It was every bit as warm and beautiful and adventurous and scary as the first time we stepped off the plane in Montego Bay last year. We shared barely-cold beers with locals and drew circles around the lush mountains. We swam in the ocean every day, at least twice, and ate jerk so spicy it made tears stream down our faces. A Rastafarian man made us a meal of fresh curried conch that we ate on the street as we passed spliff after spliff back and forth. He tried to talk us into smuggling the conch shell back home as a souvenir. His girlfriend was a Swiss lady that came for a vacation and never left. I understand this mentality better than ever now, I told her as we walked with arms around each other like dearest friends. We fell asleep every night early; I don't sleep well anywhere, but all of the sun and ganj and good vibes, as well as RETV music videos in the background lulled me out on top of the bedsheets every night. Every time I leave this country, I leave tiny pieces of my heart on the beach, and in the jungle, and in the hands of each and every soul that we encountered along the way. Until next time, Jamaica.
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