How Not to Write About Travel

The sun shimmers in the golden sweat of the sun’s cacophonous setting of the sun. A feather, a cigar, a swan. Floating by in the darkness of the ethereal sky. The breathtakingly awesome abode nestled in the ancient land of contrasts beckons.

My best guess as to 'nestled' under 'dappled' sunlight.
My best guess as to ‘nestled’ under ‘dappled’ sunlight. (Salvador Dali’s house on the Costa Brava, Spain.)

I lift my head up. The sun beats down on my forehead. It is 40 degrees celsius (about 100 degrees fahrenheit, give or take). That is really hot. I was in Darwin, Australia once when it was 48 degrees (celsius, not fahrenheit, because that wouldn’t be very interesting, would it? hahahahahaha!). And this one time, I got a heat rash on my inner thighs from going horseback riding on a beach in Vietnam on a really hot day. It was all red and got kinda oozy. I’ll detail it thoroughly in my next article.

But this was okay, because it was totally breathtakingly awesome.

Seven droplets of sweat glisten down my face, down my nose, onto my chin. Four fall immediately, washed like a dirty sock into the washing-machine-like chicken quesadilla my friend Chris ordered but decided he wanted a vegetarian burrito instead. “Hold the sour cream, please! And do you have diet Coke? No? Diet pepsi? WTF is wrong with this country? I’ll just take a 7Up. Fuck.” Three wait for a moment, and then crash to the kind of stone floor that was everywhere in this country that had some weird historical significance (you could probably look it up on a Google search) beneath my dirt-encrusted sandals. The ones that I bought six months before from Enrique, the friendly local in Ecuador who rollicked at my Birkenstocks sanctimoniously while we guffawed charmingly, neither speaking the other’s language, but an air of understanding each other’s souls wafted in the dappled light between us.

Biting into the chicken quesadilla. Expectations rampant.

And then I meet her. She is exotic. And foreign. We interact clumsily. She says something deep. Profound. I have no idea what she is saying in words, but it is noble and spiritual. Then she spits. I am deeply changed by this experience.

And then, dropping ecstasy at the Full Moon Party. Swedish House Mafia, motherfuckers!!1!!

Later. Swimming with the dolphins, a stranger glides me through the dark, sweaty waters. I gasp. Beauty is above me. I never knew. The stranger is the dinghy I stole from the bar owner’s fisherman son when I was wasted, and the water is, like, life and stuff. My boat capsizes, and I suddenly realize we are all one.

Dreams.

Going towards the goal, not knowing what will happen. A Rooster crows. There is still time.

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