Avoid the Local Sausage

I went to the Dominican Republic a few years ago with some girlfriends. All-inclusive resort. All you can drink. Seven days of fun in the sun over Valentine's Day, when only one of the four of us had a boyfriend. A target-rich environment, we thought. Or at least some relaxation.

The first day. It is gorgeous. We run down the cliffside staircase to the beach. Tanned men bring us cold beer in tubs of ice. There's a buffet! Beach-side! Fabulous. Two of my friends, Anti-Tattoo and the One With the Boyfriend, go and sample the wares. They report back on the buffet: grilled meats and sausages. Perfect with some fruit. We go to bed early, exhausted from our flight and scary hour-long taxi ride to our hidden...very hidden...paradise.

The second day. Beach. Beer. An early morning swim in the pool. Hours spent avoiding the various married Canadian men on the prowl while their wives sleep in. We get dressed up for dinner, planning to go to the Argentinian restaurant on premises, in order to celebrate our vacation in style. I have a picture, commemmorating the moment. That last moment...without fear.

During dinner, A-T and OWtB aren't feeling well, Vic and I, the unadventurous eaters, aren't too keen on eating unidentified meal slices from shanks on skewers, anyway, so we leave early. Although they aren't feeling well, A-T and OWtB are kind enough to stay out late enough to see me sing my karaoke standard, "Stand By Your Man." Then, all hell breaks loose.

The third day. The four of us spend locating various bathroom locations in the resort. Our main bathroom, in our room, has issues. Namely, the chain has fallen off the lever, making it impossible to flush without lifting the lid off the tank. So we locate Auxillary One, near the bar, and Auxillary Two, near the giftshop. That way, at least three of us can be in a bathroom at any given time, if necessary.

The remainder of the days blur together. Needless to say, there was little beer-drinking or grilled meat-eating. The only other day...was the day of reckoning.

We went on a catamaran snorkle trip. I should preface this with the statement that I've never been seasick in my entire life. Ever. I've been on the Great Lakes in storms. I've been on cruises. I've been on sailboats in Long Island Sound. I've seen the Downeaster Alexis. Anyway...

So we get on the catamaran. And I'm facing backwards. Which is bad, I know. Because I start not feeling well. But I'm surviving. I'm drinking Sprite, handed to me by hardbodied young men with really bad feet who want tips. I'm trying, really, to have a good time. But by the time we get to the snorkling, I'm just so happy to be off the boat I could cry.

I get in the water. And I'm looking at the fish. They're feeding them bread, near the reef, to give the tourists some bang for their buck. The fish are cool--big parrotfish with cool colors.

Then I swallow the salt water.

I try to brave through it. But, on top of the queezy seasickness, I can't make it. "Go ahead, you'll feel better," I think to myself. "Just turn away so no one will see you." So I hurl.

And am immediately set upon by schools of hungry tropical fish, used to eating the leavings of tourists already. I felt like I was in that movie, Piranah, from the 70's, where the fish got loose in the river near the camp? Yeah, like that. They were almost in my mouth. So much for discretion.

I throw up again on the way back to the boat. Now there was no escape. Killer fish in the water, seasickness on deck. Once more off the side of the boat, in order to provide entertainment for the crew and my friends--who got really good photos of the tropical fish leaping out of the water by the side of the catamaran.

Suffice to say that the trip back to the hotel didn't get any better. But I will refrain from telling that tale, since A-T has paid me $20 to keep my mouth shut.

All I can say is that she did get our taxi driver's phone number out of the whole deal...