before you see them, the guitars first. That soft strumming weaving through the hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the rickety ceiling fans pushing hot air around the room. And then they’re beside your table, voices rising and blending with the guitar, filling the space in a way that makes everything feel just a bit more alive.
And of course, there was Mr. Mexico.
He was always the one who seemed to take care of us. He knew Greg, because Greg was there constantly, and he remembered us too. When we walked in, it didn’t feel like being seated at a restaurant. It felt like being welcomed back. Like we had a place there.
And that night, it was my birthday dinner. They gave us the best seat in the house, this unbelievably comfortable bench where your whole body just sinks in perfectly, like it was designed for exactly that moment. They put a birthday hat on my head, slightly crooked, very silly, and then the staff came out and sang. It was loud and joyful and the whole restaurant was clapping along, smiling, the music spilling into everything. And Greg was right beside me, absolutely beaming, his eyes lit up, laughing in that way that cut through all the noise.
Then the food came. You can’t go wrong ordering anything off that menu. Everything is rich and warm and layered, the smell of roasted peppers and grilled meat and spices just hanging in the air around you. But the thing that completely broke my brain, the thing we talked about constantly, was the tortilla soup.
I am still not convinced it’s real.
It doesn’t make sense. You can sit there talking, flapping your gums, completely lost in conversation for 30 or 45 minutes, and the tortilla chips inside the soup are still crunchy. Explain that to me. It shouldn’t be possible. And yet, every single time, it was perfect.
It’s the best soup I’ve ever had in my life.
The first time I had it, back in 2025, I actually cried. Not even exaggerating. Because I knew, in that moment, that I wasn’t going to get to have this regularly. That this was something tied to being there, in that place, with Greg. And that felt deeply unfair. Once you’ve had tortilla soup in Cafe de Olla with Greg, everything else just falls short. It’s not the same, and it never will be.
They also had these potatoes with a hint of nutmeg, which isn’t for everyone, but the three of us loved them. And this barbecue platter, smoky and rich, with a thick, tangy sauce that Greg loved so much they would give him extra to take home. He’d put it on his huevos in the morning, or whatever he was making in his casa.
All of those flavors are tied to him.
To sitting across from him, watching him light up as he shared something he loved. That was his thing. He didn’t just enjoy things quietly, he shared them, fully and generously. He wanted you to feel what he felt.
I’ll never forget the way his happiness filled that space. The way his laughter carried through the room. The way his eyes lit up when he said “are you just so happy we are finally here at Cafe de Olla together? …. Or would you rather be at Pepe’s Taco”.
And when you look at those pictures, you can see it. You can see how happy we were.
This was one of my favorite things in the world.
Being kissed on both sides of my face, held between the two of them, completely surrounded by love.
When I look at that picture, it really does say everything about what I had in that moment. I was right there in the middle, held, seen, and connected in a way that felt incredibly special. I felt like the luckiest person in the world.
I had the love of two extraordinary men, in two very different ways, and those two kinds of love met right there, with me in the middle.
Anyone who was close to Greg in that way will understand what I mean. There was something very particular about how he loved people. It was deep, attentive, and intentional. He made you feel chosen.
My relationship with him wasn’t conventional, and it doesn’t really fit into a simple category, but it was real and very intense. He had a way of building close, meaningful connections that went beyond surface-level friendship. There was trust, emotional intimacy, and a kind of partnership that showed up in how we supported each other and shared our lives. And I know I wasn’t the only person who experienced that with him.
But this was the version of it that I had. It was private, and selfish, and glorious.
⋄⟡⋄
What defined my relationship with Greg was the way we showed up in each other’s lives.
I was very focused on building something. I was running my business, working constantly, trying to improve my life and create something bigger. Greg was like that too. He was ambitious, he liked nice things, and we talked openly about money, growth, and what we were building in our lives. We completely understood each other.
At the same time, I lived differently than he did in some respects. I didn’t really use substances, and I wasn’t a big drinker outside of the time I spent with him. That had been a conscious shift in my life years earlier, and he had seen me go through that change. He respected it.
And I didn’t just go along with everything. I challenged him. If he said something to shock me or push a boundary, which he did daily and intentionally, I pushed back. That became part of our dynamic. There was honesty there, a kind of friction that he really seemed to enjoy.
What we had was unique, built on how we interacted day to day and how we supported each other, and how we loved each other.
And then there was Derek. Somehow, the three of us just clicked in together.
Being there, between them, physically and emotionally, was my happy place. Not just happy. Safe. Seen. Chosen. Held.
It was this easy alignment where I didn’t have to be anything other than exactly who I was, and I was met fully on both sides. What hurts the most now is knowing how rare that is. This sort of interconnection doesn’t come along often in every lifetime. And lucky me, I had it.
I started dating Derek in 2021, and almost immediately, he and Greg formed their own close bond. They had a similar energy, the same kind of intensity and playfulness, and they connected quickly. Over time, the three of us grew closer and closer. Greg spent a lot of time with us. He stayed at our house whenever he was in Calgary, and it became his place there. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
Years earlier, before he went to Bali, he had even lived there with me for a time. He helped me get established in that house, and a lot of what’s still in it traces back to that period. There’s history there.
In the last few years especially, the closeness between the three of us deepened into something that’s hard to even describe. We shared our lives in a way that went way beyond typical friendship. We spent time together, traveled to see each other, supported each other, and built a kind of connection that felt foundational to how we interpreted our lives.
We often referred to ourselves as “the final three,” like in Survivor. Everyone else would drop off or get voted out, but we knew the three of us would still be there at the end. Greg loved that joke. He would go behind Derek’s back and whisper to me, “final two, final two,” like he was secretly choosing me. And I know he did the exact same thing behind my back with Derek. It was this little game between us.
The way they fed off each other was something else. Watching Greg make Derek laugh was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t just laughter, it was completely unrestrained, full-body, screaming in hysteria, unhinged laughter. The kind where you can’t breathe.
Greg made Derek laugh like that on the regular.
And I don’t know if Derek will ever laugh like that again.
If you knew Greg, you know how funny he was. And if you didn’t, I wish I could fully explain it. The videos help, but they don’t quite capture it. They can’t. Being around him was just different. Every moment had that edge of humor, that unpredictability, that timing that just landed perfectly.
And with the three of us, it all worked so well. Effortless. Like we fit together without trying. Like three pieces of something that only made sense when they were together.
Until it didn’t.
And yeah… I really liked getting kissed on both sides of my face by them. A lot.
⋄⟡⋄
One of the reasons I took so many photos and videos is because when I came in 2025, I had this little art project idea that I wanted to repeat.
The idea was that if I captured enough random moments, backgrounds, little pieces of the trip, I could string them together later into this kind of edited kaleidoscope. A time-lapse of the experience that would help me remember it.
The year before, I had actually edited my cats into the video, which made it really funny. So this time, I was doing the same thing, taking footage of everything. Greg and Derek, but also just the surroundings, the streets, the small moments in between. So I could edit my cats into the memories of this vacation.
I won’t be doing that now.
But there was also something else going on. Something in me that just insisted I keep filming. And that’s not really like me. Derek even got a bit annoyed a couple of times because I wouldn’t stop.
You know how when you’re on vacation, you’re supposed to just be present and enjoy it?
Well, fuck that.
I wanted to do exactly what I wanted to do. And for whatever reason, what I wanted was to document everything.
And I’m really glad I did. Derek is too.
Because now it’s helping me write this. I have all of it. The footage, the images, the little details. It’s all there, bringing everything back.
Me in 2025: Hey Greg, do you like how my cats came with us to Mexico?
Greg: Well, I don’t like cats, but I did appreciate how your video included the entire catalog of all the words I know in Spanish!
And here’s one of the Oxxos. This one had been burned down just three days before we got there. It was pretty close to his house.
It was interesting to see how quickly things settled down after we arrived. For the first couple of days, there were little signs that something big had just happened. The city had run out of ice, for example. But Costco reopened, things started coming back online, and honestly, aside from seeing a few burned Oxxos and some burned-out cars when we first got there, life resumed pretty quickly. People just got to work fixing things.
One thing that became a surprisingly big part of our lives was Duolingo. It probably sounds kind of stupid, but it wasn’t.
Greg had been coming to Mexico for 15 years and spoke barely any Spanish, mostly because he had never really stuck with learning it. I put him on my Duolingo Max plan as a gift, and that changed everything. Once there was investment in it, he showed up for it.
All three of us were using it by that point. I had gone deeper than they had, spending a lot of time studying, talking with Spanish-speaking friends, watching movies, really trying to immerse myself. So when we got there, the difference was noticeable.
We could talk to Uber drivers. We could interact with people who didn’t speak English. Even if it was simple, we could connect. And that app itself became part of our rhythm. Whether we were in different cities or together in Mexico, we all had to do our lesson every day. The sounds, the little dings and chirps, became part of the background of our lives.
I had built up a long streak by then, and it mattered to me. Eventually, it mattered to all of us. We would remind each other. Even if we were out late, working hard or fully in vacation mode, we still had to get our Spanish in before midnight. No excuses.
Greg loved to lie in his hammock at the casa, out on the balcony, doing his Spanish lesson. That image is so clear in my mind. The warm air, the sound of the city below, roosters crowing, the soft clanging of the chimes, dogs barking their faces off, and him focused on his phone, doing his Spanish. Ba-ding!
It might sound small, but it wasn’t. It was something we did together. Every single day.
This is a picture I took of one of the meals Greg made for us.
He sure loved making meals for his people.
We had brought hollandaise sauce packets from Canada and poured them over leftovers from Café de Olla. This had actually been part of the plan. Long before the trip, the three of us had talked in detail about the food we were going to eat, the meals we were going to make, the time we were going to spend together.
In the picture, there are three different salsas, all extremely hot. Fresh bread, which for some reason is just better there. Avocado, frijoles, Mexican cheese, and butter that tastes completely different from anything we have in Canada. Everything felt richer, more flavorful. It used to make me a little sad, coming back home and realizing how much better everything tasted there.
Not sad like I understand sadness now. Not even close. Just a small, almost silly kind of disappointment.
But it wasn’t really even about the food. Even when we weren’t out at restaurants, the beach, or going on adventures, we were still having the time of our lives. Sitting in that casa, playing board games, scrolling on our phones, whatever we were doing, every time you looked up, you were there. With him. In that space. In a place he loved so much.
He loved that house.
And looking at that dining room now, you can see it. The ease. The happiness. We were on day two of a two-week trip, and everything still felt wide open.
Greg was so happy to be feeding us. His dad, and his chosen family. It was simple. And it was so beautiful.
The Adventures
The pirate ship was a whole thing.
Greg loved that pirate ship. This wasn’t optional. This was one of the cornerstone experiences of being in Puerto Vallarta with him, and he had been talking about it long before we ever got there. It was one of the things he was super excited to share. He had already done this excursion three or four times.
And it was exactly what you’d expect, but also somehow more. We were excited to do it and have Ray with us, too.
You get on this massive wooden ship, fully done up like an old pirate vessel, and the second you get on, you’re transported. There are very believable pirates heckling you, music blasting, and from the beginning they are aggressively shoveling liquor into you.
Like, aggressively.
There is no pacing. There is no “would you like another drink?” It’s just constant. Tequila, rum, whatever they’re handing you, it keeps coming, and you do your best not to black out.
Greg was in his element.
He loved the theatrics of it. The ridiculousness. The commitment. He wasn’t sitting back observing it, he was in it, laughing, engaging, fully lit up by the whole experience. That was one of his favorite things, not just doing something fun, but sharing it with people and watching them experience it for the first time. He had me convinced it was going to be him walking the plank, just to hear me negate the very idea of him walking the plank.
There were performances happening all around us, staged fights, music, crowd interaction, the whole pirate storyline playing out while we’re drinking way too much and just having the best time. Then they took us into the bowels of the ship and served us an amazing dinner. We ate an octopus.
And then those fireworks.
We were out on the dark water of the bay, already completely immersed in everything, and then the night sky just lights up. Big, booming, dramatic fireworks all over the ocean, directly above us and all around us. And it wasn’t just “oh cool, fireworks,” it was being directly inside this part of the experience Greg had been building for us.
That’s the thing about him.
He didn’t just take you to do something. He curated it. He built it up. He made it into a moment you’d remember. And the pirate ship was one of those moments.
This looks like the following day, February 27, our first trip to Pepe’s Taco. I believe this was just Derek and me going out for lunch the first time. I don’t think Greg was with us during the day on that day.
Pepe’s Taco was incredible, for a lot of reasons that will come up later in this story.
But let me ask you something.
What do you think Greg liked most about Pepe’s Taco?
You might guess the tacos. That would be a fair guess. Or maybe the margaritas.
No.
It was the waiters.
This video is one I keep coming back to. It’s about 12 minutes long, mostly just us talking, but this is the end of it. I sped it up so you can see the moment where Greg and Derek are holding me, floating me around, laughing, talking, not really doing anything at all. Just poontanging.
It’s simple, but it captures everything.
You can see how centered I was between them. How completely loved. How natural it was for the three of us to just exist together like that, no effort, no adjustment, no one needing to be anything or do anything. The physical environment just mirrors how it was for us.
⋄⟡⋄
Right around this time, within the first couple of days of the trip, we got the news that Derek’s dad had had a heart event. It shifted things immediately. We realized pretty quickly that when we got back, Derek would need to go stay with him for at least a month. Greg was there for three months, so for him this wasn’t just a vacation, it was his winter life. But for us, there was now a clear end point, and a responsibility waiting on the other side.
So during the days, Derek and I would often go out and explore the city, while Greg stayed back at the casa. He was really into this dinosaur game on the PS5 at the time and was perfectly content relaxing there.
Derek and I went to a tequila tasting, and it ended up being incredible. We met this tequila-selling NPC named Jaime, and I somehow ended up spending about $600 on tequila. Half of that went toward one really special bottle from the top shelf, and Jaime engraved it for us. We got it for Derek’s dad, even though realistically he wouldn’t be drinking it anytime soon. It wasn’t about that. It was more like a piece of art. He carved an owl into the back and added one of his dad’s favorite quotes along the sides. Greg went back and visited Jaime too, before we left.
It was a strange feeling, being there in Mexico, having such a good time, while something serious was happening back home. His dad was on our minds. And so was the reality that as soon as we got back, Derek was going to have to leave.
More pics of us being in the infinity pool with Ray, just having a lot of fun in that pool.
Within the first couple of days, we went to one of our favorite places in Puerto Vallarta, Almendras Garden Massage, and we got to bring Ray.
I had found this place the year before by accident. I had been walking constantly, and my feet get really swollen and painful in Mexico. Between the heat, the hills, and my circulation, they just take a beating. I wandered in out of desperation and couldn’t believe the prices. An hour-long massage for about 23 Canadian dollars. It didn’t feel real.
Once I showed Greg, it became one of his favorite spots too. So this time, we built it into the trip. Every few days, if we could, we’d go back and spend the afternoon there.
The place itself isn’t pristine. It’s rough around the edges, a little worn, definitely not what you’d expect if you’re used to North American spas. But the massages were incredible. Every single one. And Almendra herself, who runs the place, felt like another character in the story. Big presence, fully in charge, cash only, no nonsense.
They had this rooftop setup with massage tables lined up side by side, separated by curtains that barely covered anything. You were basically butt naked right next to strangers, like sardines, but somehow it didn’t matter. The whole city was around you, traffic, voices, music drifting up from the street, cool breezes cutting through the warm air, carrying all the smells and sounds of Puerto Vallarta. It was chaotic, but also deeply calming.
Sometimes they’d take you down to the basement, which was cooler. No air conditioning anywhere, but you adjusted.
Greg and I even got our eyebrows done there, by Almendra herself. We were trying to squeeze every possible experience out of that place while we had the time.
The only downside was that it would take up most of the day. We’d book 90-minute massages, and because it was always packed with tourists, we’d end up there for hours. But that was part of it. We went several times, including right at the beginning with Ray. And every time, it felt like stepping into this strange, immersive pocket of the city where everything slowed down just enough to sink into it.
⋄⟡⋄
The pirate ship is just… always there in Puerto Vallarta. A constant presence at night time out in the bay. We all enjoyed it, but for Greg, it was something more. He really fuckin liked that thing. He had history with it. He had been in, on and around it so many times that it felt like it belonged to his version of the city.
Every night at 8:45, the fireworks would go off. It was a ritual to him. Like a marker in the day. Like something that meant more than it should. Like a signal, something we needed to notice, something we were meant to share.
And then we were back in the suite, having drinks.
We ended up doing a bit of a photo shoot with Greg. Just playing around, taking pictures, capturing the moment.
Greg did like to drink.
And when we were with him, we drank every day. Margaritas, tequila, espresso martinis. The boys had beer, I mostly didn’t, but Greg was always making drinks for us, and they were really good. And if we ever got a little hungover, we just started drinking again. It was that kind of trip.
It was fun. It was easy. We were poontanging.
⋄⟡⋄
You know, one of the things he said to me, and he said it multiple times, and I won’t forget it, was, “Caroline, you should live here with me. You wouldn’t have the health problems you have in Canada.”
He would point to himself and say, “Look at me. I’m eating whatever I want. I’m drinking aggressively. And I’ve never looked better.”
And he was right. You could see every ab muscle. But it wasn’t just that. He was climbing that mountain every single day, that insane, steep road up to his casa. When he didn’t have guests, he wasn’t even taking Ubers. He was just hiking it. Swimming in the ocean. Dancing freely. Having adventures.
Yes, he was drinking and eating a lot. But the food there isn’t like the food here. It’s mostly whole food. Fresh ingredients. Simple things done really well. Lots of tacos, lots of real food.
He was right. I also ate as much as I wanted. I drank a lot. And somehow I came back lighter than when I left.
That became a dream that we shared.
His plan was to keep wintering there every year, and my plan was to build my life in a way that would let me join him. I had this ten-year vision of semi-retiring into that lifestyle, spending more and more time in Puerto Vallarta during the winters with him.
I’ve been working really hard on my business to try to scale it to the point where I could run it remotely. I was actively learning how to make money in ways that didn’t tie me to one place, all with the goal of being able to spend that time there with him.
He loved his life there. He loved that casa. He was happiest in Puerto Vallarta.
I remember walking back up that dirt road at night, and he would say things that, at the time, felt casual, and given, but now feel… heavier. Things like, “I don’t want to go back to Vancouver,” and “This is my forever home.”
And so then there we are, doing this little photo shoot with him, just laughing and taking pictures.
A very handsome man, exactly as everyone remembers him.
What he’s doing here is adding more tequila to margaritas that absolutely do not need it.
And this is where I need to tell you about the Cantina.
The Cantina is this kind of silly little tourist souvenir you can buy in Puerto Vallarta. You could easily go get another one, it’s not rare or fancy or anything like that. I even saw the store where they sell them. It’’s basically a miniature bar made out of cheap wood. You open it up, and inside there are two tiny shot glasses and a tiny bottle that you can fill with tequila.
Greg was completely obsessed with this thing. And so were we.
Both times we were there, and even throughout the year when we were back home, whenever we were with Greg, he would bust out the Cantina. And it wasn’t just a thing, it was a whole bit. The Cantina wasn’t just an object, it was an event.
There was a whole ritual around it.
If you knew Greg, or even if you just watch the videos, you’ll get a sense of this, but he had an incredible voice. Not in a singing way, ironically, but in the way he spoke. It was rich, expressive, full of inflection. It would crack at just the right moments. It was warm and comedic and theatrical. He sounded like a movie star. Like someone who was meant to be heard.
Which makes it even funnier that he absolutely could not sing. Not at all. Could not carry a tune to save his life. And that did not stop him.
He and I were very alike in that way. Derek, on the other hand, is an amazing singer. So the three of us together would be singing all the time. Derek sounding great, and Greg and I just completely butchering it. extremely off-key, but fully committed.
And the Cantina had a song.
It always had a song.
You didn’t just open the Cantina. That would have been unacceptable. The Cantina only opened with music. Mexican music playing in the background, Greg singing loudly and badly over top of it, all of us joining in, laughing, completely in it.
It was like a little pop-up bar that appeared out of nowhere.
And those tiny shot glasses were totally impractical. You had to refill them multiple times just to get a proper drink. But that was part of it. It slowed everything down. Made it more ridiculous. More fun.
The Cantina would open at all kinds of times. Sometimes at 11 in the morning, when we were just waking up and maybe feeling a little rough, and suddenly it was, “The Cantina is open!” and it became this celebratory reset. And sometimes at night, like here in the suite, when we were already having drinks and it just elevated everything into a full performance.
And then, just as ceremoniously as it opened, the Cantina would close.
And that was that.
So what you’re seeing in these videos is Cantina Time.
⋄⟡⋄
Normally, pictures and videos of fireworks don’t mean much. But these do. You can hear Greg in the background, just enjoying them. That show, every night at 8:45, was something he really loved. And because he loved it, it became something we all paid attention to.
On the last day of February, we went on another excursion, Rhythms of the Night. We had done it the year before, but it was still worth doing again.
You get there by boat, and the ride itself is part of it. Fast, cutting through the water. There were flying fish and birds moving alongside us. It felt surreal. And of course, it was also a party boat, so once again, they were aggressively shoveling liquor into our faces.
That was a theme.
When you arrive, it feels like an island, even though technically it isn’t. You can only get there by boat, and the whole place is lit with tiki torches, the paths winding through the jungle. It had this atmosphere that immediately reminded us of Survivor.
And since all three of us were actual Survivor superfans, we leaned into that completely. We made Survivor noises constantly. Greg and I very off-key, and Derek somehow holding it together because he can actually sing.
We called it “Survivor Island,” even though it had nothing to do with Survivor.
The event itself is this circus-style show, paired with a beachfront buffet. It’s dramatic and entertaining and beautifully done.
While we were on the boat, a professional photographer took pictures of us. Normally, we wouldn’t buy them. It’s a total racket. They charge ridiculous prices, like $150 for a set of photos.
But this time, I had enough Spanish to negotiate. So I went in hard. I got him down to around $80 or $90. Still not great, but better. We were never going to get it down to what felt reasonable. It’s a hustle.
But they were so worth it.
The photos are incredible. The lighting, the sunset behind us, the quality. But more than that, you can see it in our faces. How happy we were. How alive he was.
How good he looked.
They’re high resolution too, so you can zoom in and see everything. The expressions, the connection, the moment itself.
I’m really glad we bought them.
That picture of Greg in particular. I keep going back to it.
That night, when we got back, we settled into one of our favorite routines: playing Cascadia.
Cascadia is one of our favorite games, and Greg had brought a smaller version, Cascadia: Rolling Hills, with him. It’s compact, easy to travel with, and we ended up playing it a lot. I have multiple pictures of us sitting there, playing that game. It was one of those simple things we kept returning to, something steady in between everything else.
⋄⟡⋄
These fruit bowls we had were pretty amazing.
But this picture represents more than just the food.
One thing I want to say about Greg, and I want to say it carefully, is that he really did want to be healthy.
When he came back from Bali after being stuck there during the pandemic, he was at his best in that way. He was practicing Kundalini yoga, had gone to several intensive retreats, and was really connecting with his spirituality. That version of him mattered to him. It was something he kept trying to return to.
Like most people, his life wasn’t just one thing. There were different environments, different pressures, different habits that came and went depending on where he was and what was going on around him.
And Mexico every winter was, in many ways, a reset.
A place where some of those patterns didn’t follow him as easily. Where he could step out of certain cycles and into something that felt better.
He was eating fruit constantly. Cutting it up himself, making these beautiful bowls with coconut, honey, papaya, guava, pineapple. He was taking vitamins, electrolytes, talking about health a lot, fully committed to it.
I called him “Healthy, Obnoxious Boy.”
Because when Greg got into his health, he really got into it. He would lecture me about things like carbonated water or Teflon, with total conviction. Which I thought was pretty fucking ironic, all things considered.
But I loved that version of him. I would take “Healthy, Obnoxious Boy” any day.
It felt grounded. It felt like he was taking care of himself in a way that really mattered. He was choosing something better, even if it wasn’t always easy or perfect.
And when you talked to him in those months in Mexico before we arrived, that’s what he was focused on. He was sending pictures of fruit, smoothies, vitamins. That was the energy he was in.
Spending time in Mexico seemed to give him more access to that part of himself.
And looking at this now, this bowl of fruit… it feels symbolic.
It’s not tequila. It’s not anything else.
It’s just fruit.
It’s a reminder of the version of himself he was reaching for.
⋄⟡⋄
We ended up getting the perfect seat for the beachfront buffet.
And this is where my dress design really came into its own. I had made this dress with massive pockets, and I had the foresight to bring Tupperware and stash it inside them. I have never under-eaten at a buffet in my life. But on this night, I barely ate anything, because I was too busy loading up plates and gleefully transferring food into containers inside my dress pockets like a Mexican hamster.
I was having the time of my life.
Greg and Derek were actually eating, like normal people, while I was fully committed to my operation. They thought it was hilarious. I thought it was genius.
Greg and Derek agreed, it paid off. We ate very well for the next few days back at the casa.
⋄⟡⋄
I don’t have this on video, but I will say that Greg got to participate in one of his favorite activities on the boat ride back.
He had this way, especially in those high-energy, music-filled environments, of finding people, usually a group of middle-aged women, and just pulling them into the moment. He would dance with them like they were the only person in the room. Spinning them, dipping them, fully committing, completely unselfconscious.
Their friends would be off to the side laughing, taking photos, hyping it up. It would turn into this spontaneous celebration, like a bachelorette party that no one planned, just because Greg showed up and decided to make it happen.
That night was no different. He found an elderly woman, and within minutes she was laughing, fully in it, completely swept up in his energy and dance moves. Everyone around them was watching, cheering, filming.
That was kind of his gift.
He could take an ordinary moment, with total strangers, and turn it into something memorable. Something people would talk about later. Something that made them feel seen and alive for a few minutes. And he did that everywhere.
⋄⟡⋄
On this day, Greg and Derek wanted to stay home and play Magic: The Gathering, so I went out on my own. I had a bit of a bucket list goal, which was to get out of the tourist area and walk away from the ocean, just to see more of the real city.
I ended up walking for almost six hours.
I made my way into a neighborhood where locals lived, and I stumbled upon a birthday party. There was a big group of Mexican people there, and they seemed to enjoy that I could speak a little bit of Spanish. I tried to communicate with them, and they invited me to join the party.
They gave me fish tacos, which everyone was eating out of an unrefrigerated bowl. I remember thinking, if I get sick, this is going to be why. I don’t even really like fish, but this wasn’t a tourist situation. This is what they were eating. They also gave me a bunch of beers.
I tried to pay, and they wouldn’t let me. They were just happy to have me there. I think they found me interesting, the way I was dressed and the fact that I could speak a bit of Spanish.
I ended up getting pretty drunk, sitting there with them. My phone was about to die, so I texted Derek and Greg to let them know what was going on.
That was the day I learned you really should not let your phone die in Mexico. Or anywhere, honestly. You should always have a backup battery or something. I didn’t even have a charger with me.
It was getting close to 5:00 PM. The last thing I told them was that I would meet them at Café de Olla at 7:30. I think I also sent them a pin of where I was.
What I really wanted to do was see inside Mexican people’s homes. Because I'm insatiably curious, I wanted to understand how they lived. But that’s actually a dangerous thing to do. These people weren’t known to me. It was just a large group of people of different ages but similar backgrounds. I remember thinking that if one of them offered to show me their home, I probably would have gone. Looking back, that was a bad idea.
And I did end up making a bad decision. I needed to get back to Café de Olla, and I was tired of walking. These people had been very kind to me, and I felt like I could trust them. So when one of their friends pulled up on a motorcycle, I saw it as an opportunity.
It was also anoither bucket list thing for me, even though I knew it was dangerous. The streets in Puerto Vallarta are cobblestone, and helmets aren’t really a thing. Even official rides are risky. I asked my new friends multiple times if I would be safe with him. They all said yes. They told me he was their friend.
So I got on the motorcycle with him.
As soon as we were out of sight of his friends, he started grabbing my leg and touching me. I didn’t know what to do. You can’t just jump off a moving motorcycle.
I tried to communicate with him in Spanish. I physically took his hand off my leg, but he kept trying. Finally, I asked him directly in Spanish if he was trying to have sex with me. He said yes, and made a lewd gesture to confirm it.
I said absolutely not.
He got upset.
At that point, I was thinking that my phone was dead, I didn’t know where I was, and I might be in serious danger.
Instead, when I refused, he stopped the motorcycle and kicked me off in the middle of nowhere, deep in a residential area on the far end of this enormous city.
So now I was alone, my phone was dead, and I had no idea where I was.
I ended up walking for several more hours, just trying to find my way back. I couldn’t get an uber without a phone, and hadn’t seen any taxis for a long time. It was all kind of surreal.
Eventually, I started walking toward the ocean, knowing that I could orient myself from there. The whole city is built on mountains, so that helped.
I made it back to Café de Olla a little before Derek and Greg, who had just been at the casa all day playing games. They had no idea what had happened.
When they walked in, I just burst into tears.
I was so relieved to see them. So relieved that I hadn’t been kidnapped or worse. And also I felt really stupid. Because I knew that I wouldn’t normally have made that kind of decision. It was reckless, and it was because I had been drinking. I’m just very grateful that instead of something worse happening, that guy just kicked me off his motorcycle.
⋄⟡⋄
So at Café de Olla, there was a regular musician there who would sing traditional Spanish songs. Derek noticed that his guitar was badly out of tune, and with my Spanish, we were able to communicate that Derek wanted to help him tune it. The musician agreed, and once Derek tuned the guitar, he ended up getting to play.
You can hear people talking and eating in the background because we’re in a restaurant, but it was still a really special moment. I wish Greg was in the video, but he’s not. The camera was pointed at Derek, not him. He was sitting right next to me, though. Sometimes you can hear him singing along.
I’m including these videos because Derek is a beautiful musician, and Greg loved his music. And for Derek to be playing guitar that night, right after everything that had just happened, after we had all come back together, it meant a lot. Things could have gone very differently that day. But they didn’t.
Instead, the three of us were there together at Café de Olla, and Derek was playing guitar. And it was just incredibly passionate and beautiful. So here are those videos.
Want to read the rest of the story? The best and worst parts are yet to come!
