It was dark. In fact, it was really dark. And hot. And humid. And it smelled bad.
And I found myself lying between sweat soaked sheets that reeked of chlorine bleach and calamine lotion and were stretched across a bed frame so full of splinters that you could use them to hang the ‘resort’ supplied bath towel that’s so thin you could read the newspaper through it in the pitch black darkness of a hotel room that was so run down that even the rats, mice, termites and spiders had abandoned it nearly a decade ago.
Well, at least the chances of catching Hantavirus were low, what with the conspicuous absence of vermin, and all.
As I lay there in the dark, I rehashed the events of the previous eight hours, trying to figure out why this trip seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Was it the promise of the the resort restaurant – “Voted the best…
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Things With Six Strings 