I would have loved to hang at the Pickled Parrot for Spring Break, during my college days in the '90s. Instead, I went to Cancun and returned home disgusted and feeling like I wasted money. Basically, all the spring breakers were herded like cattle through the AI where they slapped wristbands on you that enabled you access to a different American-style dance club every night. On "special" nights, we ate over-priced dinner at places like Ruth's Chris, which can also be found a few blocks away from my office in Philadelphia, where I am sitting now. When I was able to break away from the pack and explore the craft markets and local eateries, I was hassled just as much as I ever was in Jamaica. Chiilin' on the cliffs at the Parrot would've been more my speed, however I didn't really know Negril existed at the time.