K. left in the morning on Tuesday. I had to check out by noon, which cramped my style a little since I wasn't being picked up until 1:30. I am usually good at time management, but I usually overestimate on how long everything will take, which makes me conservative in my activity planning. Point being that what I really wanted to do after K. left around 10 was sunscreen myself, go to the beach and read and float, then return to the room take a shower, get jerk chicken, check out and then get the shuttle on back to Montego Bay. But I simply didn't have faith that I could get it all done, and I really needed that shower element of the plan. So in the end I walked to the beach once more and stood with my feet in the water for a few long, hot minutes. I'm sure the tourists around me found it a little peculiar. Actually, probably not. There were men in speedos. That is far more peculiar than a girl in a dress standing up to her ankles in the sea. I checked out on time but then found myself with an hour and a half to kill. I ended up just sittin along the lobby's balcony area, reading Patti's Smith's Just Kids (now that's a book that sank me into an existential crisis over my artistic lack of identity). Eventually a small van already containing a number of others from different resorts pulled up and I packed myself on. The drive was about an hour and a half, and I was relatively vigilant in taking photographs during that time. Though I couldn't quite get it together to take a good shot of GOATS.
I was quite taken with the fact that Coke in Jamaica is made with real sugar. I told K. that I thought high fructose corn syrup was the devil (mainly because Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver and news personalities have told me so) but couldn't quite explain my reasoning. This happened again with L. just last week.
And that, my friends, is my trip to Jamaica. I killed time in the airport by drinking two red stripes and writing. While two people did sit in my row on the plane, they quickly decamped to more roomy seats after we were in the air, which allowed me to once again sprawl myself across three seats for the majority of the flight. I also started Chuck Klosterman's Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. That guy. Why can't I be so clever? It would rationalize all my worst qualities if I could only write smart things about all the shit I watch. When I left Jamaica it was in the mid-80s. When I arrived in Philadelphia, it was 39 degrees. A rather abrupt return to reality, if you ask me.