Monday, April 28, 2014


April rolled around again, and it was time for my annual vacation. I had hustled hard this year, enough to take both my sister and I to Jamaica, all expenses paid outright. I didn't intend on choosing Jamaica, or any particular location for that matter, but a good deal fell in my lap, in a stroke of luck that was almost divine, and the choice was made for me.

I don't take a vacation very often. I have a lot of shit on my plate, and my hands in many jars. Most years, I leave the country just to escape the bustle of life, the people that disappoint me, my job and my responsibilities, but my life has really had some big changes in the last year. I am balanced and happy, and don't have much to worry about now but whether or not the rap lyrics I'm penning on the weekends are any good (spoiler alert: they are), and if my body is truly bangin' enough to necessitate my extensive wardrobe of crop-tops (again, affirmative).

The moment people heard I was going to the Caribbean, they got a concerned look on their face. This happens almost every time I leave the safety of Canada, as I'm thick and blonde and like to get a little fucked up from time-to-time, and people assume that I'm going to be a total ditz overseas. I assure you, anything stupid I do outside of the country is entirely on my own accord. Alas, I was not concerned for my safety, but rather concerned that I show my sister a really fucking good time. In hindsight, I probably should have considered that this trip would not assist at all in my addiction to Dancehall and cheeba, or my affinity for ogling dark-skinned gentlemen, but part of me goes on vacation looking for all sorts of trouble anyway. I assured everyone repeatedly that I would bring my little sister, as well as myself, back in one piece in seven days.

We stepped foot in the Montego Bay airport in the early evening, and by late evening, were properly libated and bleary-eyed (thanks to the amazing, and might I add, adorable staff of the Royal Decameron). We swam in the ocean and held hands with old women on the street and immersed ourselves in general chaos and chased crocodiles and even a pretty severe bus accident didn't seem like much of a worry, so long as we were breathing the sweet Jamaican air. 

I left the Caribbean with a heavy soul, like I had left a small part of my heart behind. Now, I'm back to my work swag of fresh crew necks and glasses. I'm back to early morning walks with the dog. I'm back to my notebooks and pencils and responsibilities. I'm back to cooking my own damn food. I'm far, far away from where I was a few days ago. Those who have been reading my writing for years would know that I tend to fall in love fast, hard, and often foolishly. This time, however, I haven't fallen in love with a single person, but rather an entire country; a country I will surely revisit while my passion still burns bright.

Thanks for the memories, Jamaica.


~sarah p.

p.s. Alright, alright. Photos.

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