"Who's that creepy guy taking a shit by my tent? Oh, wait, that's Beth." (1)

Future Hangover. Presently waiting to flip off the camera. (I should not footnote here that because I'm not French I don't have a scarf on. Likewise, because I'm a member of the Spanish national basketball team, I can't see a thing. I'd also like to not footnote that 1/8th of Beth takes incredible offense to that comment)



Welcome to Bahia Iglesia. Beach resort du jour. Camping by night and sleeping off our hangover (it's singular because Beth did not have the pleasure of a hangover, but did imbibe in the piscola and vino tintos) by day. A place where dreams come true: falling asleep to the peaceful sound of crashing waves, while at the same time wondering if your going to pee your sleeping bag because of those exact same waves. A tenuous, yet perfectly enjoyable existence.

The Chilean Caribbean is where we decided to meet up with our favorite French couple, Iris and Tio Lucho, for a few days of rest and relaxation--perfectly reasonable considering our difficult schedule of getting up sometime before 11am, which we've been experiencing these days.

The only problem with this great vacation from our vacation: cold water. I mean stick-your-head-in-a-bucket-of-ice-and-water cold. That's not relaxing, it's torture, like Titanic the movie torture (2). So, most of our days were spent taking gentle strolls along the beach or lying in the sand, waiting for that wicked reminder that we drank cheap wine the night before to go away (so cheap there was no name; no Cab, or Merlot or even Shiraz, no, simply vino tinto) . It was perfect, really.

(1) By about midnight, probably before, we had stopped using bathrooms and started watering the surrounding sand garden. I left to go water my patch of sand and on the way back noticed a loiterer by the tent. This shady shadow was looking around conspiculously, and because all our belongs are secured by a thin piece of waterproof tent, I decided to watch. Three circles around the area and a few glances this-way-and-that later, said being drops pants and I have the momentary horror of being downwind from this bowel movement. However, my concerns are allayed, as even I would be conspicuous when dropping trout, so I walked back to our drinking quorum. Not until I realized Beth was nowhere to be found that it dawned on me that she was, in fact, the creepy guy taking a shit (but really just a quick urination).

(2) I jumped in, Beth did too. She basically thinks I'm the biggest pussy, because I think it was cold; Which is probably true, but can you blame me for liking my ocean water the temperture of the baths I'm not taking? I still claim it was icy cold, she contends otherwise.

Welcome to Latin America, home of Los Doyers.