[When IT IS NOT AT ALL POSSIBLE to depict the loveliness of a week.]
Friday: Go to York with your bests, to be close to the airport. Go to the bookstore you all love, and then drive to Baltimore to meet the dear one randomly back in the country for medical reasons. Sleep a bit, but barely, and drive in the snow, to get on a plane.
Saturday:
Arrive in Huatulco.
Exclaim over the views
and rejoice in the togetherness.
Sunday: New Year's Eve.
Head down the harrowing cliff to explore the beach a bit. Climb back up. Climb in a taxi and get on a boat in the harbor. Exclaim over the views and rejoice in the togetherness. Begin to ask, over and over again, "is this really our life?" Snorkel with the fishes. Eat lunch on the beach you have boated to. Watch sting rays leap through the air on your way back to shore, in unison and the joy of the Lord. Receive a fresh pouring of beer, whenever you look up. Return to the place you are living for the week and rest in your room with the gecko. Then party like it's 2017, with a midnight murder mystery and champagne and fireworks on the roof.
Monday: New Year's Day.
Wake up with the sun. Experience some kind of new-to-you bird flocking in the trees around (when not flying straight through) your balcony. Gather with your beloved people for mexican breakfast, and realize that this will be your week. Exclaim over the views and rejoice in the togetherness. Head down the harrowing cliff to be together on the beach. Spend some time with the Lord, who is determined to wreck you with His Beauty. Read and nap by the pool in the afternoon, and play games with loud and hilarious laughter late into the night.
Tuesday: Awaken to the most raucous bird (or monkey?) conversation you have ever heard. Head to the roof, to take in the waning of the moon and the rising of the sun. Take a taxi into town, to shop. Make friends with a small child, and break his heart when you cannot understand a word he says. Have a wedding, with bourbon on the roof to follow. Exclaim over the views and rejoice in the togetherness. Have a reception (even though the bride is sick and the wedding couple never makes it).
Wednesday: Watch the birds play in the sunrise from your balcony. Spend the morning at the pool, because a few of you need to be near a bathroom. Head into town for lunch (and margaritas!) and (yet another) beach. Have a sunset. Exclaim over the views
and rejoice in the togetherness. [Forget entirely what happened that night...but sleep (yet again) like the proverbial dead.]
Thursday: Awaken early and climb down to the beach. Then, be on your way to cooking class. See a bit of the area and learn about how things work here, food and otherwise. Climb down to the beach for the afternoon, and then climb back up. Get dressed up for Reception #2, which (for various reasons) does not happen. Play games instead. Then, find a quiet spot and pray blessing over and with your dear ones, as tomorrow begins the departures. Pretend you're going to bed, but then decide to join the small group still up, for more food and drink and laughter and knowing of each other. Have a moment where you realize: You deeply love these people. [Exclaim over the views and rejoice in the togetherness.]
Friday: Mourn, because Katy is gone. Climb on a party bus and go to meet iguanas. Climb in a raft with your favorites, and raft down a river until it meets the ocean. Exclaim over the views
and rejoice in the togetherness. Climb out, and play. Take a long solitary-ly beautiful walk-with-the-Lord to the little town, where you immediately seek el baño (because: Mexico). Be directed to one in the courtyard of the small shop/home nearby. Use the most authentic bathroom you have ever seen (and you have seen some.) With your simple Spanish skills, communicate with the poor child who directed you to it that you have no idea how to flush it. Climb back on the party bus, and spend the drive home regretting that you didn't give him more pesos for taking care of your business. Arrive back and get ready for Reception #3! Rejoice when it actually occurs, with cake and toasts and requisite tears. Head to town for dinner on the beach, where you are served a margarita the size of your head and get drunker than you've been in years. Do your absolute best to remain in your chair while you thoroughly enjoy your coconut shrimp. Rejoice that you still have the wherewithal not to eat their (non-removed) heads, and that your dear ones are there to walk you to the (much more modern) bathroom when nature calls. And for one last moment: Exclaim over the views, and rejoice:
Togetherness.
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