wake up, drink coffee on the balcony, eat eggs benedict down at the hotel restaurant, lounge at the pool, finish a book, read a magazine, order a margarita at 10:30 am, borrow one of the hotel's beach cruisers and marvel at how much fun and how different they are from road bikes, go back to the pool, drink another margarita, eat guacamole, swim, fall asleep in the sun, read another book, go for a run, eat ceviche, drink a beer, take a shower, crawl into bed at 8, watch cartoons. listen to the low trickle of the hot tub out the open balcony door.
there are so many hummingbirds. the hotel is a giant sized crayon box. the sky is impossibly blue. the palm trees and low slung houses and sand are powerful reminders of something but the memory is out of reach. it's the off-season (normally too hot for tourists), so I'm sharing the place with no more than 30 people. at night there is no one at the pool and I tiptoe back and forth between swimming and sitting in the hot tub, the pool water a long expanse of flat glass, the stars visible through palms. everything is so quiet.
I have made it to the other side.