page fifteen: isla holbox

on doing nothing at all

(This is going to be one-third writing and two-thirds images because I got swept up in a whirlwind of errands gearing up for a lengthy upcoming trip and missed my (self-imposed) writing deadline this week. Onward!)

I travel as often as snakes shed their skin, but I rarely take vacations. Usually, my time spent elsewhere — however lovely, however exciting — is peppered by the phantom buzz of mobile Slack notifications or the fear that my work email will have been deleted the next time I attempt to log on. A couple of weeks ago, though, I treated myself to a proper getaway, almost cartoonish in its perfection (see: drinks with tiny umbrellas).

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I’m not good at doing nothing — in general, yeah, but especially while on vacation. I’m the person who compiles lists and makes reservations and packs like I’m never going back home (wherever that may be at the time). I’m wasting time if I don’t see everything there is to see, eat everything there is to eat, stroll every street there is to stroll. This go round, I attempted to be the chill girl that I (falsely) claim to be, and it (mostly) worked.

Isla Holbox can only be described as a virgin island — pristine in its underdevelopment. Palm trees (though they’re not actually trees!) dapple the milky-white sand and offer sweet splinters of shade in the sticky heat. The few houses (most of the structures on the island are hotels) sit sturdy but weathered — green like kiwi, pink like ripe guava, yellow like sunshine. There is nothing to do but rest, stuff your face, and marvel at the water, limpid as freshly-blown glass.

The beach is not my favorite place to be — I hate sand, and heat — but I do appreciate the rather mellow mood that it forces upon (the metaphorical) you. By day three, I found myself leaning into the general…tropicalness of it all, my skin shiny and slick with salt and chlorine and sweat.

Here are some things that happened while I did “nothing”:

I stuffed myself to the gills (pun intended) with ceviche and aguachile and all their tangy, spicy variations. I didn’t lotion my feet because they got dusty anyway. I found time to watch the Love is Blind finale. I applied sunscreen like holy water and still got sunburned. I had reposeful and riveting conversations with my sweetest Isabelle; something that I didn’t know I needed, but am deeply grateful for. I chased flamingos and spoonbills. I avoided potholes and paid way too much for…pretty much everything (like $12 for a pineapple and $16 for every 1.5 mile taxi ride).

I cried at the exchange rate. My deodorant stopped working. I slept 9 hours a night and ate 3 meals a day. I read a book and a half. I watched helplessly as constellations of mosquito bites bloomed across my body. (The constellations in the sky made them more tolerable.) I wrote 9,000 words about a myriad of motifs, but somehow didn’t crank out an essay that I feel confident sharing (hence this glorified photo album). BUT I did submit my first big pitch of the year (fingers crossed). The tides ebbed and swelled in an extraordinary way. My face, shoulders, thighs, feet went from Jiffy to Nutella. The sun, globose and tawny, dropped from the sky, like a yolk into a hot pan.

I probably fell in love with my masseuse (just kidding, @ babe). Fruit juice stained my lips and fingertips. I realized that my Spanish is still pretty solid. Maybe most importantly, I didn’t cry when I caught my bikini-clad reflection in a tienda’s window. I took oodles of pictures and spent a lot of time asking myself if I’d already taken a photo of that tree, or that dock, or that particular vignette on the shore. (As you will see below, that particular vignette on the shore really did keep my attention.)

A note on this novel: This is the best piece of writing that I’ve read in recent memory, novel or otherwise. It’s like eating an orange, skin-on. It’s queer, it's opulent, it’s sci-fi and horror and romance synchronically. C Pam Zhang gave me that staying-up-past-bedtime-under-the-covers-with-a-flashlight feeling that I covet from childhood. I have

Tembe Denton-Hurst

to thank for the life-changing (yes, I’m dramatic; yes, I mean it) recommendation.

The vignette on the shore ^

The vignette on the shore (again) ^

Until next time,

Andy xx