Is all decaying splendor, horse carts and drug dealing kids who dance on the rooftops of historical buildings and flick cigarettes onto the glittering lights below. Thumping beats from clubs, happy throngs and short skirts, it's hot as Hell here and I am covered in backpacker marks, bruises, bites, the wear and tear where the nylon digs into my skin, where the sun burns my nose, where the streets are cobbled and I trip and slip in my flip flops.
Happy New Year and we've celebrated too long, we didn't sleep, and who would let us, long hallways and bottles of rum on the street, the group from Bogota who wants to take us to their fathers' beach house on the remote side of...somewhere, but we're running on empty, salsa screams from the corners, fried maize wafts in and we're off to a beach where the only colors are blue and white and the pink of hammocks and someone is catching fish for our dinner and we have to sleep, sleep, sleep.
1 comment:
Something tells me linda is a Bot, which is absurd.
How is your trip? It's been a while since an update. Hope everything is ok.
By the way, I dig your blog enough to read on my iPhone.
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