After telling her that if she valued things she ought not leave them unattended while passed out drunk on the beach, she took things (stupidity/insanity) to a whole new level. She was certain that I had taken her camera; I had taken it because I knew how much it meant to her, and couldn’t bare her having pictures with these other guys. I laughed in her face, which surely fueled the fire, and tried to rationally explain why I had zero interest in (A) the camera, (B) her, and (C) this accusation. I asked her to consider that she had misplaced it, or simply failed to look because she was drunk.

Of course, my breath was wasted. She’s an idiot.

For several days we had gone back and forth, struggling to maintain possession of the safe key. Once I had regained possession of that which was mine — ID, passport, wallet, phone — I put them in the safe, took the mirror of her possessions, and went to the pool. I had no intention of anything more than showing her how it felt, to have your livelihood taken from you while in a foreign land. After a few hours by the pool, I returned to the room to find the door latched. She insisted I give her possessions back, before I was permitted entrance. I showed her that her things were in the safe, and I strongly recommended she make no further attempt on my possessions.

Perhaps due to exhaustion, or in seeking self-preservation, we seized fire for the remaining three days of the trip. During that period while sitting on the bed she looked at me and said she thought she owed me an apology. Fancy that, I thought. Now what on Earth could she be apologizing for? It turns out that when she pulled her jeans out of her bag, they unrolled, and out fell her disposable camera.

Imagine that. One would think that before you irrationally accuse someone of the stealing something of yours, you might want to check the fucking back you left it in. I mean, really? How big is a tote bag? How many places are there to check?

Thank god though, we were leaving eventually, I had my passport, and the Montezuma curse. Not in a million years would I have projected myself excited to leave a Mexican vacation, but now as I recall, it was a Mexican hell.

I was being punished for believing “things” would work themselves out, that it wasn’t a big deal that I whole heartedly anticipated the destruction of a relationship, yet still believed fun drunk in the sun would prevail.

Granted, despite the misery, I managed to get high, play a lot of wasted volleyball with half-naked ladies, and get a good start on my senior thesis for philosophy. Yes, that’s right. I was pushed to doing school work while on spring break. If my loathing of this girl hadn’t yet been communicated, there it is.

Her bitch of a roommate was scheduled to pick us up from the Charlotte Airport Saturday evening. This roommate, however, was the leader of the Lamb hate group, and had been brooding such vengeful thoughts since she had spoken with her following the night/morning of the incident. I was assured by her that her roommate had no intention of picking me up, and to seek alternative transportation. The Charlotte Airport is approximately 77 miles South of High Point University, our school. Most everyone I knew was still returning from their spring break trips, and would be unable to pick me up. We arrived to the airport at 7:30, and surely enough her roommate was there, having gone to the lengths of bringing two guys ensuring there be no room for myself.

I remained at the Charlotte airport till 6:45 Sunday morning. My roommate’s boyfriend Brandon came to my aid; he is a good man. Unfortunately, he was under the impression that I was at a different airport. The Piedmont Triad Airport is 20 minutes travel time from High Point — that’s 20 minutes west, leaving him some hour and 45 minutes away from Charlotte. Needless to say, neither of us were very happy to discover the mishap.

I’m sure some of you have seen or heard of Terminal, the Tom Hanks movie where he lives in airport terminal for an extended period of time.

This was nothing like that.

I was in baggage claim.

Everything closed at 10.

I was just about the only soul in sight for a good five hours.

I once more resorted to Jean Paul Sartre’s Facticity, and my senior thesis.

I was in baggage claim for close to 12 hours.

It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip.

I have since then returned to Mexico, Puerto Vallarta, and rekindled my spirit, making my peace with a country I genuinely love.

If there’s a lesson to be learned, tell people how you feel, even if it’s not easy.

It couldn’t be more difficult than this.

This story was originally published on Supraterranean in April 2009.

Similar Posts:

• DUI by Kevin Lamb
• Narcotics Checkpoint by Kevin Lamb
• The Wrong John Lamb by Kevin Lamb