Is he okay?

Recently there was an article about a 19-year-old track star at UPenn who ran off a seven-story building to her death.  Her depression has become overwhelming and she thought suicide was the best answer.  It's a tragic story about a young girl with a bright future and a loving family who wasn't getting the treatment she needed to deal with her illness.

The story came with a trigger warning, and while I have mixed feelings about trigger warnings in general, I cried off and on for the next few hours of the day.  I don't have any close friends who have committed suicide.  I don't have any children.  For most of the article, I was a sympathetic bystander - not emotionally invested in the story, but sorry for the girl and her loved ones.

However, the article eventually came to the part of the story when the parents were first told their child was hurt.  That moment is present in all of these stories, and I'm somehow blinded by it every time.  In this instance, the police called the girl's parents after they found her on the pavement, cold and unmoving, and told them something had happened.

"Is she okay?" They asked.

The answer was no.  Because the answer is always no in that situation.

The question itself is filled with an optimism that, rationally, isn't earned.  If the police are calling you about your child, your child is not okay.  But your mind can't be rational at that point.  What you're about to be told is something you don't want to hear, something you aren't able to process, and you're begging to be told something that doesn't make sense, because otherwise you're about to find out something you might never recover from.

I was about to turn 21 when I called my grandparents one morning in Boston to thank them for the birthday card they sent me.  Grandpa asked me if I had heard about the Johnson* boy, and that it was too bad what had happened.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"It's in the paper."

"What paper?"

"Oh, the Star I think."

"What happened?"

"He went hiking by himself and he fell."

"Is he okay?"

Grandpa had started the story with "shame about the Johnson boy."  If I had bothered to think about it, or wanted to think about it, I would have known the answer without asking.

"Well, no, he... He died."

Everything inside me seized up.  The Johnson family was close to ours.  My dad had been the best man at their wedding.  The daughter was seven months younger than me, and the son (now deceased) was within a year younger than my brother.  They had had some issues during their high school years, some really tough times in their family, but the daughter was doing well in college now, and the son had just graduated high school, and it felt like they were finally out of the woods and that things were going to be okay.  

Grandpa tried to keep talking to me, asking me about school and my social life, but I wasn't much good at responding.  I needed confirmation that he was right, that this boy was dead, before I would allow myself to believe it.  Maybe there was a mistake, somebody got the story wrong, maybe the Johnson boy was actually just fine.

I ran to my room and went on Facebook. His Facebook name was Bill Cosby.  This was before it was common knowledge that Bill Cosby was a serial rapist, and most people still thought of Bill Cosby as the square who told kid-friendly jokes and wore awesome sweaters.  It was a dumb thing, a very eighteen-year-old boy thing, to change your Facebook name to Bill Cosby.  It was funny too, in that very stupid, teenage boy kind of way.  It was funny for the same reason farts are funny, or the word "boobs" is funny, or wearing a DARE shirt while smoking weed is funny.  Making the square, kid-friendly, pudding-loving comedian from the 80s your profile name is, in teenage boy terms, hilarious.

Comment after comment from his friends lamenting his passing and how they couldn't believe it and how this couldn't be real confirmed Grandpa had the facts right.  I immediately started bawling.  Bill Cosby was a good kid, and funny and fun to hang out with, and pretty fucking smart, and it just sucked so much that we weren't going to be able to see what happened next with him.

I called my parents but they weren't answering.  Mom was at yoga or brunch or something like that.  My brother was still asleep.  Dad was playing basketball with his Saturday morning crew and wasn't answering his phone.  I left Dad a message telling him to call me as soon as possible.

Finally, an hour later, I heard from him.

"Hey Caitles!"  That is a nickname I tried to give myself in 10th grade that only caught on after I got to college, well after the period of time I wanted it to stick.  I suppose that is the penance for giving yourself a nickname - it sticks when it feels like sticking.  

"Hi.  How are you?"

"Oh, just ducky.  Played basketball.  It's a beautiful day.  Gonna run some errands and then relax in the backyard."

It sunk in that my dad had no idea his best friend's son had just died the day before.  I felt even worse.

"Have you talked to Mr. Johnson?" I asked.

"Not recently.  So how are you?"

"Have you talked to Mr. Johnson?"

"No.  Why are you asking that?"

"Something happened..." My voice caught.

"I got a missed call from an 818 number I didn't recognize.  Maybe that was him."

Mr. Johnson doesn't have a cell phone, even now, so that sounded like it was well within the realm of possibility, for my dad to not have his best friend's phone number saved.

"Something happened to Bill.  He went hiking and he fell-"

"Is he okay?" My dad asked.  He sounded angry but I knew he wasn't.  When Dad gets panicked his voice gets harsher, as if yelling scares away whatever thing he's currently afraid of.

At this point I was sobbing again.  

"No.  Dad, he's dead."

"I gotta go," my dad said, and promptly hung up on me.  

The story about the girl's suicide got me thinking about Bill Cosby Johnson for the rest of the day, and I had trouble getting the energy up to go see the shows I needed to see that night (for friends, for class, etc).  I kept going back to that moment - "is he okay?"- when you hold on to that one last optimist shred of hope that whatever happened to your kid is fixable, reversible, not all that bad.  I kept imagining being in the room with those parents when they got that phone call, as their entire lives came crashing about them.  I kept remembering my dad telling me how great his day was until I told him it wasn't.  I kept imagining Mr. Johnson calling the search party for his son when Bill didn't come home, and his face when they found him.  I kept remembering my dad telling me how depressed Mr. Johnson was, and how he'd go to bed some nights hoping he wouldn't wake up.

I remembered there was only one memory my brain felt capable of going back to in the weeks that followed Bill's death.  It was when we were kids, and Bill and his sister and I all went hiking by the creek near my house.  The parents were in my yard, barbecuing and having a great time.  Bill fell into the creek.  He was only down to his belly button, but it felt like mortal danger.  And I kept shouting at him "get out!  Get out!" But I was frozen and couldn't move to help him.  And finally he got out, and I had done nothing about it, and maybe I couldn't help anybody ever, and now that same boy was dead.

I was having a long day when I read that article about the UPenn student's suicide.  I had work from 9-6.  I had two shows, one for a friend and one for class, that I had to see.  And I cried for a while in memory of young Bill's death, because it had been a while since I thought about it, and because it still doesn't seem fair.

"Is he okay?"

No.  And he's not going to be.

Coming of Age: Ruminations of Pregnophobia and Tampons

You know, adulthood is kind of terrifying still, a few years into it, pretty much everyday.  Like, if you get fired, how do you pay your bills?  And how many of your friends sympathy text you before having some fancy dinner at a sitdown restaurant you can't afford anymore?  Any time I go to a restaurant I'm still worried I'm making a huge mistake and I'll lose my job tomorrow and I will regret spending my money on this nonsense.

Or you go on Facebook, and you see that one popular kid from high school - the one who asked you back in 11th grade why you have a picture of the PE teacher on your shirt when it's clearly Walter Sobchak and The Dude, and she tries to make fun of you about it but all you're thinking is how much hipper and cooler and more worldly you are, so you walk away mostly confused about how she's supposed to be higher up the food chain than you are - you see that girl works out regularly and has a job in business analytics making six figures a year and goes on vacation and talks about how big of a nerd she is because she took a picture in front of a museum and she's just so fucking happy, like some kind of... put-together asshole.

Or maybe you don't get fired and it's just the opposite - you get promoted at that job you were just supposed to do until the other, better thing came along.  And you tell yourself, "hey, I'm supporting myself, fuck the haters" until you see your friends getting their dream jobs, or, even worse, your dream job. 

You go to a friend's house and you don't see the wires for the TV anymore and everything is organized and put away and fully decorated and maybe they have a case of freshly-cut flowers and you realize maybe it's time to be embarrassed about still having a futon in your living room.

I like adulthood though.  It comes with a driver's license, an ability to rent a car, alcohol, and people taking you seriously when you have no right to be taken seriously.  That last thing is so dope.  I love when people pay attention to me.

To get to adulthood from childhood we have to go through puberty.  Of the three stages I don't think there's even a question adulthood is the best.  Would you rather be an adult or a fourteen-year-old?  I remember my mom driving me home from a soccer game one day.  I was thirteen.  And I started crying for literally no reason.  Hormones?  I mean, we won the game.  I got along with my teammates.  It was mid season.  I played the whole game.  My mom panicked when she saw me.  Why was her kid crying?  She likes for things to make sense.  She's very rational.  She wants to fix a thing if something is wrong.  But how do you fix a thing if you don't know what's wrong?  Now when I cry I can tell you why.  I have a much better hold of my emotions.  That's another really great thing about adulthood.

But things get weird physically too.  I have a handle on my body now - sort of. I'm on the pill but I always need to borrow a tampon for my first bleed each month.  It's a simple enough explanation - if I prepare for my period, it will not come, and if it does not come, then I am pregnant.  I have five weeks of laundry in the basket and clothes on the floor and paintings I bought that need to be hung around the apartment but I don't have any nails even though I work right next to a hardware store.  I could not have a baby right now.  There's just no way.  So I let my superstition play out each month and I always borrow a tampon and look at me now I'm still not pregnant.

I have been afraid of waking up pregnant since I was thirteen.  I graduated high school still a virgin.  It's just this phobia I have.  Still.  At 25.

When the Period Fairy first struck my cycle, I was 12.  I remember bringing a pad with me into the bathroom at soccer camp.  My teammate asked me if I had my period and I told her that it was actually my second period.  She had to know I was not a period noob.

My mom and my doctor started to recommend tampons.  LOL.  Like I'm about to shove something up there and keep it there for eight hours.  My doctor gently suggested it.  I have never felt more betrayed by a doctor.  My mother was more insistent.  She said it would be easier for me to move around.  She bought tampons with cardboard applicators and told me to stick it up there with my hands and take the cardboard out while I'm having my period time and I was just not into it.  No no no, no thank you, no.  I am happy with my pads.

My mom kept insisting so I tried it again on a day I didn't have school and she didn't have work.  "How does it feel?" She asked.

"Okay," I said.  "I feel it a little bit but it doesn't hurt that bad so I'll get used to it."

"No.  You did it wrong.  You shouldn't feel it at all."

"No, it's in there."

"Not if you feel it.  Take it out."

So I took it out and tried again and failed again and went back to my pads.

Still my mom wasn't giving up, so next month I tried it again and I did it!  I got it up there!  Fully up there!  Complete success!

...except the applicator got stuck.

I called my mom into the bathroom and she was pretty grossed out because there's my vagina and there's the tampon string coming out and on the other side is a bloody piece of cotton and there's too many bodily fluids and it's just so gross.

I don't think they tell moms how to deal with your kid's first twelve or twenty periods.  On the one hand, my mom wanted to help.  On the other, she didn't want to see my period this close.

So I was freaking out because the applicator was stuck and maybe I had to go to the hospital because I was pretty sure this was how you get toxic shock syndrome.  And Mom was telling me to just pull it out but I knew this was going to hurt so she had to do it.

And God bless her, but Mom did it.  And it was painless and easy and I've been wearing tampons ever since.

A year or so later my mother decided I was a pro now and she was going to save some money by purchasing tampons without applicators.  That was obviously a ridiculous notion and I was not, thank you very much, going to use a tampon without some application assistance.  I'll use cardboard but I draw the line there.  

"That's how they do it in Europe," she said, but we are American and Europeans don't shower or shave so the personal hygiene thing is not their strong suit.  I know this isn't true, I know that Europeans shower and shave, but my mom was also wrong because i have never been to a place where I couldn't find a tampon with an applicator - not here, not in Europe, not anywhere.  I understand the tampon is a relatively recent invention, and my mom lived in France in 1975.  This just further confirms my love of the 21st century.

I loved tampons so much I converted my friends into tampon girls instead of pad girls.  One of my friends bled on my sheets at a sleepover while wearing one but remained on that tampon train despite the embarrassment because tampons were just that great.  Another friend told me that tampons were a way to lose your virginity (which, as a teenage good girl, is a big part of your human worth) and I couldn't believe a fifteen-year-old could say that with a straight face now that the Internet has been invented and we all have cell phones.  And of course, there were rumors that, once you started having sex, you wouldn't enjoy it as much because the tampon would desensitize you.

That, my friend, is a small penis.

Anyway, puberty is confusing and so are social interactions, but now I buy my own tampons and wear down people into becoming my friends, so things are definitely on the up from where I was twelve years ago.  I remember getting frustrated with my period when I was younger.  I had cramps.  I never had a tampon or knew who to ask for a tampon.  But now?  That monthly reminder that I'm not pregnant?  I love it. As a single adult, it's guaranteed to be at least one thing that puts a smile on my face once every four weeks.  

"Good job, Caitlin!" My period says.  "You may not be as adult as you should be by now, but at least it's just you you have to worry about."

(Stay tuned for the next installment, ten years from now, where I discuss how terrifying parenthood is.)

(Also, this is not an indictment of anyone my age with children - you are just much more mature than I am.)

Girl Travels Alone Part 6: Don't Stop Belizean

      I've been in Los Angeles for over 24 hours now.  It should be almost 48, but things transpired differently than planned.

      On what was supposed to be my last night, Monday night, I didn't get to a restaurant for dinner until just before 9.  The place I wanted to eat was closing, so I went next door to a Chinese restaurant.  I had what might have been the most disappointing fried rice I've ever eaten.  The bread pudding was okay.  I really like bread pudding.
      A boy maybe a few years younger than me sat at the bar a few stools down.  He kept trying to strike up conversation, but I was tired and not super interested.  The snorkeling experience had taken it out of me, and being friendly to strangers could be a lot of work.
      "Long day?" he asked.
      "Yeah," I said.
      "Yeah, I noticed you were eating alone."
      "I'm traveling alone."
      There was a little more conversation, about as boring as everything I transcribed.  Another American entered the restaurant.  Loud.  He seemed to be a regular.  He was a cook, working at some other restaurant nearby.  He ordered a shot of whiskey I seriously doubt he needed (like, I hope he walked over to pick up his food, because the man seriously shouldn't have been driving) and started shooting the shit with the others.
      I asked for the bill and looked through my purse for my wallet but couldn't find it.  That's when I remembered I had ordered a drink at the bar at my hotel and had taken only my wallet to the hotel bar and left the rest of my purse at home.  When I got back to my room I must not have put the wallet back in my purse.  This is a smart move, taking your wallet out of your purse for small things like that, and I was mentally punching myself in the face about it.
      "I'm so sorry," I told the bartender, Amy, a demure girl from southwestern China who had been in Belize for about 9 years now.  "I left my wallet in my room.  Here, I'll leave my passport so you know I'm coming back."
      "Don't worry about it," the American slurred.  "It's Belize!  Why are you so anxious?  What are you so stressed about?  It's Belize!"
      "Okay… okay, I'll come right back, I'm just going to grab my wallet from my room-"
      "Where are you staying?" the American asked me.
      "Laru Beya."
      "Oh, that… all the way over… that's far, man, just come back tomorrow!"
      "Really?"
      "Yeah, Amy will be okay with that, won't you Amy?"
      "That's fine," Amy agreed.  "Just bring it tomorrow."
      "Oh.  Um.  Okay.  Thank you."
      "Where are you from?" the American asked.
      "Los Angeles."
      "Really?  You sound Australian."
      I should mention that I've been talking how I normally talk.  I mentally high-fived myself for sounding Australian.  I've gotten British and German and suburbs of New York (I've gotten this one a bunch of times, and I sort of hate it because, like, why couldn't I just be from legit New York?), but this was a first.
      "No.  Where are you from?"
      "Boston, but I haven't been there in 25 years!"  he cackled.  What a funny statement!
      "Oh, cool, I went to school there."
      "I've worked all over the world.  I've been to 57 countries and I've worked in 8.  Belize is the only one I've ever been back to.  I love it here."
      "Where have you worked?" the boy I was sort of talking to earlier asked.
      "Malawi, Belize, Japan, Boston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Hawaii-"
      I started to mention that the last four places were all in the same country but I could tell nobody cared so I just let it go.
      "Malawi, man, I hated working there.  So much poverty, man.  When I was working there, I was making $1000 US per week.  They were charging $1200 US a night at the hotel.  The other workers, they were making 65 cents a day.  $1200 a night per room they were making, and they were paying their workers 65 cents a day.  Couldn't take it."
      I counted my blessings real quick.
      "A round of shots for the boys!" the American yelled.  "A round of shots for the boys!  Whiskey!  Let's get some whiskey shots for the boys, Amy!"
      There were four customers here, including me.  I was the only female customer.  I was trying to figure out if he meant boys figuratively (which included me) or literally (which did not).  He turned to me.
      "Where are you from?" he asked me.
      "Los Angeles."
      "Really?  You don't seem like you're from there.  You seem like you're from, um… like you're from… hmm…"
      "Australia?"
      "Yeah!  Australia!  You got that kind of vibe."
      Amy brought shots for the boys in the literal sense, and I took that as my cue to leave.  The American offered to pay my tab, and I stupidly said no.  I wish I had said yes.  I wish he had paid for it.  Why did I not take him up on that offer?  Or maybe he was too drunk, and he would have forgotten.  I declined his offer and came back the next morning to pay my tab.

      The next morning I slept in.  I ate breakfast.  I checked out.  I paid Amy back.  I got lunch at the Maya Beach Resort.  I ran into Connecticut from Brenda's Restaurant.  We talked about how fun that afternoon was, and how good that Seahawks-Packers game was.  I began the drive back to the airport so I could leave.
      The drive started out uneventful.  I had learned how to drive over the speed bumps.  I checked the map and saw the fastest way to Belize was Manatee Highway.  I followed the map best I could and took a right on Manatee Highway.

      Manatee Highway was a little rougher than the other highways.  I thought it would clear up, because the map gave no indication it was a lesser highway.  I only realized my mistake when my car broke down, and I was literally in the middle of nowhere.
      I took the key out.  I put the key back in.  I turned the key.  I took the key out again.  I put the key back in again.  I turned the key again.  Nothing.
      "No.  No.  No.  This isn't happening.  How is this happening?"
      I got out of the car.  I opened the hood and checked under the hood like I knew what I was doing, but I didn't know what I was doing, or what to look for, so I closed the hood again.  I got back in the car.  Maybe it had overheated?  I put the key in the ignition.  I turned the key.  Nothing.
      "How is this happening right now?  How is this real?"
      It didn't seem real.  It was ridiculous that my car would break down in the middle of nowhere in Belize.  That is not my life right now.  I am not that person right now.  I tried laughing because this was so stupid, but it felt hollow.  I was going to miss my flight.  I didn't even pretend I wasn't going to.  There was no denying that.  There was no false hope that I might make my flight.
      I figured the only thing to do was to keep going towards the airport.  I grabbed my suitcase and started walking north.  Every few minutes I would stop and look both ways.  Nothing.  No cars.  Literally nobody.
      "How is nobody here right now?" I wailed loudly.  I kept walking.  I complained.  "How is this my life?  How am I here?  How is nobody else here?  Where am I right now?  How am I literally in the middle of now-"
      Was that a growl?  Did I hear a growl?  I was worried about snakes, which is why I was walking in the middle of the road, but I didn't think about other animals.  There wasn't enough foliage to remain all that hidden.  Was that a bear?  No, shut up, there are no bears in Central America.  Was that a bear?  Are there bears in Central America?  No.  No.  What animal growls in Central America?
      Jaguars.
      There are no jaguars this far east, are there?  In Guatemala, yes.  In the Cayo District, yes.  Wait, was there a resort called Jaguar Reef in Placencia?  I couldn't remember.  Maybe that was in the Cayo.  That was west.  Or maybe it was Placencia, and it was just, like, a cute name that didn't mean anything.  Oh my god.  This couldn't be real life.  If I came across a jaguar right now I have literally nothing I can use to fight it off.  At least with a person I can barter, I can use words, I can pretend there's something I can do to convince them not to kill me.  This is not true with a jaguar.  I am alone, I am weak, and I've gained like fifteen pounds in the past year.  There is only one way an encounter with a jaguar could go.
      I would stop.  I would look around.  How am I so alone right now?  How has nobody come?  I would check the time.  Twenty minutes.  Nobody.  Thirty minutes.  Nobody.  I would keep walking.  I didn't see my car after a while anymore.  How could there be nobody here?  How-
      I heard a motor.  Finally.  Thank God.  I saw a tent.  I saw multiple tents.  I saw a makeshift covering.  I saw a sign on the side of the road.
      BRITISH ARMY.  DO NOT ENTER.  TRAINING FACILITY.  WEAPONS.
      Well, maybe they would accidentally shoot me.  Fine.  There were finally people here.
      I walked onto the property.  Must have been a sight - a girl in a floral H&M skirt, covered in mosquito bites and dust, with a tank top and a bandana and cheap purple sunglasses and a purse and a large suitcase trailing behind her.  Meanwhile, these gentlemen were all in training for Her Majesty's military service.
      They immediately offered me water.  They asked if I was hungry.  Do I need anything?  How long have I been walking?  And in this heat!  Do I need a phone?  Do I have someone to call?
      I called the car rental agency.  They didn't seem happy about having to come down, but they said they'd see me soon.  The military guys went off to do jungle drills, but they offered to share dinner with me.

      Next step was to see when my next flight would be.  I texted four different people.  My cousin John came back with nothing.  My friend Alex tried a few more ideas but also came up blank.  Turns out, Belize City airport closes at 6 PM.  My brother Eamon also had nothing.
      "I think I'm screwed," I texted him.
      "Yeah, probably."
      "Well, I guess this is that mid-twenties rite of passage where you get stuck in the middle of nowhere in Central America and miss your flight home."
      "I mean, there was really no way you could have avoided this?  You ran out of gas on the way to the airport just last week."
      Okay, yes, I did, that is true, but totally unrelated, thanks.

      Finally, the military guys came back.  They offered me more water.  They offered me more snacks. One of them, who somehow miraculously just showed up, was a mechanic.  They said they could drive to my car and maybe fix it.  We drove a ways and finally found my car.
      "This is more than a mile and a half," the mechanic said.  I had guessed a mile and a half based on the fact that I had walked an hour in flip flops on a dirt road with a suitcase and I kept stopping every four minutes with the hope that somebody would materialize.
      "Really?  How far did I walk?"
      "I don't know, two and a half or three miles."
      A weird sense of pride came over me.  One and a half miles is not that crazy of a story.  Three miles makes a much better story, and I wasn't even the one who had come up with the number.
      The mechanic fixed my car, and I drove back to base.  It was dinner time.  I texted my coworker and told him I missed my flight.  He was not sympathetic, and told me I was needed at work the next day.  I took a breath and tried to figure out how I was going to get home before 8 PM.  My friend Sara had looked up flights for the next day for me, and the earliest one she could find left Belize City at noon.
      The rental car guys came.  They didn't seem pleased that my car was working again, because it meant they had driven all that way for nothing.  They asked if I wanted to drive back with them.  I said yes.  They asked if I wanted somebody else to drive the car.  I said yes again and climbed in.

      The road was bumpy until we got to George Price Highway, where it cleared up.  As we drove on the rocky road, the guy driving my car said to me, "bumpy road here."
      I started crying.  I don't know how I did it, but I had royally screwed up.  There had to have been a way I didn't end up in this situation.  Everything I did, I did impulsively.  I was twenty-five and still unable to be a normal adult.  For every one thing I managed to do right in my life, I did twenty-eight things wrong.  And now I'm sitting in the passenger seat as this big Belizean man silently drives my rental car to an airport hotel and I'm trying to be quiet as I sob.  I wanted so badly to be back in my own bed tonight.  I am bad at everything.  I spent the night trying to figure out if I could get to Cancun for a 6 AM flight to LA so I could arrive there by 1:30 PM, but with no luck.  I was stuck.

      I am a terrible traveler.  I never remember bug spray.  I forgot to bring enough underwear.  I didn't bring my contact case for my contacts.  I don't have a medium-sized bag that's somewhere between my suitcase and my little purse, like I totally should.  I never have cash on me.

      But I will say I'm fun.  I have experiences that most others haven't had, because they travel much smarter than I travel (although the contact case thing was stupid; I really do regret not bringing my contact case with me).  They spend less money by not having to buy another plane ticket home, and they don't break down in the middle of nowhere and rely on the kindness of strangers and lack of wildlife to keep them safe.  But they also… okay, there's something good in here that I do, somewhere, right?  Where fun is something more than a cute nickname for irresponsible?
      I don't know.  I'm tired.  I'm home.  I still need to do laundry.  I had a great week, and I would 100% recommend Belize to anyone.  What a beautiful country, a fascinating history, a lovely culture, and an amazing week.  Just stay away from Manatee Highway.

Girl Travels Alone Part 5: I Belize I'd Like Another Drink

      I had a slow morning yesterday.  Around 12:30, I finally left the hotel.  The man I met the day before who I incorrectly called James but whose name is actually Michael John (where did James come from? Anyway the old stoner sailer I met yesterday was Michael John) asked me to pick him up from his boat so he could get a ride to town as well.
      I signed up for a snorkel excursion, which I went on today.  Michael suggested we take a walk along the boardwalk.  He says it's the longest boardwalk in the world.  As I left the snorkel tour place, a woman outside her stand yelled out to me.  The restaurant was Brenda's Restaurant, and she was Brenda.
      "Hello lady, you want some jerk chicken?  Some rice and beans?  You've been waiting for chicken?  Because it's been waiting for you!"
      You know, once I thought about it, I was hungry.  I told Michael I ordered chicken, rice, beans, coleslaw, and a rum punch from Brenda.  He said it sounded like a swell idea and got his own meal and drink.
      So the jerk chicken was excellent.  Brenda also brought out the best macaroon I've ever had and also a really solid bread pudding.

 Chicken, rice, pineapple, coleslaw.

Macaroon?  More like GREAT macaroon. 

Bread pudding.  Most underrated dessert out there. 

Brenda's restaurant.  Where the magic happens. 

 View from Brenda's restaurant.  Where the magic happens.

      Another group was finishing up their meal.  A man from Oregon talking about how Yelp is a scam, and his Thai wife whose haircut made her look like she just walked off the set of Brink, the sensational 90s Disney Channel Original Movie.  They sat across from Connecticut, a man who said his name about three times over the course of the afternoon and I still don't remember it.  Oregon and Brink left, and Connecticut kept eating.
      Michael was telling me about some of the people he met.  He credits himself with Bill Clinton easing up on civil forfeiture in the 90s (don't we still have a ways to go on that one though?).
      "I met Gorbachev once.  I saw Kissinger at a distance at an airport."
      "Kissinger should be in jail, man," Connecticut said, introducing himself into our conversation.  Connecticut could use a close shave and a cleaner pair of cargo shorts.
      Want to know what a conversation with two nomadic men north of 60 about politics sounds like?  Whatever you're guessing is probably accurate.
      Two women came by and sat down as well.  They were from Alaska.  Dory has been living in Belize for over 2 years now, and Sam is visiting her friend for a couple weeks.  Dory hasn't ever had a proper career, just going from one job to the next, and now her son is out of the house, and she just upped and left so she could figure out who she was by herself, not who she was in relation to someone else.
      Another middle-aged couple sat down as well.  They were from Idaho.  I don't remember their names, so I will refer to them as Mr. and Mrs. Idaho.  They came down with their adult daughter and her spouse.  Mr. and Mrs. Idaho run a summer camp in Sun Valley during the summer.
      When I was at the cave tubing meeting ground, there was a gift shop with a bunch of tan hats that said BELIZE on them.  They're so dorky.  I always wonder what kind of person actually pays money for that.  It is the quintessential dad hat, but also why do dad hats have to be so unflattering and weirdly colored?  Anyway, my point is Mr. Idaho was wearing a dad hat and a Hawaiian shirt, and when we were talking about Richard Sherman (there was a game on last night), he made it clear he loved that guy's "DON'T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT ME" speech.  Mr. and Mrs. Idaho were tight.
      As the youngest person there by about 30 years, some of the older people were curious about my being in Belize by myself.  Sam from Alaska has a son my age and a daughter 3 years older, so she immediately put herself in my mother's shoes.
      "What did your mother say when you told her you were coming down here?"
      "Well, when I first told her, it was a few months ago, and I said I wasn't going to not do something because nobody would do it with me, and she said that was great.  And then as we got closer to me leaving, she would ask, 'so who are you going with again?  Where are you going?'"
      "You make sure you email her every night."
      Sam was pretty cute too.  She gave me a pair of earrings with flip flops because she decided it wasn't her style after all.

Me and my new best friend Sam.

      Dory and Michael talked business.  Dory had a place up in Corazol, in Northern Belize, that she was trying to sell.  Good place to dock his boat.  They started talking about novels Michael had written.  One of them was on Amazon.  Science fiction - Rings of Time.  Dory said she wanted to write a book.
      "I want to write fiction," Dory said.  She was slurring her words.  "Can I write fiction?  I don't want to write about my life.  It'd be too sad."
      Mr. and Mrs. Idaho left before the drinking got out of hand, and also to watch the Seahawks-Packers game.  I was surrounded by Seahawks fans.  The couple from Idaho.  The two women from Alaska.  We were 50 yards from a bar showing the game, though, and everyone in there (all three patrons) were Packers fans.

End of first half, when the Packers had it locked up.

      Great game.  Okay I'm not going to talk about football anymore.  It was cool watching it in Placencia though, on a nice TV at a bar on the water.

      Around 6 Michael and I headed back.  I had an early night.  I am loving these early nights.  I never fall asleep before midnight at home.  Going to bed early is so great.

      The next morning I headed into town for the full day of snorkeling.  I wore my super cool but super light pants and a tank top.  I didn't bring a towel because I figured the sun would dry me off and also because I didn't think of it.

      I got to the tour a little early.  The man working there is also a musician who has traveled all over Europe and the US touring.  He moved back to Placencia three years ago.

      "We might not get to do the snorkeling tour today," he said.  "It's too choppy."

      There was no wind, so I didn't understand what he was talking about.

      "When are you leaving?" he asked.

      "Tomorrow."

      "So this is your only day."  The man thought about it.  "We'll go out today."

      I didn't think anything of the almost-canceled tour.  I went to get a coffee.  It was a nice walk - Placencia is a nice town.  I haven't mentioned this yet, but something I noticed about Placencia is how nice the cars are.  They're not luxury, but they're Toyota Tundras in Placencia versus whatever make I've never heard of in San Ignacio.  They're within two years old in Placencia versus older than I am in San Ignacio.  It's all the expats and tourists.

      Anyway, the walk was nice, and the coffee is maybe the best coffee I've ever had.

Placencia.

The name of the coffee shop is a play on words. 

His name is Java. 

Above Grounds Coffee Shop.

      When I came back to the snorkel place, Chandy and Frank had also arrived.  They were a couple from Seattle who had a son who was my age.  They are grandparents.  Chandy had back surgery in October.  Swimming in salt water made her feel better.

      We got on the boat where our tour guide, Tiger, got behind the wheel to take us.

      "We are going to Silk Caye.  It's 22 miles off shore.  It will take us an hour.  After we snorkel for a bit, we will eat, and then we will see the turtles."

      22 miles?  Okay.  I guess it's worth it to go to the second biggest barrier reef in the world.  The first biggest is in Australia.  That one is called the Great Barrier Reef and it's on wikipedia.

      We very quickly understood why musician man owner was hesitant to send us out today.  There were some seriously choppy waters.  It was fun at first, but it didn't let up.  We were soaked within fifteen minutes.  Chandy had not been informed about how choppy it was, and she had mentioned her own condition, so she was understandably upset. I began worrying about my no-towel situation.

      "Are you from Seattle proper, or just outside?" I asked.  Chandy and Frank had an accent that wasn't particularly urban.

      "We live in a boat just outside the downtown area."

      "Oh that's nice!  I have family in Graham."

      "No kidding!  I'm an Arlington girl.  We just moved to Seattle a few years ago."

      CALLED IT.  Farmland.  Chandy and Frank are great.  Chandy complimented my pants, because she is a woman with excellent taste.

      After an hour of getting soaked and almost losing my contact, we made it to Silk Caye.  It is an island that is literally the size of my apartment.  It has a bathroom and a barbecue on it.  It is a national park.

Come vacation in sunny Silk Caye. 

Look at that beautiful bathroom.

I am already cold.

      We snorkeled around the Caye.  It was okay, but my goggles kept fogging up.  Also, bobbing on the surface of a windy sea is, well, not relaxing.  And the water wasn't freezing, but I wouldn't use the word "warm."  I was already looking forward to the hot shower I was going to take when I got back to the hotel.

      The wind had only gotten stronger, and I was only in a wet bathing suit.  Luckily there was another tour there, and Tiger's second cousin was leading that one.  Tiger scored a towel for me, so I was a little less cold, but still very cold.  It might have been the coldest I've ever been.  I talked to a woman from Michigan on that Silk Caye, and she was also freezing, so I am validated.

Cold. 

Clothes drying. Chandy likes these pants, and it's easy to see why.

      Tiger barbecued up a mean potato dish with cheese whiz (you know, I was a cheese whiz hater for a long time, but I've come to terms with how much I enjoy cheese whiz and I think I'm a happier person for it) and a yellow jack fish.

Tiger cooking up some fish and potatoes.  Sheet metal is protecting our food from the wind. 

      Tasty.  But I was not interested in going back in the water at that point for sea turtles.  I was too cold.  I could feel that hot water from the shower I was fantasizing about on my skin.  I was only three hours away from paradise.
      We motored to the second location, which was about 200 yards away.  The sea turtle apparently hung out by a fishing boat.  These guys had a clothing line set up as well.  I will never see so many clothing lines again as I have seen on this trip.

Fishing boat.

     We saw a turtle in the distance and I decided to suck it up and go back in.  I was also told to stay away from the turtles.  

      I took a deep breath and jumped in.  What a difference a couple hundred yards makes!  The sea floor was covered in grass.  My goggles weren't fogging up.  We swam closer to the fishing boat and suddenly it was a wealth of animals I've never seen in the wild up close.  An enormous turtle going to town on some grass.  Sharks within a couple feet of where I was floating.  Manta rays.  Schools of fish.  And this was all within water about seven feet deep, so when sharks or manta rays swam directly below me they were really, really close to me.  But it's super chill I totally didn't freak out because I know they can smell fea- that turtle is not eating grass, it is eating a crab that is trying to crawl out of its mouth right now, and I suddenly understand why I'm being told to stay away from the turtle.

      So that last snorkel bit was really amazing.  Tiger took us back to shore.  I immediately went back to my hotel and took my hot shower.  I've never been this cold in my life, but I've also never had a hot shower feel that perfect.

      It's been a crazy trip.  I'm going to go eat dinner.

Girl Travels Alone Part 4: Can't Belize These Views on Hummingbird Highway

      I'm running out of ways to use Belize in my title, but I also put myself in a bad spot when I started using the super funny and very original pun in the first place, so I'm kind of stuck now.

      I woke up yesterday morning with my toe still throbbing.  Venus Hotel had mismatched stairs to get to the lobby, and I stubbed my big right toe hard on it.  Combined with the mosquito bites, the leftover nail polish from my Christmas work party, and the blisters from the water shoes, my feet are in terrible shape right now.
      I went to the Saturday morning market in San Ignacio before I left town.  I picked up some bananas and limes and oranges.  I got a coffee and a chicken burrito for breakfast.  A young man gave me a poem about sadness.  I got in my Daihatsu and hit the road.

      Getting to Belmopan, the capital of Belize, involved driving on roads I've already been on.  George Price Highway.  Once at Belmopan I took a right.  At first it was like everything else I'd seen.  Green, sort of flat, homes and restaurants with sheet metal for roofs.  Clothes hanging on a line.
      And then I took a turn.  And I was suddenly on mountain roads, full of rainforest.  My road to Placencia consisted of rainforest mountains.  Jesus, how's that for a Saturday morning drive.

Drove this.  Lived this. 

Glamor shot of my luxury vehicle. 

      While taking the first picture I almost got run over and honked at by a van that said ARMENIA on the back.  I thought that was interesting, as I did not know there was an Armenian population in the middle of Belize.
      There isn't.  There is a town called Armenia, which is where that van was going to.  Or I don't know, maybe Armenia is a town full of Armenians.  I'm still not sure.  I do know Armenia is in the middle of nowhere, just off Hummingbird Highway.
      I also got to drive over tiny bridges.

 This is the tiniest bridge I've ever driven on.

      Near the end of Hummingbird Highway, I took a right on Southern Highway.  Now, when you're in the middle of nowhere, the roads are actually pretty smooth.  But the closer you get to a town, the more random speed bumps you have.  I have still not learned how to navigate these speed bumps, though I suspect it's really just slowing down and going over them carefully.  The worst one I came across was on the Southern Highway, where I drove over a speed bump so high my arm hit my mouth and my foot hit the top of the little area where the gas and brake pedals are (what is the name of that?  Don't look at me, I just sell cars, not make them).  This hurt, because my toe was already throbbing from incorrectly walking upstairs, and now it was reinjured from not properly driving over speed bumps.  

      Finally I reached a turn for Placencia.  There were three women on the side of the road hitchhiking, so I pulled over.  They came from the Toledo District to sell their headbands and jewelry and tablecloths to tourists.  Two of them were from Punta Gorda.  The third was a little more inland.

      "Now you don't have to worry about anything happening to you," one of the women told me.  "We are four warriors!"

      I dropped one of them off in Placencia the town (I'm staying a little outside) while I drove with the other two, Tomasa and Raquelia.  While driving to town, we went past the airport.  Here are some photos from driving past the Placencia airport.  Or air strip, I guess.

STOP.  All vehicles must give way to aircraft landing and taking off. 

No parking.  Low flying aircraft.

      The woman I dropped off in town told me she lived in San Ignacio for two years, but moved back to Punta Gorda.  Her kids had to go to school, and she couldn't afford the $65 it cost to send them to school in San Ignacio.  In Punta Gorda, it only cost $8, so she moved back in order for her kid to get an education.

      Tomasa and Raquelia told me they did not have an education because they couldn't afford it.  They don't have jobs because all jobs require the education they don't have.  So they make their living through selling the knick knacks up and down the tourist towns on the coast of the Stann Creek district, where Placencia sits.

      "We are Mayan," Tomasa told me.  "There are three kinds of Mayan in Belize.  The Yucatec live in San Ignacio, in the Cayo District.  The Mopan live in Toledo.  And the Kek'chi live in Toledo.  We are Kek'chi Mayan.  I do not understand the Mopan language.  It's different."

      Tomasa and Raquelia asked to come with me to the hotel where I was staying so they could sell their wares on the beach to tourists there.  I bought a couple things from them and went to my room.  I gotta tell you - big bed, view of the ocean and the infinity pool, a shower that has a door that closes with hot water that works - this place is tits.

Pretty happy with this view, honestly.

      Yes, I've spent a good amount of my time awake on the hammock so far.  Actually, since I've arrived, I've yet to leave the hotel.  I was very lazy yesterday.  I had a late lunch and met a man named James, who owns a boat and spends half his time down here and the other half in Marin County up in Northern California.  

      James told me he's retired a few times.  He was a graphic designer at one point.  He did other things that are like graphic designing but aren't graphic designing - artistic or something, I don't know.  Then he started a company that sells hash to dispensaries in Oakland.  Years ago he envisioned living in a boat and now he's had it for five years.  He started in Guatemala, and then Costa Rica, and now he's here.  Now his partner does most of the hash work and he does some work sometimes, but it's his company so it wouldn't exist without him, and he takes it easy until he gets bored and then he goes back up to help work.

      Years ago he spent three weeks on a beach in Australia to see if he could deal with being bored on a beach with nothing to do.  It was a test.  Could he stand having a boat?  Well, there are worse things than being bored on a beach for three weeks, and now he gets to be bored on his boat and he's pretty happy with the arrangement.

      He told me all the different places he's smoked hash.  In an airport in Tokyo at 4:30 AM.  I don't remember the other places.

      My biggest struggle the next few days will be how little I want to do.  Yes, I do intend on taking it easy.  But I'm a naturally lazy person, and if given the choice I typically want to do nothing all day.  Doing nothing is always my first choice.  However, if I do nothing, I'm going to come back to Los Angeles full of regret concerning all of the things I should have done in Placencia and didn't.  And I will not necessarily feel more restful for it.  I might even feel more tired.  I need to go to town today.  I need to go to the beach today.  I might try ziplining.  People who have been ziplining - do I care about ziplining?  Do I need to go ziplining?  There's a waterfall nearby.  I think I definitely want to go there.  Do I get a massage?  I can't decide if I should get a massage.  I can't tell if the price for the massage is in American or Belizean dollars at my hotel, which is sort of a factor right now.
      I'll probably get a massage.  That's like doing nothing but there's soothing music and someone is rubbing you in a dark room.

      So that's where I am until Tuesday.  My big struggle will be to do more than literally nothing.  It's gonna be hard, because my toe hurts and my blisters are bleeding and I'm very good at validating my choice to do nothing because I validate that choice whenever I have a day off work.  But it's 2015 AND I HAVE A NEW LEASE ON LIFE.  I think I can do this.

Girl Travels Alone Part 3: Gotta Tube These Caves to Belize Them

      I live in Los Angeles.  You know what's great about Los Angeles?  A lot of things.  Pretty good weather, for one.  Close access to the beach, for two.  Getting to feel proud for pretty much no reason when people you meet traveling know where that is, for three.  Basically no mosquitos to speak of for four.
      I am literally covered in mosquito bites.  This happened last time I traveled out of the country too - I was eaten alive in the Cook Islands.  I came home from the Cook Islands with the skin burnt clean off (well, it was a little infected, but there was no skin there is my point) the inside of my right shin, the rest of my skin burnt from too much sun exposure, and bug bites covering my skin.
      I don't have the sunburn (yet - still have the beach tomorrow), and I don't have the burned skin (yet - no motorbike riding in Belize), but I DO have bug bites in places I didn't know you could get them.  My neck, for one.  The insides of my feet, for two.  A line of bites that looks like one big bite at the top of my left thigh/bottom of my left buttock for three.  Wasn't that covered by shorts?
      I always think to myself that mosquitos don't really like me because one time I went camping when I was a kid and I only got bitten once and everyone else got bitten way more times, but I guess my blood as sweetened over the years and also I'm probably the only one in the group NOT using insect repellant, so I am one big walking mosquito bite right now.
      I did finally buy insect repellant, but I am just so itchy right now.

      Our tour guide for cave tubing was a man named Amin, thus disproving once and for all my theory that all tour guides in Central America are named Louis.
      Cave tubing was ostensibly the least educational activity I signed up for.  However, under Amin (was was clearly very excited when I told him I wanted to learn more about Belize), I learned that the "street language" for Belizeans is Creole, which is English that is purposely broken.  When the slaves spoke the broken English quickly, their slavemasters couldn't understand what they were saying.  If they spoke it more slowly, it was easier to recognize the words as something close to English.
      A typical meal in Belize is a johnny cake.  It's a type of meat cake you can enjoy for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.  It was originally called a journey cake because it's portable and you can take it with you on your journey, but with the Creole the word ended up sounding like johnny.
      When I was taking notes about slavemasters my phone autocorrected to space masters, which I think is something different.  This is what we call a fun fact.
       Belize used to be called British Honduras.  If you already knew this, bully for you, but my ignorance about Belize is kind of embarrassing it turns out.  So Amin was great.
       The Spanish, with Christopher Columbus, were the first Europeans in Belize.  The British came soon after, and a small battle, the Battle of St. George's Caye, the British took over the tiny territory of Belize while Spain went about conquering the rest of Central America.
       Belize is in pretty good shape regarding its natural conservation because the only natural resource the British were interested in was the mahogany tree.
      The flag for Belize is a white man and a black man.  It's the only flag in the world with two men on it.  The white man represents the slave master, and the black man represents the slave.  There is a ship on the Belizean flag.  That's the Pinta, of Christopher Columbus's fleet.  There are 50 leaves on the flag.  This represents the year 1950, when Belize first began to fight for independence from the UK.
      In 1981, Belize became independent but was still part of the Commonwealth, sort of like Canada.
      This is maybe the most educational trip I've ever been on.  I was so ignorant about basically anything to do with Belize.  I had just done some preliminary research on whether or not it was a safe enough place to travel alone, and if there would be new things for me to learn, and fun things for me to do, and then I just went with it.  I'm so glad I'm here.

      Amin got us to the main site for cave tubing and ziplining.  I might try ziplining later, in Placencia, but Julie and Albert were doing just the cave tubing so I decided to also stick with that.
      We applied our bug repellant and sunblock.  We changed into our bathing suits.  My bathing suit is hanging on by a thread.  I had to tie two pieces together so it doesn't fall apart.  This is a bummer, because I find bathing suit shopping to be up there with jean shopping in types of clothing I hate to shop for.
      This time I rented water shoes because I was tired of having wet running shoes.  It was a good choice.

Mad stylin'.

      "I see you're all about to go cave tubing," a young Belizean man with an entrepreneurial spirit greeted us, "and I just want to offer you some of our coconuts, picked fresh this morning, more electrolytes than gatorade.  You can drink the milk straight from the coconut, and when you're done, you can just throw the coconut away.  It's tree dollars."
      "From the coconut?"  I was curious.
      "Yes, baby girl, and you can add rum for two more dollars.  Do you want to add rum, baby girl?"
      What?  Rum with the coconut?  It's not even 11 in the morning.  Who would-

Rum and coconut, straight from the source.

      I again didn't bring my phone with me, because we were going tubing and I figured there was a 100% chance I was going to drop that thing in the river.  Julie knew herself similarly well and also opted to keep her phone in the truck.
      I do have some pictures of the walk over, though, because we did it a second time.  I'll get to that in a bit.
      We each grabbed an inner tube and a life vest (which only Albert ended up using) and began the 30 minute walk to the cave entrance.  The walk again began with us wading through a river waist deep, this time with a swift current that boded well for our tubing adventure.  We were walking across the part of the river we were going to end up at.  Amin pointed to the rope and told us that if we were going to fast to stop, just grab a hold of it.  Otherwise, he'd meet us in Belize City in a couple days.
      As we walked I was struck again by how lucky I was to be here, in the middle of this beautiful jungle that was mostly untouched but still accessible enough for me to go cave tubing.  I was grateful for the opportunity to experience something I wouldn't be able to experience back home.
      Also the views were pretty dope.

      We soon made it to the cave entrance.  Amin took his time getting us into the tubes.  He told us to hang out for a bit, get comfortable with the water.  He told us when they first started bringing people here for tubing from the nearby hotel back in 1994, the man who had bought this land didn't like people using it.  He would pay the villagers to take away the signs.  He would send men with nine millimeter guns to just walk around.  Amin said when he was doing a tour and a man walked by with a nine millimeter gun it made some of his tourists uncomfortable.
      People are so touchy.
      Anyway, below is the cave we chilled at for a minute before we went cave tubing.

Oh hey!  You can see the bumps on my arms from the stupid amount of mosquito bites I have. 

      Finally we got started.  Amin gave us a quick tutorial on how to steer.  "Row your arms backwards to slow down."  It was not a very in depth tutorial.
      Albert got stuck very quickly in a rock.  When the current first took us, Albert's camera fell out of his pocket and he lost it.  He had bought the camera specifically for this trip.  Luckily he had uploaded his pictures from San Pedro, where he and Julie were first staying before coming to San Ignacio, and that's where he took the underwater pictures of himself scuba diving, but it's still a bummer.  The current was too strong and they couldn't find it.  We came back a second time, and that's when Julie and I took our phones, knowing we wouldn't be going in the water, and took as many pictures of the walk over as possible.

      Outside of the unfortunate camera incident, cave tubing was great.  Sometimes it felt like a real life version of that Disneyland ride Pirates of the Caribbean, only instead of fake pirates and singing there was real life caves and no drops.  Sometimes it felt like Jungle Tours, only instead of a funny tour guide and fake jungle, our tour guide was Amin and also the jungle was real.  Other times it felt like Indiana Jones, only not really as much because you're not in the water for that one.

      For lunch we had curried chicken (Belizeans have their own version of curry that's very tasty) and I had a Belikin.  For the road I got one more rum and coconut.

Jungle diet.

      Our last stop before getting back to town was a shop called Hot Mama's, which makes hot sauce, honey (both regular and spicy), chocolate, and other knick knacks.  I picked up a really solid sweet pepper sauce and chocolate with habaneros.  I was going to give the chocolate with habaneros to my parents because they're into exotic chocolates but I've already started eating it.

      Last night, for our collective last night in San Ignacio, Julie and Albert and I ate at Eva's.  I got the curried chicken again, with a drink called the Pantie Ripper that was sweet and didn't taste all that alcoholic.  We walked around town for a bit and and hit up that one club in town - Blue Angels I think - but we were there at 8:30 and nobody was there and the music was loud but sometimes you have to go to a club to remind yourself why you don't go to clubs (I CAN'T HEAR YOU).

      We had an early night and I said goodbye to my new best friends.  I went back to the restaurant, which had given me wifi on my phone for the first time since I've been here.  I had uploaded pictures on instagram and it was very important for me to see how many likes I was getting.  While I was on my phone, a couple of kids came up to me to sell me something.

      "No thanks," I said.

      "You don't even want to look at it?" one of the boys said.  He was like 9 years old or something, and I am just the biggest sucker that ever suckered.

     The boys pulled out two tablet things they made.  Circles that represent the Mayan calendar.  Zachariah made one with a butterfly in the center, and his little brother Zephediah made one with a Mayan pyramid.  They looked like they had made them themselves, but the boys said they were going to use the money to go to school (all schools are private in Belize).  They started asking me where I was from.

      "Los Angeles," I said.

      "Oh, I thought you were Canadian."

      Um.  Is that a compliment or, like, just a thing he thought?

     They had a littler brother, who must have been 6 or something.

      "Who's your basketball team?" the little guy asked.

      "Clippers," I said.  The little boy kept looking at me.  "And Lakers."

      "Lakers!  That's my team.  I love the Lakers."

      "I like OKC," Zachariah said.

      "OKC is a fun team to watch.  They always get so close.  It's fun to root for the underdog."

      (Shut up ahead of time, basketball aficionados.  I know a very little bit about basketball, and it is enough to get through a conversation with Belizean children, which is what I was doing.)

      "Have you ever been to a basketball game?" they asked.  I showed them a picture I took of when I was in row 6 of a Lakers game.  They all three asked me to add them on Facebook.  Zachariah wanted me to send him the picture of the game.

      I overpaid for that tablet thing.

      I'm headed out today to Placencia.  This morning I'll peruse the Saturday market - it's supposed to have a ton of fresh fruit - and then I'm going to the Stann Creek district.  

      Goodbye San Ignacio!  If anyone is going to Belize I will have to recommend you as a stop.