“Life in the Fucking Tropics”
Yesterday, I was introduced to the black sand beaches of the Pacific coast of Guatemala by a fantastic “family” of young Guate locals. Following the sunbathing and surfing, we cruised over to someone´s “beach house”. By cruise, I mean, literally cruise. We had to take a boat to get the “house” *although other inhabitants opt for helicopter*. And the reason I keep “quoting” the word “house” is because, it wasn´t so much a “house” as The Ultimate Party Deck. Only feet from the beach, and two stories high, on the bottom level was a grand pool and a bar that stretched the half the house. The top of the house was simply an enormous terrace with a palm room and a plethora *good word* of two-person hammocks. Yup. We´re talking Carona-commerical-paradise-perfection. Anyway, you can see how the party was a bit less than excited to find out that I was supposed to work that night at the bar. I was under the assumption, and promised, that I would be back in Antigua in time for work….but we won´t put the blame on anyone…
*points at Marco*.
So I wasn´t about to drag ten people out of the hammocks and ocean to take me back to Antigua. (A difficult position for the author given that she has never, in her life, missed a work shift, or even been so much as five minutes late for anything in her life. Yes….I´m one of those people.) We tried our best to call/contact my boss….unsuccessfully. Options exhausted, I returned to the beach play. No use worrying in paradise, eh? Or so one beach mate accurately put it…“Hey…that´s life in the fucking tropics!”.
Que pase despues? I got to the bar about four hours late. Finally allowing myself to feel all the shame and guilt, I searched the bar for my boss with my head hung low. When I found him, he greeted me with a high-five and a hug and shouted over the music….“Where you been? Get a beer!”
*shakes head in disbelief*
“Hit me. Fire me. Yell at me! I feel terrible!”, I proclaim.
“No worries. I know you have good reasons, but I don´t want to hear them. Now go get a beer….oh…and, did you get laid?”
Apparently, “getting laid” is a fine and perfectly acceptable excuse for missing work. Ah, *sighs*…life in the fucking tropics.
…and, no….I didn´t. *grins*