NOT I – NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. – Walt Whitman
The weekend could not arrive early enough, after another grueling and stressful week in Central America. My morning is spent lazily reading in the living room of our apartment, impatiently waiting for the cool ocean breeze of the morning to give way to the familiar heat that I have now come to expect on a daily basis. Hanging my legs over one of the armrests of a wicker chair, I pause before beginning a new chapter. Looking over the top of my book, I pause to observe the other people in the room, and, in a moment frozen in time, this is an account of what happens when a group of backpackers are without the constant supervision of an adult; John Wayne leans closer towards the television screen as several tears form in the corner of his eye but are quickly wiped away as he sits in wild anticipation of one the greatest films in cinematic history, Spice World. What a weekend treat. Questioning whether or not Lindsay has a soul in her icy veins, she easily ignores the sincere heartfelt moment of our only Honduran roommate and continues to check on her empty mailbox status of her eHarmony account. Thankful that she hasn’t stumbled across my profile yet, I look up and for a brief millisecond our eyes meet. Twitching my head quickly and looking anywhere but in her direction, I just continue to repeat to myself, don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye contact, especially before noon. Feeling as though I’ve dodged a bullet, across from me, Cameron has borrowed a pink fluorescent gel pen and is coloring in hearts on the cover of his dairy that confusingly has JUICY written out in diamond sequence and I’m almost certain that he is humming the infamous pop song, Party in the USA. Afraid of what I’ve already seen in a matter of seconds, and just like a car accident I cannot stop looking, I turn my head to the right with one hand covering my face allowing my fingers adequate spacing to shield me from the possible horrors with one eye, at first glance, Michelle and Julie seem to be the only other symbols of normalcy, but upon further inspection straining to hear their conversation I realize they are setting the final rules of their female fight club and the first, and only rule of female fight club is, shank your opponent. Fearful of a feeling the other end of a shattered bottle of Flor de Caña, I get up and move to the safety of the couch because these chicas are, cold blooded. Now that everyone is accounted for and I am officially freaked out, I stand up and declare that we need to find one of two things; either a Nicaraguan midget dressed up in a cowboy suit or a ridiculous bullfight that has the potential for disaster and is less than $2. Luckily, the second option was available and we have an activity for the afternoon.