(This is the 3rd and final PITS blog entry. Here are the first and second.)

Seven days of dancing in the sand, and my even my blisters had blisters.

Back in the beautiful, but ever-so-soggy Pacific Northwest, I nursed my feet and my sore muscles, and stared listlessly at the mountain of clothing and accoutrements spilling from my luggage. I dragged my body to work, and hoped my mind will follow. Re-entry, always challenging after a show run, was a particularly hard landing this time.

Needless to say, my heart was wide open from the week of magic at the Moon Palace in Cancun, celebrating All Things Dead at my first Playing in The Sand.

From the vantage point of mid-March, two months later, it’s clear why this trip felt so different than any of the others I’ve taken over the last three decades, even to the most special venues like Red Rocks, and GD-50 in Chicago. Despite knowing the dozen Western Washington/Seattle area Deadheads who were also journeying to PITS, this was a solo pilgrimage. My regular band of crazies, spanning both coasts, were unable to make this trip. For some reason, it never occurred to me that PITS was a solo journey since the virtual music communities I belonged to were loaded with folks I was excited to meet and celebrate with.

There Are No Strangers Here; Only Friends You Haven’t Yet Met

Back when PITS ticket sales went live, I was shocked to discover that the Alumni pre-sale had resulted in a nearly instant sold-out status for all packages, and first-time hopefuls were shut out, unless they were able to room with an alumni who had purchased a package. Luckily, a mutual friend, Liz, suggested that I connect with Donna, an alumni from Boulder, who, bless her, was willing to gamble that I wasn’t a total freak or a out of control snorer, and had invited me to become her roommate for the week. Donna turned out to be one of the best parts of this fiesta; she had a quick smile and an easy disposition, offered a foil to my scatterbrained sense of direction, and could hold her liquor quite impressively.

It’s an odd phenomenon, landing in another country, filled with blue skies and sunshine after leaving snowstorms in Seattle that threatened to delay our departures. I felt like Dorothy, who woke up in golden Oz, or Alice, peering through the looking glass. There were many happy introductions to folks whom I had only had virtual contact with on some of the excellent Dead related social media sites (first rule of Fight Club…). With very few exceptions, everyone was welcoming and inclusive, and by the end of the trip, I felt beyond blessed. And those who were clannish and snooty? Well fuck ‘em. You take yourself with you wherever you go.

Worlds best roommate and amazing human, Donna from Colorado. Waiting for our wristband numbers to be called on night three.

Wake Up, Fell Outta Bed, Dragged a Comb Across My Hair

I know you don’t want to know about my hair challenges. But each morning, I found Roseanne Roseannadanna’s doppleganger staring back at me sleepily from the bathroom mirror. Ladies? Can I get a hell yeah? As someone who has hair that runs screaming from humidity, despite the flat iron that came with every room, immediately after exiting the air-conditioned hotel to take the scant stroll to the dining room, the struggle was real. But seriously, it was super hot and humid in Mexico, and most of us ladies had to throw vanity to the wind.

Hair aside, the general rhythm of the mornings tended to play out much like this: stagger from bed to the gorgeous breakfast buffet, throw on a bathing suit, and then either stroll from The Grand, or flag down one of the numerous passenger carts headed across the property to the Nizuc pool, which was unquestionably the social and activity hub throughout the week. Most of the photos that you’ve seen posted of folks at the pool were taken here.

Nizuc float party, Playing IN the Sand 2020

Surrounding the pool were several bars, including a swim-up bar, a mobile food truck with decent grub, as well as a poolside grill. It is no exaggeration to say that I easily sipped on 5 Pina Coladas each day. Hey, who am I to break a promise to myself? The bartenders churned out magnitudes of (thankfully) weak frozen drinks and other cocktails at breakneck speed.

One day, as i arrived at Nizuc, there was a birthday celebration in full throttle for none other than the super funny and talented You-Tube Dead commentator Dean Sottile

Dean Sottile and his better half celebrating his birthday

Perched on lounge chairs surrounding the huge and beautiful pool was a swirling mass of colorful and beautiful Deadhead humanity. It was a joy to watch friends from the four corners of the country reunite. Check out Tommy Brown’s excellent and heartfelt video to get a sense: https://www.facebook.com/Tommyi3ee/videos/10158066068873584/

The Shows

Part of the reason I found the “schedule” so grueling at PITS was because of my ridiculous and neurotic obsession with getting a good spot. It’s a thing. You either get this notion, or you don’t. I am almost always among the earliest arrivals at a venue, even locally, to get a great visual vantage point, establish a neighborhood, and gear up for the energy loop between artist to audience. The method that CID handled the anticipated onslaught of early arrivals to the stage area was to assign a lottery wristband. It was weird, and I didn’t love it, since with this bunch of music fanatics, even the wristband line began as early at 1pm, and then we’d wait around in 100 degree heat for the lottery to be called, only to get in a literally half mile long queue for the actual entrance to the venue. I witnessed a near face smashing between an older gruff dude and Rock Star Richard, as he attempted to mosey up to the front to gain access despite not being in the beginning of the lottery numbers.

Rock Star Richard after near face smashing from surly deadhead

Once in, it was a bit of controlled chaos, and most people ended up planting themselves with their friends despite the order of entrance, so you be the judge. People’s true natures are often revealed when jockeying for position; mellow folks didn’t worry about a thing, and moseyed in just before start time, fresh and lovely, while my clan, a sweaty but colorful mess, practically held hands going in and “made ourselves big” in order to eek out an extra 6 inches for our expected incoming friends. People get cranky, and people get kind. Since I’m an original East Coast-er, transplanted to the West, I have a good mixture of uptight land-grab tinged with good humored generosity.

The shows themselves were variable, ranging from excellent and hot, to slow and meandering. The audio engineers had their challenges, given the incredibly windy environment on the ocean, but the joy was palpable, and dancing barefoot in the sand was mandatory. Rumor had it that dancing in the sand and the constant trekking for many consecutive nights wreaked havoc on many an aging body. Next year, if I’m lucky enough to return, I’m going to seriously have to train for this.

Too many highlights to count, but one personal favorite moments was on the last night towards the end of the second set, when John Mayer broke out a slow and sensuous “Althea”. Sweating and swaying in the crowd, it suddenly occurred to me that we were just mere yards from the Caribbean ocean, so I grabbed my show buddy Colby, and we found ourselves welcomed by a contingent that had spent most of the show dancing in the ocean. This, the stuff of dreams.