and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Honestly been dreading this post since it's not going to be the happy-fun 'I just returned from Jamaica' sorta thing that I was hoping for. I didn't take any pictures.

I'm not sure what it is with me and the digital camera but 95% of the time I'd just rather be living life than trying to record it. I don't know if that makes me.. well, I don't even know if it makes me anything. I just know that part of it bothers me and the other part of me is pretty damn happy about it. But I still don't have any pictures.

Flew into Montego Bay like a million other tourists and took a shuttle to our resort. It was a 1.5hr drive and what did I notice most about the country side? Construction. I'm not up on my Jamaican history or politics - heck, I don't even know the last time they hankered down through a hurricane - but I know that they're damn busy building stuff. Practically every house we passed was mid-way through a second story addition or the front yard was being dug up for whoknowswhat. The people not doing construction were walking on the street but I didn't have time to stop and ask where they were going. Occasionally, I saw a rasta-mon (as they would say) in heavy dreads and looking older than their years, sitting on the side of the road. I'm pretty sure what they were doing.

When we got to the resort we were showed around by a chirper young bellhop and then directed down the beach to the other resort where I would be attending the wedding we were there for in a few days. The 15-minute beach walk was like walking down a postcard. Even the weed dealers selling their "monkey skunk" were chummy and chatty despite loosing a sale.

"Hey mon, how long you been here?"

"Just got in yesterday."

"Yah mon, good times. You like Jamaica?"

"Oh yeah, nice place. Great beach."

"Yah mon, fun place, Jamaica. Good times."

He urged me to enjoy the 'free' booze at the all-inclusive resort. I did.

The second day there was overcast and a much more reasonable temperature for my northern blood and I spent the day in the ocean, in the pool, floating down the waterpark's 'lazy river', and sitting in the hot tub. The wedding day, however, was a sweltering sweatfest of blue skies, broiling sun, and groomsmen struggling in their ties and white long-sleeve dress shirts. I was soaked through in 20 minutes.

The sun, the hot tub, and the free booze conspired against me and on my final night in paradise I found myself turning towards sleep early, no later than midnight. I said fairwell to the wedding guests, I gathered my things - khakis and dress shirt, tie, shoes, and socks - and proceeded down the dark beach to return to my room. As I walked at the edge of the ocean I stared up at the stars and took in the scene. The ocean lapped gently at my feet. The sand squished between my toes. I watched a sailboat bob gentle on the water, it's running lights barely defining an outline for me.

Then I stepped on a seashell, directly down on top of it's spike. My leg immediately gave out from under me and I dropped into the water. My clothes went flying, and I was left strewn out in the waves, limbs akimbo in a sort of awkward pose of painful surprise. I collected my pants and shirt and then went fishing for my shoes as they floated on the surf. It wasn't until after limping back to my room that I discovered my wallet was gone.

MORTY: My wallet's gone! My wallet's gone! I had my wallet in my back pocket. It's gone.

NURSE: Are you sure?

MORTY: Yes, I'm sure. I went in to get my X-Ray, Somebody takes my wallet. Is that the operation here?

If bad things come in threes then I might finally be out of the woods. Or, depending on how you count, I'm into my 2nd set of three. Damn.

As I rode back on the shuttle to the airport the next day, foot throbbing, I considered my position. I considered how I would get back into the U.S. of A. without a photo ID. I considered who or what I could blame all this bad luck on. First choice: Alcohol. Always the convienent fall-man for the misfortunate sons of this world. But I hadn't been drinking too much. I was clear headed and in fact drinking too much and passing out at the first resort would have saved me all of this trouble. I tried to accuse the seashell for being there, washed up on the beach, but it was an unsatisfactory blame game. In the end I could find nobody but myself to blame for carrying my wallet with me when it wasn't necessary - I should have left it locked in the room. I'm angry with myself because, as you know, I've mentioned before how lucky I (used to) feel for never having lost my wallet or keys.

We got to the airport at 2:45 and after sitting in the lounge for 3.5 hours our delayed flight finally boarded. We waited another 30 minutes while a sick child was attended to and finally taken off the plane. By the time I got my car out of the long-term parking lot it was almost 2AM and I trudged home down the lonely lanes of I-95, passing no one but late night truckers. When I got home I doused my foot in rubbing alcohol, staring fixedly at the star-patterned gouge just in front of my heel. It's pulpy and protruding and probably on the border between bandage-and-let-it-heel and go-get-some-stitches but I can't imagine stiched on the sole of your foot is any fun. I'll wait this one out. I finally limped into my bed at around 4:00AM as the birds outside my window began to sing.

And I still don't have any pictures.

What the heck is Noodling?