Jo-Elle and I recently did a quick trip to Jamaica. Easily the least interesting foreign destination we've visited; not surprising given the sort of faded glory hippie resort nature of the place we stayed. That was fine as we were just looking for sun and relaxation. We got both, along with friendly drug dealer visits every 8 or so minutes. You have to look harder for pot in Amsterdam...which was very off putting for Jo-Elle who would probably be considered straight edge if she was a young white suburban boy...
Thankfully, she is not.
While we did not take the peddlers up on their wares, I did drink a fair amount of Appleton and Red Stripe. We had great jerked chicken and ox tails---though we were bummed when the first restaurant we hit foisted fried chicken on us in place of jerked. Clearly there is a joke there. We stayed in Negril, which is a tourist town built around a long stretch of lovely beach. We went into the town proper (crossing over the Negril River pictured below) which was less picturesque, as you can imagine. Normally, I'd have some thoughtful (well...) commentary on the economics and class issues in the country---but nothing that hasn't been said already about North American tourists. (Although I was shocked how willing American and Canadian women are to wear bikinis in the Caribbean when they clearly should not.)
I managed to nuke my legs the first day we were there. I put on sun screen, but forgot to re-apply after coming out of the water. I was trying to be good and sit still for Jo-Elle. As you probably know, that is hard for me---I am not the sunbathing sort. And what did I get for the effort? Pink legs that eventually looked like they had been through a meat grinder.
Nasty burns.
The skin is finally healing underneath. And so it is peeling off in great sheets on top. The soft sound of Saran Wrap as it effortlessly separates.
So gross. So satisfying...
Is there something wrong with me?
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