Day 12/13: How is it possible that the hotel bar on a weekend out of town is weirdly dull?
We’re down at the border doing missionary work at the humanitarian respite center this weekend. You wouldn’t think this would be the hotbed of temptation for my fast. However, a crisp, cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc is something I really look forward to at the end of long hours on my feet battling my way through conversations in broken Spanish.
After spending our daytime hours intersecting with the unfathomable world of a weary asylum seeker, we return to our safe bubble at the hotel in the evenings. The contrast is stark. Hard to wrap your mind around the chasm between ‘us’ and ‘them’. That whole topic is another discussion, for another day.
Settling back into our reality at the hotel bar, life continues with NFL playoffs on TV, and the important dissection of strategies, starting bench, odds, and team preferences. All this critical analysis and higher order thinking is enriched and the volume dialed up by beers, whiskeys and mixed drinks. Yawn. I’m drooping in the corner with my lemon water. Yawn. Exhausted and fantasizing about my quiet room away from the crowd. Yawn.
Wait! Who is this person? No! … not the sleepy-eyed party-pooper who slinks off to bed, just as things start to rev up?! Me? Dang. I cannot believe this is me. It’s weirdly dull and old-ladyish, but I can’t access that zeal tonight. It’s slipped away. The conduit to that place isn’t available to me. So, I slide off to bed and into delicious slumber, already thrilled at the prospect of feeling fantastic when the early morning wake-up call comes around.
How is this so ok with me?