Hello from Montego Bay airport, where Sarah and I are waiting to board our flight back to San Francisco, via Miami.

After a week of total isolation on the South side of the island, this airport – engineered, it seems, to cater entirely to the whims of American tourists – is a sharp jolt back to reality. We’re about to have lunch, if only we can choose between the traditional Jamaican delights of Domino’s Pizza, Nathan’s hotdogs and Wendy’s. Yah mon. 

Still, Treasure Beach was an unadulterated joy. Our hotel – Jake’s – was right on the beach, and our room somehow managed to skip the sand entirely and perch right on the ocean. Every morning we awoke to the sound of lapping waves, then strolled out to an hour an a half of vinyasa yoga, before a breakfast of fruit and banana pancakes to fortify us for a few hours of work before lunch, more yoga and dinner.

I say “work,” but it’s hard to describe even the most arduous PowerPoint wrangling and calls with lawyers as “work” when it’s done from a Adirondack chair, crabs nipping at the wage-slave’s toes. Trop dure, la vie as my French tutor put it when I explained why I couldn’t make it to class this week.…

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