Jamaica

Justin and I spent a week in Jamaica. All we wanted was sun, but native beachcombers offered wares constantly. A great wave of desperation can be sensed when driving through the ramshackle towns, which are separated by a tropical countryside.

We became comfortable with ease despite occasional visits from a Tony, our provider of orange juice.

Few wear shoes, which is championed in my book as long as weather permits a comfortable atmosphere for toes. Justin's aunt and uncle, Jill and Zauner, brought two suitcases full of clothes for their local friends. Simple items like T-shirts were appreciated and donned with pleasure.

We're lucky dogs, and we know it. Granted, if we weren't raised in a society that practically guarantees education and essentials for living (food, clothing, and--as much as I hate to admit--dinero) we might not feel so entitled to such things.

I've been sulking since August about not having a "real" job, but witnessing life in Jamaica was a reality check. Amongst houses of grandiose quality were shacks and dirt roads. Those who weren't holed up in a mansion knew each other by name. The truth might be that tremendous turmoil of violence and struggle haunt life on the island, which was founded perceivably as a place to keep slaves and produce sugarcane. However, a hopeful soul can only seek beauty in the land and its seemingly peaceful inhabitants.