Part 2.

We land with nothing more than hope in our lungs and packs on our backs. In line for the baggage I see a familiar face, or hat should I say. Approaching all to apprehensively, so as Americans do, we do. I have come to find none more than a single Aussie also in need of a ride. 15 American dollars for a 4 hour ride to Playa Hermosa sounds like a fucking deal. The wind smelled of pollution and dirt just as I had remembered. Alas this time I was void of plans and worry. On the ride from the buzzing metropolis, through the lush hill that border what you all know as rain forest we trucked. You a blinding sense of motion sickness I would have never guessed, tough right? As you rested your head on my shoulder through the twisting curves and the winding winds, I knew what I was in for long before my mind had decided. Head phones on. Green like I had never seen yet I had seen it in exact times before. Half way we stop. To see the alligators. Fresh water. To remind us only how prehistoric wild can actually be. On this bridge you took a picture. We were here once. It was real. Simon from Australia was wearing the same LA dodgers hat I had so wholeheartedly tried to find before we left. Benny The Jet. A hero of sorts was embodied when I noticed how he smiled. None but to give a fuck. About a half hour later we lad in Playa Hermosa. Simon, From Australia, is looking for a surf hostel after spilling his beans. He was a student in Mexico studying and was sent on holiday due to the infamous Swine Flu. As opposed to how Americans would take it, Simon, he went surfing. Not only surfing but surfing in one of the worlds best surf spots. Oh not yet do I fall peril to my lack of surfing abilities. THe Inter-bus stops much to our elation at a breakfast joint. Little to you knowledge we had slept a few bumpy hours in the air. 8:45 am. Tico typical in full effect. she had never had eggs this way. Tico. Real. With love. I cut the legs of my pants off with my trusty buck knife we had so skillfully stolen from our camping gay neighbors te year previous. It was hot. Actually hot and in June, before hot had hit our "home". After a few minutes deciding on food and severing my cotton ties with the leg wrappings in a jean that bind me to some sort of home or fimilarity.

Caffe con leche. I ordered like I had been here for years. Plantaino frito. Bueno. I was letting go and for the first time in 25 years vacating what I had grown to know. You were not safe, nor am I at this point. Little to your knowledge, time and place, I begin my demise. I love you. Some one I barely know. Someone I wholly trust. What am I doing in the tropic of Cancer?