Magenta Chicken | Travel

We ended up in a different country. Again.

“The thing you have always suspected about yourself the minute you become a tourist is true: A tourist is an ugly human being.”
—A Small Place, Jamaica Kincaid

We were supposed to go to Jamaica. A month before our departure, we received a notice from the State Department that Jamaica had declared a dengue fever outbreak. Not wanting to spend an entire week worrying about a bite from a tiny bug that would make us bleed from our eyes, we pivoted.

Off to the Dominican Republic — our back-up plan for the second year in a row — we went.

I am terrible to travel with. I overpack. I carry waterproof band-aids, a carbon monoxide detector, CDC instructions for how to treat dengue fever (see above), and my entire sock drawer. I also have anxiety and panic attacks and am an easily agitated nervous mess of a flyer. By the time we arrive at our destination, I am often in full-on shut down mode — rude and impatient at best, catatonic at worst.

Traveling to Caribbean resorts is probably the most selfish thing I do. I always wonder what the staff thinks of us. Do they hate us? Does it make a difference if we speak what little of the native language we know? Are the tips appreciated or do they seem gross? Are we being good guests in their home?

I spilled a purple kir royale on my white pants on the first night. And because of my meticulous outfit planning process, I needed to wear them again. Good thing I packed ten sticks of stain remover.

“Oof, this guava is sour. Wait, is this guava?”

The helado (ice cream) is remarkably delicious in the DR. So is the mangu — a kinda savory, flavorful version of mashed potatoes, but made with plantains and onions. And the Dominican chicken is super extra crispy — so good I ordered it several days in a row for lunch.

At the Party Pool, The Super Mr. and I encountered our vacation nemeses, “The Españas” — two young skinny tan girls from Spain. Without fail, we’d hear the bartender shout out “mi amor” as they crossed the pool to swoop in and knock my husband out of the drink queue, even with his American dollars and witty banter.

We watched a red-headed Hispaniolan woodpecker with bright stripes peak into the little holes on the palm trees above us. Such a nosy bitch.

One evening we witnessed a couple at the table next to us get into a massive fight about the husband not wanting to finish his Tonkotsu pork soup. Something about “they cooked that for 12 hours!” And then “Eat it! Eat it! EAT IT!” The argument ended with “I’m not talking to you!!!!!” Which, of course, we couldn’t stop saying to each other all week. And then burst out laughing. Oh, tourists!

Another evening as we were getting ready for bed at the end of a long day, a woman stumbling down the corridor outside our door started yelling “¡¡¡HOLLLLLAAAAAAAAAA!!!” over and over. Been there.

I watched The Super Mr. save insect after insect from drowning in the pool, good karma swirling all around him.

Papaya, papaya, papaya. Papaya juice. Papaya, papaya, papaya. Papaya juice. Papaya, papaya, papaya. Papaya juice. Papaya, papaya, papaya. Papaya juice. Papaya, papaya, papaya. Papaya juice. Papaya, papaya, papaya. Papaya juice.

We were mistaken for Canadians several times, which I take as an absolute compliment while traveling. They are kind and friendly and fun. The best sort of tourists.

I got out of the pool and discovered someone had swiped my towel. (WHO DOES THAT??) It started the whodunnit for the rest of the week with The Super Mr. singing “Which of the Pickwick Tourists did it??” and us whispering “j’accuse!” to each other every time a shady suspect passed us. We never discovered the thief.

My resort buffet advice: do a plateless sweep of the entire offerings first. Otherwise, you’ll end up with six types of bread products, a scoop of mac and cheese, and a mystery meat.

We were listening to the nightly entertainment — a man singing “Sultans of Swing” —when I thought, “I miss the gays.” The next day, two men — one wearing an “It’s Britney Bitch” t-shirt and rainbow Havaianas — sat next to me. 

I am proud to say that I am the kind of person who has a favorite type of palm tree. The Travelers Palm fans out from it’s trunk in a spectacular single green fan shape, which allows it to collect water in it’s base — in case you ever need that survival tip.

Every morning I was on the deck reading and Merlining the morning bird sounds. Another tip: remember to download the local region’s bird package before you travel.

I love watching people at resorts and trying to figure out their story. There was a table of couples at dinner one evening. One was clearly a second wife judging by the reactions of the other wives when she sat down. // During cocktail hour, a group of couples who I originally thought didn’t know each other well, all started chatting freely after one of the girls got up from the table. Ah, they just don’t like HER. // The husband getting annoyed while the wife takes too long to get ready to leave the pool (wait, that was us.) 

Pulling up a wet bathing suit is the worst thing in the world.

One morning we sat on our canopied pool bed in a tropical downpour holding a silver golf umbrella, using multiple towels to form protective barriers from the water, and displaying the determination of stubborn Cape Codders refusing to lose against the elements. We were soaking wet and slightly miserable. Although, “miserable” is a relative word and likely not possible on a tropical island.

We initiated Operation Feed the Dog and found some dog-appropriate food — a hard-boiled egg and some of the less processed ham — to bring to our sweet little coconut dog who was drinking from the pool and looking skinny and haggard. I was overwhelmed by all the excess in the resort co-existing with the suffering of this fur baby.

We alternated between the Party Pool and the Godzilla Pool — a zero entry pool where we exited the water up a steady incline. We also called it the Bo Derek pool. Although, at this age, I’d rather be Godzilla — strong and terrifying — than Bo with her culturally appropriated braids and objectification. (Another tip: don’t do those braids. Please.)

From my pool lounger, I watched the egrets glide above using their long legs as rudders to steer their pterodactyl-shaped bodies through the sky.

On our last day, we try to do things we can’t do at home. Like spend eight hours in the pool and stare at palm trees and try not to be ugly American asshole tourists.

For more photos from our trip, see my saved Instagram story.