Constant wetness.
Constant dampness.
Constant moistness.
This would be an ideal description for a thanksgiving turkey or a honeymooner.
A summary of the week’s forecast??
Not so much.
We actually adapted to the daily rain, since it was mostly at night, but the turbulent ocean was another story.
“It’s not a pool,” Jim says. “You’re not going to find the calmness you want anywhere else.”
We’ll see about that.. like when I hold my breath and scream until he takes me to Jamaica in .. I don’t know.. how long should we wait until the next trip?
The car service to the airport isn’t coming for another hour or so, so let me attempt to write an amusing summation, sitting poolside here, after breakfasting in that Mexican restaurant with stunning views of seagulls and waves.
With snotty waiters who expect gratitude for telling you where to fetch cold eggs and cold potatoes.
Last time we ate here on departure day, a raven swept in and stole my omelette as I was getting something to drink, and I told Jim we could finally answer the age old question of which came first, because my omelette, (the egg) was on the table before the raven (aka “chicken “)flew in to take what was clearly not his to take.
I will miss my one legged bird friend and hearing “Titanium” on a constant loop.
The lavish buffets, the mattresses that made you feel like you were sleeping on a cloud. The nonstop laughter with Jim, where we’d look at one another and scream in unison, “ blog worthy!”
( because we find humor in madness)
Let me describe the last day for those who care.
“Coffee Games” was a bust. We lost one thousand to seven, because the opposing team understood French and malfunctioning equipment. We played with a family from the District of Columbia who griped that the trivia games here can’t compare to that ones at Woodloch Pines, so guess who turned lemons into lemonade after hearing that???
I can totally relate now to Orange Tee Shirt Lady.
If I had a cane, I would have whacked someone with it.
We go back to the room, getting ready for Black Night and I knew exactly what I was going to wear.
Except it was nowhere to be seen.
And I only had one bra on the underwear shelf in my cubby, and I could have sworn I packed more.
(Says the person who packed wet synthroid, a Chicago Cubs cap, and only one hairbrush)
“ I can’t find my black shirt!” I scream, literally shattering the closet handle,leaving shards of metal all over the floor that leads to where naked, barefoot people shower.
“I know I brought it and was planning on wearing it tonight. And if you joke that the French lady with the missing orange tee shirt has it, I’m whacking you”
“Look!” Jim says, “it’s right in front of you! Black shirt, jeweled v-neck collar. The one you wore on Wednesday for “elegant night”
“No! It’s not the same! The one I want to wear tonight isn’t the same shirt!”
And honest to god, we’re late for dinner and I’m making Jim look through every photo on his phone until I found evidence that the missing shirt is real.
“Here!! Here!”I say, as we found a pic of me in that same shirt at my cousin Marty’s nineteenth birthday in 2011.
Jim yells at me that it’s the same black shirt I wore for “elegant night” but it was not.
I didn’t even HAVE the elegant night shirt until a few months ago when my friend’s aunt lost weight and gave it to me.
Finally Jim noticed the shirt in the 2011 pic had short sleeves and agreed that yeah, they were two different shirts but it doesn’t mean anyone stole anything.
He then goes to my closet and, I swear, takes out a long, black lacy beach cover up and asks, “is this what you’re looking for?”
A beach cover up!!! That’s what he thought my shirt looked like??
We then go to reception to close our account but before we do, I insisted on filling out a missing shirt report.
I thought it might have blown off the balcony but then I realized I hadn’t laundered it and set it out to dry on the balcony because I hadn’t worn it all week.
I was saving it for “Black Night”
Wanna take bets that it’s hanging in my closet at home?
Our last dinner was lovely, dining with a French man and his wife who own a company that sells gear to race car drivers. Their English was quite good, their beautiful bodies and faces were even better than good.
This is what the ultimate Club Med experience is all about. Sharing wine and conversation and culture with Europeans while wondering who stole that goddamn black shirt.
The last show was spectacular, and would have been even better if they could have held it outside.
Human pretzels, cartwheeling with intertwined bodies and forming chains of human snakes while others danced to “Titanium”
I slept through most of it.
Au reviour, mon amis!
Thanks for bearing with my often unbearable blog.. it’s appreciated so much.
Now.. which one if you stole my shirt?
And….
Guess what I just found out but won’t obsess about?
This past week.
Fatal shark ( or crocodile) attack.
In Mexico!!
At Club Med!
Possibly when Jim got that bee sting just hours away.
I’m trading in my vivid imagination for a new, brainless one.
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