Slobsters

My brother used to call lobsters "slobsters", back when he was too young and too cute to correct. I look in the mirror today for the first time in two.

Slobster. That´s what I am after the Yucatan sun.

There is a very dirty, mangy kitten that keeps trying to jump into my hammock, a voodoo lady in charge of our valuables, Tiki torches and the snakes that curl around them, a local who sprays me with Windex to fend off the bug bites, the clearest blue sea and the crumbling stone above it all. Birds are the brightest yellow. The night is the darkest I´ve seen.

There are watchers. There are waiters.

My traveling companion is scared to death of lizards. I am the bodyguard, the force field, I will scare them off with my slobster claws. Snap them in half.

There is no electricity, nets on hanging beds, crashing waves, sandy feet, tired eyes, and the burn of our bikes. There is nothing to do and still our minds are full. We are about to unplug, and then it´s time to move on.