Teen Dreams, Turquoise Water, and Human Mutation.

“Do I love you? My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches." - Westley to Buttercup, The Princess Bride.

Flirting.

I'm good at it! Sometimes...

You see, there are several kinds of scenarios. One in which I'm not interested at all in a guy, and I'll flirt because, well, I really don't know. This blog is not intended to dig deep into the woman's psyche, and besides, I do unexplainable things at times. For example:

• I open up tabs in my online browser and forget completely why I did.
• I put away things in the most impractical locations, which results in being unable to retrieve them later, and leads me to do superstitious things like say "Tony, Tony, help me find, something lost that can't be found."
• I'll go to the same restaurant many times, order the same damn thing, and still take a solid fifteen minutes to inspect the menu.
• I feel enormous guilt when I'm jaywalking.
• I cannot eat anything that has a face, like chocolate bunnies or marzipan animals. I'm really glad gummy bears have no detailed facial features.

Anyway, so I can flirt with ease in that scenario. Men might find that offensive but I'm sure they've done the same at some point. We are flawed, let's not beat around the bush.

Then there's the guys that really like me and make it obvious. I may be slightly interested, just a little curious, and I'll bite back. In time, I convince myself that I like them too because it's about damn time that I went out for a nice guy for...the twelfth time. In this case, I am still very much at ease and get a kick out of the adulation. 

Scenario number three: The Crush. Every, single time I've had a crush on someone, it's been a lost cause. My adolescence consisted of one crush followed by another. All hopeless. I was a geek, wrapped up in a baby-fat coating, who had unrealistic expectations. My crushes went from popular boy in school, to fictional characters like Batman and Indiana Jones. None reciprocated my adoration.

Dear Diary, I love butterflies, Bonne Bell lip balm, art class, the mall, and unrequited love with superheroes.

It wasn't until my late teens that I started to figure things out. Or that maybe my brain went into self-protection mode.

More after the jump...

La Estrategia de la Seducción.

Rosy lips, bright eyes, and a flower in her hair. She batted her eyelashes and spoke softly about parallel universes.

I had one week.

One week to soak up as much sun as possible, to enjoy being in paradise, to not have to make my bed or cook dinner or wash dishes but mostly, to pretend that my life up north didn't exist. I was on temporary stasis.

I was with a friend of mine, recently divorced and ardent to move ahead. I had told her that this country was home to many beautiful people, and she noticed quite quickly enough too. Before long, I became accustomed to a phrase that I heard at least twice per hour.

Check him out!

Yup. Was my automatic response.

I had been jumping from one relationship to another for the past several years and this was my year to be alone. I had not been involved in anything serious for the past sixteen months, and I was enjoying being by myself. For the first time in my adult life, I could actually go on dates and not see nor imagine where the relationship was going. I wanted none of it. I told them from the get-go. It was liberating! I was working out regularly, I ate healthy food; it was all about self-improvement for me.

My friend, we'll call her Shelby, was on the prowl while I sat back with earbuds tucked in, ipod playing my customized playlist of fun, carefree, whimsical, summer pop songs. The wind blew in the palms, making the branches swing from side to side, crowds of people walked by, exotic birds fluttered past me, all to the rhythm of my music. I saw Shelby's lips move. I took out one earbud.

What?

Check him out!

Yup.


More after the jump...

 

The Tourist Zoo.

In this zoo, the animals are kept in air conditioned rooms and fed Mojitos and Daiquiris, daily, in giant thermos mugs.

As you step out of the airport, you are faced with rows of buses waiting to bring you to your hotel. Reps are waiting, clip pad in hand, while occasionally shouting the names of different hotels, wearing a shirt with the logo of the company that sold you your package. Some are Canadian, who are shipped off to sunny destinations on temporary contracts.

 It seems that they applied for these jobs in the hopes of adventure in an exotic locale, and that reality set in when they realized that they'd be working six days a week while staying in the shittiest room a resort has to offer, the one with the broken air con. They're tired and bitter. Here you are, bursting out with shiny eyes and your new summer wear, while they may have had food poisoning again for the second time that week, and woken up with a cockroach nestled in their hair. Oh and they're getting paid peanuts, which means they'll come home with empty pockets and irritated intestines.

In Cuba, it's all about the all-inclusive. You needn't worry about anything, except maybe paying for excursions and if you are generous, tips for the staff. Some have proudly brought a roll of American dollars. They'll be sorely disappointed the following day, as they try to book an excursion to Chichen Itza.

 Yes but I paid one price, I am not dishing out any more! will say an angry tourist. Okay, but did you know that they make an average salary of $20 a month, sometimes less? Did you know that they lack basic necessities like toiletries and headache medications? will say a more informed and obviously, more sympathetic tourist.

Angry tourist is hard to sway. He's been to other places before, he knows his business, he says. He's been to the Dominican Republic and Mexico. It's all the same! Soon enough, the debate ceases and angry and sympathetic tourist are both too busy admiring the palm trees and drinking their fourth Mojito to continue the conversation.

More after the jump...

The Road to Paradise.

 

Gisèle, the peahen. Never too far from the cocktails.

In the beginning, I brought notebooks with me. I had this idea, this grand plan of writing about my observations. I imagined myself having deep, philosophical thoughts, but all I could scribble were things like:

Those fucking roosters. If I hear another one, I swear! 

I ate pork again today.

It's funny how sometimes the (I never finished that one)

 trip #45 to the washroom. FML! I am now officially and utterly out of all bodily fluids. I may die in a foreign country.

Those pigs! If I hear another one, I swear!

It didn't taste good, therefore it didn't digest well.

HOT. HOT. HOT. HAWT. 

Two words. Poofy hair. 

Cockroaches and no one bats an eyelash! 
I. Don't. Want. To. Eat. Any. More. Pork.
I can drink the tap water!
Oye bici!
I love him so much.
Beer for a buck!!
I shouldn't drink the tap water. 
Trip #46 to the washroom today. I think I may have already died and this is a crappy afterlife. No pun intended.

Therefore, I've decided to start from scratch, or from memory rather. I'd like to tell you about how my life changed completely in the span of one year. I don't promise you it'll be in order, since anyway, it's been nothing but chaos here! Maybe with bits and pieces of how this all came to be, in between.

More after the jump...