I have a tendency to lose things.
Call me A.D.D. or Scatter-brained, or what have you, I can’t really help it. I try.
And the trying makes me a little OCD when I travel. Everything in it’s right place or… I’ll probably lose it. (Pun intended.)
A pocket for sunglasses, keys in another, wallet in the same pocket every time, passports in the opposite, map in shirt pocket, hat, check, rain poncho in side of backpack pouch, hiking sandals on top, dirty clothes in bottom, and the toiletries… oh. That’s the one thing Amber lost. Hehe.
The camera was my last folly. *Sigh* I can’t tell you how bad I still feel about that one.
But every once in a while, a Fairy God Mother of sorts will help me recover something that I thought was long gone… these are some entries from my lost Honeymoon Journal.
(I still haven’t found my Costa Rica Journal. Anyone know a Fairy God Mother near Arenal?)
p.s. Thanks a million to the kind souls at Table Rock, Belize.
..::: Somewhere on a beach in Playa Del Carmen, Mexico :::..
I’m watching a family of Mexicans frolic fully clothed in the shallow teal beach, cooling like fruit in a blue green gelatin casserole and they are watching me.
“La Gente” or “the people,” which, like in all latin Equatorial regions of the world we have visited, we are told, and assume, is a respectful nomenclature. But maybe it is my tiny American brain, or cultural paranoia, but I suspect a hint of sarcasm in the turned up corners of these foreign mouths. Or not so foreign, the pride of the patronized.
And how can they not?
Our pale masses flood the white sands, all clad with new
brightly colored spandex suits, stretched with inappropriate minimality. Like erotic parrots, bug eyed aviators, stuffed with “dolores,” “euros,” “ceviche” a
nd of course, “el Sol” both the new sunburns and the beer. Our spanish is weak, but our currency is strong.
We are authentic even in our cancers, but I’m no different.
Sweating between a circular, large bed of a lounge chair (designed for fat tourists or orgies, I can’t tell) and a ceiling of Perrier branded emerald tent umbrellas and palm fronds, I am a bologna sandwich. A BLT, if you will. How American.
The waiter assured me there was no minimum today, as my broken spanglish “mas caro” confessional, in attempt to assue him I was not just another wealthy tourista, but I was only here taking advantage of a coupon from the hotel. A budget traveler.
Well, I hoped. Opposing hopes, I’m sure.
..::: To be continued….