By Kevin Alan Lamb
So I suppose I have to begin somewhere. It was my senior of college, and I was set to go on my senior spring break trip to Acapulco. Unlike most people, or most students should I say, I was not traveling with a large group of friends, rather my ex-girlfriend, but of course, girlfriend at the time. Believe me, I tried to get other people to come on the trip with us, I even changed our original destination of Jamaica to Acapulco because I had some friends from MSU that were going to be there. You see, the problem with having a lot friends that smoke pot, is the inability to depend on them to plan far ahead. Despite not being in love at the time, and a near certainty that an all-inclusive trip (which for me is a different brand of trouble than others) to the Las Vegas of Mexico would result in “some serious shit hitting the fan,” I booked this trip in lust for a week of paraíso mexicano. In the weeks leading up to the trip I recall numerous occasions where I was but a breath away from breaking it off. The only thing holding me back, the idea of spending a week in a hotel room in Mexico with the girl I recently dumped and deemed a psycho, lacking the necessary talent or intelligence to further maintain my interest.
So I bit the bullet. I even had the audacity to look her in the eye when confronted about our declining connection, i.e. my interest, and say,
“Maybe we just need a week alone together to be reminded about why we fell in love.”
I must slightly digress. The L word made its first and very akward appearance after the usual round in the sack. She looked at me, blankly, softly, and I knew I was screwed. She spoke my name, and the next words were as inevitable as shitting your pants when unknowingly ex-laxed.
“I love you.”
Son of a bitch. The moment that so many of us have been on either one side or the other. Am I suppose to lie? Should I be polite and thank her? Those 30 seconds will perhaps go down as the most awkward and longest 30 seconds of my life. In an instant Einstein’s theory of relativity makes so much sense. Trying to be as sensitive to her feelings as possible I respond,
“You mean so much to me, and just because I don’t love you today, doesn’t mean I won’t someday.”
Talk about a load, but hey, it’s easier than being honest, all parties considered. She immediately jumped out of bed with a blanket, and ran out of the room crying.
Fast forward, back to the part of the story you care about. Bags are packed, passports stamped, on our way to Mexico.
We arrive at the Avalon Excalabur and its open air lobby looking out onto the beautiful North Pacific. It is important to the story that you’re aware that I speak some Spanish. Not a lot, but enough to get by, and miles more than the “hola” in her repertoire. After spending thousands of dollars, and traveling hundreds of miles, we were so warmly greeted by a concierge who had no record of our reservation. Not exactly the greeting one hopes for, but on a trip doomed for disaster, not exactly a shocker. After 15 minutes or so I was able to straighten things out. Well I shouldn’t say that, but they did find my reservation. There was one small/major problem: their records did not indicate that we had purchased the all-inclusive option. Now you must understand the varying levels of ass kicking which this presents. A) When I booked my senior spring break trip with the certainty that it would result in the welcomed death of my relationship, I envisioned myself at a tiki bar, 15 shots of tequila deep by noon, melting under the mexican sun, numb to any loss or thoughts outside my immediate pleasure. B) We were on a budget. A budget that depended on free meals and drinks on the hotel premises. We were off to a rocky start, but in light of the recent conflict we seemed motivated to persevere through it, and enjoy our trip, together.
My birthday is March 2nd. We arrived in Acapulco on March 3rd. We had agreed to celebrate once we got to Mexico. Our first day was spent exploring how intoxicated we could become, with as few pesos as possible. In case you don’t know, 10 (or diez) pesos equals one U.S. dollar. This concept seems simple enough — an item costing 50 pesos is the equivalent of five dollars. An understanding very useful on the beaches and mean streets of Acapulco. In case any of you imagine vacation as being undisturbed in a serene state while lying weightlessly in the soft sand, don’t go to to Acapulco. Fully aware of the flea market-like beach, and eager to put my Western education of español to the test, I made friends quickly with all of the vendors.
“Quieres mota? Tengo mota.”
You want weed? I have weed.
“Quieres quesadilla? Tengo quesadilla.”
Without moving from our seats, we enjoyed the many pleasures of Mexican service, and even managed to have some fun in the bedroom, on at least one of our 7 nights…
The plan was to go out for dinner Sunday night, her treat, for my birthday. Part of our new budget, well at least my new budget, included eating as little as possible, while maintaining heavy consumption of booze. My logic: So long as I mix in a few beers for every six or seven shots, I would be satisfied and nourished enough to maintain my rampid but ever so delightful pace. We viewed the guests of our hotel as two classes: those with all-inclusive bracelets, and those without. Food was being constantly served poolside, rounds of shots, Coronas, and of course margaritas were being handed out like beads to big-breasted women at Mardi Gras. Utterly demoralizing, unless of course, you had a plan B. We strolled to the nearest OXXO, the Mexican equivalent of Seven Eleven, and for 120 pesos, bought a styrofoam cooler, bag of ice, fifth of vodka, two cartons of orange juice, and a frickin’ Coke. My kind of deal. I grabbed a few Sols for the road (because in Mexico there is no such thing as open intox), and felt like I was finally in a country that could facilitate the type of partying that I was put here on this earth to do.
Daytime had come and passed. We were both pretty lit, and hungry as can be. Time for the birthday dinner. We were hoping we both just needed food in our systems; perhaps that would ease the tension. There was much aggravation throughout the day as we (she) played tourist and shopped for souvenirs. In case you have never been to Mexico, everything is a negotiation, which becomes a recurring theme. I served as translator and negotiator in her every attempt to make or inquire about a purchase.
“How much is 200 pesos? I don’t understand.”
Eventually we (I) got through the painful experience, but by no means can I claim innocence of the arising agitation. I am not tolerant of stupidity, nor am I patient with it. I also do not like individuals who prefer to point out every aspect of a situation which they loathe, rather than trying to understand it, and ultimately enjoy it. It is this combination of intolerance that led to what turned out to be a fantastic birthday dinner. Cough. Cough.
I managed to endure roughly 30 minutes of idiocy before I had could take no more. I proceeded to communicate my disgust with such a lack of intelligence, cultural understanding, and maturity. Needless to say this did not go over well. She threw down money for the bill, offered some words not appropriate for the church-going crowd, and stormed off like a widlerbeast into the night. Finally. Some peace and quiet. I ordered a few more margaritas, finished eating my food, and even had some dessert. After all, it was my birthday dinner.
I walked back to the hotel, and in the time it took I managed to come up with an apology and explanation I actually believed. It is amazing how easily we can trick ourselves if it helps retrace the path of least resistance. We made up, surely credited to the aid of a days worth of drinking, and met some friends we had made down by the pool bar. The plan was to go to a club that they had free passes to get into. We took a cab. Like many clubs in Acapulco it was outside, and on the beach. We all sat together, and ordered our first drinks. In recollecting the situation, largely due to alcohol, and displaced time, I cannot tell you what she said to make me leave the table, but I assure you it was enough, because that was the last of her I saw that night. I specifically remember thinking, “This is my last college spring break trip, there is no way this bitch will ruin it.” So I proceeded to do what all my closest friends know me to do: I wandered. I cycled between the bar, the dance floor, and a nice group of Mexicans on vacation in Mexico, another recurring theme of this story. I was officially in Va-ca mode, not a worry in the world, wasted in a moment of clarity and contention.
Obviously this didn’t last long. It is no secret, when you drink in large quantities, you must drain the receptacle frequently. It may have been my third or fourth trip to el baño, and a sauced Lamb is not a patient Lamb. I had quite enough of the 20 minutes in line it took to relieve myself, so I proceeded to do what we have all done (implying most of my readers have one time or another dabbled in such debauchery): I found a bush on the street and took care of business. This may come as a shocker, but it turns out that was a bad decision. With a smile on my face and a feeling of satisfaction, I zipped up, turned, and was confronted by three federals with AK- 47s in my grill. Oh boy. Talk about a slightly sobering experience (and the mere consideration that I say “slight” suggests to the extent that I lacked sobriety).
“Ven con nosotros. Usted está bajo arresto.”
“Come with us. You’re under arrest.”
I proceeded in my Spanglish ways, asking the officer what I had done. He said that I had urinated on the bush, and must get in the car right now.
I pleaded. They insisted.
“Por favor. Lo siento. Estoy en mi honeymoon, con mi amor, ella me necesite!”
“Please. I am sorry. I am on my honeymoon with my love, she needs me!”
They seemed to take this into consideration, and continued to say they would let me go, if I gave them 500 pesos.
“No tengo 500 pesos, solomente tengo 300! Puedes lo tiene!”
They would not accept the 300 pesos, and continued to insist that I must get in the car and be placed under arrest. In this moment I was scared shitless. I was going to be the stupid American that ended up in a Mexican prison, never to be heard from again. My anal cavity would become the safe nestle point for an assorted quantity of burritos, chimichangas, and yes, enchiladas. Despite this overwhelming fear of the once thought impossible, I tried to maintain my cool. The officers proceeded to grab me by the arms (still possessing giant assault rifles that had been previously only been known to me via Golden Eye on N64), and pull me towards the squad car. Fearing I might retaliate against the undersized Mexican people, and find myself full of bullets that probably weren’t Mexican at all, I sat down on the bench next to me and continued to plead my case with an overwhelming,
My theory being, if they were going to take me away, they would have to drag me. I understand the Mexican people are a collarless working class by nature (as opposed to blue/white collar), but my bet was they wanted nothing more to do with one of largest, drunkest, and most persistent gringos they had ever seen. They again persisted that I give them 500 pesos, and I once again replied,
“Solomente tengo 300.”
Remember what I said, everything in Mexico is a negotiation. To this day, I am baffled why they refused the 300, and spoke the following words,
“Eres libre de ir,”
You are free to go.
Holy frickin Toledo. I couldn’t believe it. But I did not take a moment more to question it. Keep in mind, this process took nearly 45 minutes. If you can recall, though I claimed when I left the table it was the last time I saw her that night, what I really meant was that it was the last moment I spent with her that night. For those of you who don’t know, I am very easy to see in a crowd, and vice versa it is very easy for me to see others in the crowd. So naturally through my wandering I saw her in passing, but only to the extent that assured each of us that the other was still in the vicinity. I returned to the club now 45 minutes later, with the sole interest of finding her, and calling it a night, with my anal virginity still in check.
One problem. She was no longer there. I searched the club for almost 30 minutes, considered calling her, only to realize she didn’t have it on her because it cost something like five dollars a minute. Still rushing with excitement/ terror from my bout with the federals, the last thing I wanted was yet another conflict on an already horrid night. I walked back to the hotel, if you do recall it required a cab ride going there, common on this trip, and returned to an empty hotel room sometime near three in the morning. This recollection is not derived from a mental image of the alarm clock on the night stand, rather a logical deduction based on the evening’s course of events. My first thought, as it would be most anyone’s first thought,
“Who’s that whore sleeping with now?”
After a few moments lying in bed, and by a few I mean, one Mississippi, two miss…. I was out light.
In case you had about enough, this is where the story gets interesting.
You see when I’m drunk — let me rephrase that — when I’m hammered, and passed out, I am an unmovable object. That is not to say that I am without movement, or without words. I have been known to utter some of the most unrecognizable and illogical gibberish known to man. For example, and keep in mind in this example I was awake; in trying to convince my two friends that I was okay to drive, I looked one of them in the eye and said,
“I support 98% of my students, of course I can drive.”
First of all, there is obviously no link between supporting one’s students and an ability to drive a car while intoxicated, and secondly, not now, or at any point in my life, did I ever have any students.
So there I am, lying in bed, existing in a world that I cannot describe, nor expect you to comprehend, when I am attacked by arm flailing, leg kicking, obscenity screaming ball of fury, known only to you, as her. Before I am able to comprehend what is occurring, in the hurricane of noise, screaming and spite she manages to formulate a sentence,
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LEFT ME!!!! YOU (Insert your favorite obscenities here.) IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!!! IT’S YOUR FAULT THAT I WAS ATTACKED!! IT’S YOUR FAULT THAT I WAS ROBBED!! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!”
Believe me, if there was a setting on your alarm clock that said crazy psychotic banshee whore, you probably would go for clock radio.
I woke up several hours later, feeling much more refreshed, coherent, and really feeling like it was going to be a great day. I glanced over at the night stand to see the time, and noticed a note written on a birthday card she had given me in the days prior.
“I HOPE YOU DON’T PLAN ON LEAVING MEXICO YOU MOTHER FUCKER. YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT. I HOPE YOU’RE STUCK HERE FOREVER AND DIE.”
It’s safe to say that the words on the other side of the card were a bit more friendly. I began to piece the night back together, specifically the banshee wake up call between the hours of 4-6 in the morning, and found myself torn in believing anything she had claimed. I knew this girl pretty well. We unfortunately had dated almost two years, and it wasn’t far fetched to consider that she would make these things up so I would feel terrible for “leaving” her. In my perplexed state, I got to my feet, and rid myself of the previous night’s waste. On my way out of the bathroom I noticed the door to the safe was open. You see, when traveling to a foreign country it is a good idea to put your valuables and most especially your passport into the safe. That is when it registered.
“I HOPE YOU DON’T PLAN ON LEAVING MEXICO.”
The safe was empty. My wallet, my phone, and last but not least, mi pasaporte.
In the 45 minutes I invested in anal burrito prevention, i.e. my run in with assault rifles and bribe schmoozing federals, she set out to find me. Before I get any further I must let it be known that this portion of the story is pieced together through her accounts, but with all things considered, I believe it is true. She found the group of people that we had shared a cab with, and asked if any of them had seen me. One of the gentleman (and I use the term only to suggest hypothetical irony) claimed he had seen me down on the beach. If to this point I haven’t made it abundantly clear that she is lacking intelligence, she trusted him and walked with him away from the night club full of people, to the beach, site of few. Who came blame her for trusting him? After all, we had met them earlier the day before. Take a guess what happens next. Wasted guy (stranger) accompanying drunk and naive girl to a dark an empty beach. He tried to hook up with her, kiss her, the usual feel around, before she was able to peace out of that situation and scamper away distraught into the night.
Moments later, again to her recollection, she was confronted by three Mexicans that were looking for a good time. They surrounded her, got her in face, and proceeded to harass her in a fashion not all too different than her previous suitor. She fought them off with her purse, and alas wised up and sprinted back to the night club avoiding further harassment. Unfortunately her return did not include a purse, which I imagine was the end goal for the Mexicans on the beach, otherwise it is unlikely little ole 5′2 (her) could have realistically escaped without harm. The contents of the purse included her wallet, but in significance to this story her digital camera, containing my memory card serving solely as an added kick in the ass when later realized.
There I was. No wallet, no access to still limited funds or identification, no passport, no cell phone, and one ex girlfriend fueled by the fury of Satan himself. While many would have panicked in this situation, I allowed my self to take a breath, consider my enemy, remember the following things: I had cash in my board shorts, I was in Acapulco on spring break, most importantly I had been preparing for this shit storm of a situation for months, and couldn’t be entirely surprised. Confident that her note was merely a threat, one she had no intention or capability of carrying out, I dressed myself, walked downstairs ready for a fantastic day in the sun.
I treated myself to my usual Mexican Breakfast: two shots of tequila, a margarita, and two tecates for sustenance, and settled in to the shallow laying pool for the next several hours. My surrounding areas filled in over the next several hours, predominately with guests sporting their all-inclusive wristbands. With a depleted cash flow after a delicious Mexican breakfast, no means of replenishing it due to a lacking wallet, I did what any good man would do: made friends with the all-inclusive guests. I found a large group was from Wilmington, North Carolina, a very young and upcoming beach town near the South Carolina border. Naturally we discussed my current situation due to the previous evening’s events, which all played well with the pity card, meaning free drinks and even some grub. Very soon we were all having a great time, playing volleyball in the pool, on the beach, all the while the hotel activities man doused us with a tequila mixture that served as our hydration. I was in heaven, recently single, south of the border both physically and metaphorically in my then current wasted state.
While swimming in the ocean with a nice and pretty girl, to whom I’d recently explained my situation, I was rudely interrupted/confronted by the she-devil known as her. She wanted to know if I wanted to talk about what happened, so I asked where she stayed last night. Although at that point I cared very little about her or where she had spent the night, it is still the curiosity and perhaps vanity of man that seeks to know such things as, “was he better/bigger than me?” She responded to my question with a reply of similar fury that I had been woken up with earlier that morning. My response, “Nah I think I’ll pass on the talking.” She stormed off and I continued to chill, drink in hand, enjoying my company and the warm Pacific.
Later that night I made plans with the group I met at the pool to go out to a club called The Palladium. I’ve been told it’s one of the top 10 night clubs in the world, and after going there, I wouldn’t exactly argue. It is about a 20 minute cab ride from the hotel we were staying it. It rests high in the mountains looking out over the beautiful Acapulco Bay.
The Palladium is world renowned for its theatrical performance of making the Devil come out. Although the fanciful show is just a hazy memory to me now, I recall I was quite impressed with the on-stage theatrics. It is commonplace at clubs in Acapulco to pay a one time entrance fee that includes unlimited drinks for the evening. It was 500 pesos to get in, or $50.00, which is a great bargain for a drinker of my status.
I sat with my recently made friends and enjoyed one of the better, visually fascinating, non-drug-related scenes in my life. We had a few rounds of drinks before my usual wandering began. The club was packed with sparingly dressed, beautiful women from all around the world. Unlike Cancun, Acapulco attracts many domestic tourists, as it likened to the Las Vegas of Mexico.
Drinking at a rapid pace, I was bouncing around between the bar, dance floor, second bar, and our table for a period of four to five hours. It’s unfortunate that what should have been one of the most enjoyable nights of my life is now likened to a drunken blur with flashes of memories pieced together for the purpose of my memory and this story.
One distinct memory is that I ran into a pretty good friend whom I had known from high school, and the years thereafter. Marci Schwartz was a student at Michigan State, in Acapulco on spring break with the majority of her sorority. Amidst a chaotic week filled with stress and little familiarity, it was of great comfort to stumble upon a friend and familiar face. I sat at their table and took a break from my usual cycle of wandering; we discussed the chaos that was my first few days of the trip, and that is about all I recall before venturing about once more.
Sometime near 3 A.M. my group was leaving and thought it would be a good idea for me to leave with them. I assured them I was fine, that I had run into an old friend and would find my way back to the hotel a bit later. Clubs in Acapulco do not close. Knowing this it had been my desire to drink and dance until the sun came up, sure to be an aesthetically unique experience overlooking the bay from the mountains.
Of course, such a desire was merely hypothetical, having zero possibility of being realized, or remembered for that matter. Between the hours of four and five thirty in the morning, I decided, or had it decided for me, that it was time to go.
One big problem however, I hadn’t anticipated the increased cost of a cab now that I would be riding by my self. Without the money for a cab, and once more the ability to withdrawal more money from the ATM, I set out by foot on the return journey to my hotel.
It was a 20 minute cab ride there; you can imagine the walk. I had little concept of how far or long I had traveled, but what I did know, I was going in the right direction so long as the ocean was on my left.
I traveled at a decent pace, alternating between jogging and walking, and of course stumbling in-between. My journey reached an eventual speed bump in the form of my second altercation with the federals. It should come as no surprise that the police were keen to a wasted, giant gringo stumbling down the street in the wee hours of the morning.
Only this time I was faced with a greater dilemma: not only was I twice as drunk, but I also lacked the ever essential… valid identification. My only advantage this time around was that I hadn’t really done anything illegal, though I do acknowledge that I could have been easily arrested for drunk and disorderly, a charge any individual could be slapped with and it’s his word versus the cop’s.
Around my right wrist was my yellow Avalon Excalibur bracelet, and virtually the only thing I had going in my favor. We talked for a while, or to be more accurate, negotiated, how this situation would be revolved. I respectfully insisted they point me in the direction of the hotel, so I could be on my way. They assured me that was not a possibility, and I should come with them.
I made every effort to be certain that if I entered their car, it would be for transport to my hotel, opposed to the police station, or jail.
I entered the car with about 70% confidence that I was being taken home.
Few sites have pleased me enough as the lit sign for the Avalon.
I graciously thanked the men, stumbled up to 10th floor, and collapsed in one of the least comfortable beds I have ever slept in, concluding day three of my trip.
It was Tuesday, and had been what felt like an eternity, as I had twice in three days narrowly escaped the custody of Mexican police, had my phone/wallet/passport stolen (hidden), and to top it off she believed/claims that I punched her in the face the morning she substituted for my wake-up-call.
I have little history of violence and a non-existent history of violence with women. I am probably one of the friendliest, non-threatening guys you could meet. But for the sake of the story, and an accurate recollection of facts, let us consider the possibility that I punched her in the face. I am a large individual that has probably never taken a full swing at another in my lifetime. If, however, I had and landed this punch as it is claimed, there undoubtedly would be evidence, a mark, cut, or bruise the next day.
There was nothing.
People tend to recount things in hyperbole. After all, what story isn’t made a little sweeter with that extra special touch of exaggeration? Imagine the additional sympathy everyone would employ if she had been punched in the face by her boyfriend who left her to be robbed and assaulted by Mexicans on the beach.
That is of course how the story was spread. She is a sorority girl, and from the time she accessed Facebook the morning of the third day, the birth of a new hate group had cometh.
One of the more comical (not really) tales I heard was that this wasn’t an isolated incident, that I had a history of beating her. It makes perfect sense, that despite a history of being beaten, she was arms in the air excited and willing to go on trip with just that person.
When considering the factual presentation of any scenario, it is important to understand the people, their mental capacities, and capabilities as a means of clarity to the situation.
Somewhere between the third and the fifth day, she passed out drunk by her self on the beach in the middle of the day. When she woke, she believed her disposable camera had been stolen. You see, this was a particularly prized possession on a few different levels: 1) her digital camera had been stolen the night she was assaulted, so these were the only pictures she had to remind her of our delightful Acapulco vacation, and 2) the night she was assaulted, she was helped by staff members of Student City, and had priceless pictures with them on the disposable camera.
After telling her that if she valued things she ought not leave them unattended while passed out drunk on the beach, she took things (stupidity/insanity) to a whole new level. She was certain that I had taken her camera; I had taken it because I knew how much it meant to her, and couldn’t bare her having pictures with these other guys. I laughed in her face, which surely fueled the fire, and tried to rationally explain why I had zero interest in A) the camera, B) her, and C) this accusation. I asked her to consider that she had misplaced it, or simply failed to look because she was drunk.
Of course, my breath was wasted. She’s an idiot.
For several days we had gone back and forth, struggling to maintain possession of the safe key. Once I had regained possession of that which was mine — ID, passport, wallet, phone — I put them in the safe, took the mirror of her possessions, and went to the pool. I had no intention of anything more than showing her how it felt, to have your livelihood taken from you while in a foreign land. After a few hours by the pool, I returned to the room to find the door latched. She insisted I give her possessions back, before I was permitted entrance. I showed her that her things were in the safe, and I strongly recommended she make no further attempt on my possessions.
Perhaps due to exhaustion, or in seeking self-preservation, we seized fire for the remaining three days of the trip. During that period while sitting on the bed she looked at me and said she thought she owed me an apology. Fancy that, I thought. Now what on Earth could she be apologizing for? It turns out that when she pulled her jeans out of her bag, they unrolled, and out fell her disposable camera.
Imagine that. One would think that before you irrationally accuse someone of the stealing something of yours, you might want to check the fucking back you left it in. I mean, really? How big is a tote bag? How many places are there to check?
Thank god though, we were leaving eventually, I had my passport, and the Montezuma curse. Not in a million years would I have projected myself excited to leave a Mexican vacation, but now as I recall, it was a Mexican hell.
I was being punished for believing “things” would work themselves out, that it wasn’t a big deal that I whole heartedly anticipated the destruction of a relationship, yet still believed fun drunk in the sun would prevail.
Granted, despite the misery, I managed to get high, play a lot of wasted volleyball with half-naked ladies, and get a good start on my senior thesis for philosophy. Yes, that’s right. I was pushed to doing school work while on spring break. If my loathing of this girl hadn’t yet been communicated, there it is.
Her bitch of a roommate was scheduled to pick us up from the Charlotte Airport Saturday evening. This roommate, however, was the leader of the Lamb hate group, and had been brooding such vengeful thoughts since she had spoken with her following the night/morning of the incident. I was assured by her that her roommate had no intention of picking me up, and to seek alternative transportation. The Charlotte Airport is approximately 77 miles South of High Point University, our school. Most everyone I knew was still returning from their spring break trips, and would be unable to pick me up. We arrived to the airport at 7:30, and surely enough her roommate was there, having gone to the lengths of bringing two guys ensuring there be no room for myself.
I remained at the Charlotte airport till 6:45 Sunday morning. My roommate’s boyfriend Brandon came to my aid; he is a good man. Unfortunately, he was under the impression that I was at a different airport. The Piedmont Triad Airport is 20 minutes travel time from High Point — that’s 20 minutes west, leaving him some hour and 45 minutes away from Charlotte. Needless to say, neither of us were very happy to discover the mishap.
I’m sure some of you have seen or heard of Terminal, the Tom Hanks movie where he lives in airport terminal for an extended period of time.
This was nothing like that.
I was in baggage claim.
Everything closed at 10.
I was just about the only soul in sight for a good five hours.
I once more resorted to Jean Paul Sartre’s Facticity, and my senior thesis.
I was in baggage claim for close to 12 hours.
It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip.
I have since then returned to Mexico, Puerto Vallarta, and rekindled my spirit, making my peace with a country I genuinely love.
If there’s a lesson to be learned, tell people how you feel, even if it’s not easy.
It couldn’t be more difficult than this.
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