Page 18 of From Wink to Kink

I gulp. “What’s this bus,Señor?”

He chuckles. “It is your bus to the resort,” he says proudly.

I scrunch my face up in confusion. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, are you sure?” I turn to get a better look at the bus, with its bald tires and rusty holes.

No. Just no.

He smiles beatifically, oblivious to my hesitation. “Señorita, let me help you aboard.” He reaches for my suitcase and disappears into the bus. I have no choice but to follow.

Swallowing hard, I board and take the first available seat that isn’t a chair, and find myself next to a woman holding a squirming cloth sack. I eye it suspiciously—what in God’s name is in there?—before recoiling as a deafening squawk explodes from within.

Chickens. My God, she’s got live chickens in a cloth sack on a bus.

My frantic thoughts are interrupted as the van rumbles to life and begins to creep forward, its shock absorbers clearly nothing more than an afterthought. It’s hot and humid, and the air coming through the missing windows doesn’t do much to cool anything. People are chattering, happy, and while some stare and some politely pretend not to stare, I study the passing scenery.

When the resort said it provided transport from the airport, it didn’t mention something like this.

But the scenery is pretty, fading only when the bus hits potholes and swerves to avoid goats and other obstacles. In fact, a time or two, I’m pretty sure we’re on two wheels. My stomach is in my throat as we skim the edge of steep cliffs, and I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my skin.

The woman beside me waves to get my attention and holds her sack toward me. “You want?” she asks.

“Um. Excuse me?”

“Pollo. Chicken. You want one? I give to you for cheap.”

“You’re asking me if I want to buy a chicken?”

Her smile blooms and she nods.

“Oh. Well. That’s very kind of you, but no. I don’t have anywhere to put it,” I explain, pointing at my overloaded tote bag and small pant pockets.

“Ah.Si. No room.” She nods again, and I’m relieved she’s not going to pressure me to make a purchase, because I have no idea what I’d do with a live chicken.

At a tap on my shoulder, I turn to see an old man behind me, his gray hair sparse and his smile showing several missing teeth. “You are American? American girl?”

I nod. “Yes.Si.”

“You are married?”

“Oh. No, I’m not married.”

“Ah, good. Good. You will marry me then?”

I blink. “Ah… what?”

“We will marry, yes, and I will go to America with you. We will be happy, yes?”

Is this man drunk? Or just old? Maybe both. “No, thank you,” I reply. “I’m sorry, but no.” I shake my head frantically to make sure nothing is lost in translation.

He shrugs, not too defeated. “Too bad, American girl. I make a good husband,” he says, nodding seriously and tapping his chest for emphasis.

Then he turns to the window, ignoring me as if he hadn’t just lobbed a marriage proposal my way, and I am left completely baffled.

What the what?

The bus gives another lurch, and we’re all jolted forward. I quickly forget about chickens and marriage proposals and Chuck Newcomb, and focus on surviving. As I watch the lush landscape roll by, I'm filled with anticipation. This week is going to be all about challenging my limits, and maybe even learning to stand on my head without falling over in an advanced yoga class.

Little do I know, the universe has a wicked sense of humor, and my Chuck-free bubble is about to be popped in the most spectacular way.

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