The first 12 hours

Tipping a few pounds on the scale, and the stomach a bit weaker, I return from Barbados.

Though the majority of our adventurous travels heed nothing that exudes relaxation, the escapades are quite intriguing, which makes the act of organizing my journalistic notes even more exhausting.

The muddled works of American Airlines left us scrambling around the 3 baggage claims at Grantley-Adams only to find no luggage. That means frolicking around the small British-African island in a short dress and 4-inch heels. And what to do when you have no luggage? Drinking of course! The taxi driver tells us to head to St Lawrence Gap - the vacationer's hot spot - so we do. The islanders inform us of these little beeping buses that blaze by. Jump on, hand the man sliding the door $1.50 Barbados, and he'll take you anywhere on the island.

Pisces, Sweet Potatoes, Paul's Churrascaria, Cafe Sol, and more. Before we stroll in to any of them, we're stopped by a short, island man. He says his name is Jollize, or something of the sort. "Hey man, you guys need some charlie?" Perplexed, we look at each other. "Charlie?"

"Yea man, yeahhh. The good white stuff, ya?"

"Ah, nah man, we're good."

"You guys want some weed?"

We look at each other, why the hell not? "Ok, ok man... come with me."

Soon enough, my better half is a good five feet in front of me, as I'm snapping my fingers to get his attention. As he turns, I give him the look. At this point, we've begun to walk to the rugged streets of what looks like an old rundown African alley...leading up to a table of three men with dreadlocks sitting at a card table in the middle of this overgrown dark street.

"Sidown man." He is inviting and kind, but I am uncomfortable. The other men don't say a word, aside from asking Jollize if we're cool. It didn't take but for me to say the man is from Argentina in order to get their mouths moving. Maradona this....Messi that. Soon enough we'd finished the splif, and we were on our way back to the gap.

The Argentenian reassures Jollize he was ready to pull out some kung fu moves if needed. But now that we return to civilization and street lights, the alcohol starts flowing like the Costa Rican rainy season. We meet Maddie at Cafe Sol. We order one margarita, she gives us two. A good woman. We leave the contending Mexican restaurant behind and walk down the street to Reggae Bar, but oh, of course we can't proceed 50ft without bumping in to Jollize. We reconvene in front of a brokedown shack, sit down, and smoke the rest of the splif. We offer the man to have a drink with us, but alas, he's been sober for years... we buy him a pineapple juice at the bar next door, visit for a minute, and carry on to the sounds of Marley & Collie Buddz, where the over-tired attorney starts to let loose. Dance we did, for hours.

Though many Barbadians apparently did not support the local McDonalds, the island flourishes with Kentucky Fried Chicken. The very thought of this sounded implausable after a long night of rum & dancing. We walk from our hotel. The heels were bound to persecute me eventually, and after walking through the drive-thru, my heel rolls, and as the considerate one yells, "Save the chicken," I fall.

Uproarious in laughter was the walk back to the hotel, where we didn't last but two minutes before the floral emaciated bedcover put us to sleep. The next morning will bring yet another day full of debauchery.