So here’s a revelation: I like resorts. Yah, I said that. No one hijacked my blog.

Me, the girl who has traveled through Latin America sleeping on dirt floors and hammocks said that. Me, the girl who easily links resort culture to ugly capitalism. Me, the girl who finds nothing to gritty, the one who will choke down terrible Central American cheese to please a nice old lady who made me lunch, the one who thinks nothing of having no travel plan until we arrive, the one who never cared if the only place to shower was the river, the one who turned her nose up at those gringo-grouping travelers for something more unique, more sweaty, more unpredictable, more full of moments when there’s nothing to do but sit on a strangers porch in awkward silence sipping juice with ice in it that maybe was made with purified water and wonder why traveling the world isn’t as romantic when you’re doing it as when you tell everyone about it.

That girl likes resorts. Even she is shocked.

Sam and I had a phenomenal vacation. It was truly incredible. We went to Hawaii, we stayed in (gasp!) a resort, we ordered room service and let them make our bed everyday and snorkeled with the turtles. We laid on the beach and drank mai-tais. We opted for the all-organic option on the menu. We rented a covered bed-thing at waters’ edge. We drew in the sand and oohed and aahed as the sun set. We traced the constellations in the sky from the hot tub. We upgraded our car rental to a sexy little convertible and drove it with the top down and the air conditioning blasting. We got seaside massages.  It was insanely expensive. And it was glorious. I loved every single second. And I have now declared to each and every one of my cancer-buddies, that this kind of extravagance is absolutely a post-cancer necessity. Because it is. Also, if you’re not yet in the “post,” it’s just fine to make it a cancer-necessity. Because it is. Sometimes, like post-cancer, you just need that kind of holiday. Frankly, I’d give anything to live in the kind of holiday forever, the kind where beaches lap at white sand and dinners involve multiple courses and there is a dark chocolate on my pillow every afternoon. But they dragged me home, kicking and screaming, and now I’m writing from my kitchen table, and it’s like a hundred million degrees in my apartment because we live on the third floor, and it was hotter in Hawaii but there were mai-tais and AC, so I didn’t care. Maybe I just need more mai-tais in my life. Or more Hawaii. Or both.

But anyways. Here’s some lovely photos of the loveliest holiday! (They call it that here in Canada. I’m now totally aculturated, and besides, doesn’t it sound sexier than vacation?)


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