The Taste of Chicken.

I’m having to eat my words.

I’ve declared (on multiple occasions) that I’d never live in Cancun again. I was fed up with the shadowed memory of the place. I’ve been trying to think why I was so opposed to the idea of being back there, and then I remembered- Cancun would trap me, I was sure it would. There would be no coming back out of that.

Here is an explanation: Nothing makes me panic more than not being able to leave, or get out. I have preemptive claustrophobia, to ward off the [possibility of the] real thing. I am loop-hole queen: if there is a way out of it, I will find it, or not get in to begin with.

This last time back home – isn’t it strange to use that word? what does it mean, anyway?- was like a reunion. It was a reminder of what I loved so much (the community, people talking to you everywhere, the diversity, the fact that there is  Turkish food, Indian food and Yucatecan food within a 1 mile radius from each other, amongst other things), of what has changed and how I too have changed with it.

Now back in Hillo I am dealing with the aggravation that comes from my least favorite activity- packing. I am an expert packer- I’ve moved so often that now I can get all of my belongings packed in the planned boxes and suitcases in record time.

It’s just getting me to do it.
I’m frustrated by the idea that my life seems to fit in boxes.
I hate boxes.

Still, there will be packing. I will be on my way home from Hillo in 7 days.
I will bid adieu to this place for the next week.

And I will try to not eat my words as often- delicious as they may be.

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