So much to write.
I actually want to write about writing - and what I am noticing about that. Not MY writing, by the way. The yearning to write I am hearing about almost daily lately, mostly from women. That's for another day.
Today I want to write about a drink.
I had heard about this drink several times before, and when my friend ordered one on the beach the other day, I decided that I would do the same soon. "Soon" being uncharacteristically restrained for me who usually much prefers "right now."
There is a reason for that. A simple one.
Which is that really, it didn't sound that good to me.
A "Ruso," I was told, is a delicious and refreshing blend of sparkling water, lime - and salt.
So like I said, I would "soon" try it.
Sitting on the beach an hour away from home yesterday, the young waitress asks me several times what I want to drink. Having had a fresh coconut lovingly cut for me right before leaving, I had been sipping on enough coconut water to quench my thirst for a while.
But she looks concerned. It appears that she would really like me to drink something as I eat my coconut shrimp.
Not all my people-pleasing tendencies being healed, I finally ask her what she thinks I should drink.
"Un Ruso," she tells me, sounding remarkably sure.
There it is. The famous Ruso. Less than a week since I committed to trying it.
Muy bien, I say.
Let's do this.
She seems pleased and returns a few minutes later with a tall glass of sparkling beautifulness, which she places in front of me.
Then, she stands right behind me and waits.
I look at her and she moves her chin towards the glass. "Provalo," she says. Try it.
I was hoping for a little more time.
Certainly a little more privacy.
I lift the glass, wrap my lips around the straw and summon up the chilled concoction towards my mouth.
The second it hits my tongue, I want to spit it out.
The salt. The darn salt.
Majorly ruining the flavor of my beloved lime and the happiness factor of the sparkly water.
She is watching and there is no way I can pretend. I am too busy swallowing what tastes to me like a mouthful of freaky ocean water.
She looks very, very surprised.
As though she has never met anyone who didn't love sparkly seawater.
And yet, I get zero judgment vibes from her. Nothing, nada.
Which truly, is remarkably consistent with my experience here.
She laughs and walks away.
I savor my shrimp and the view, and the sound, and well... everything but my drink.
When it becomes time to leave and the bill comes, the waitress lets me know that she did not charge me for the drink. "You didn't like it," she said cheerfully. "So you don't pay for it."
As I waived to her driving away from the restaurant, my heart felt happy and peaceful.
Happy to have tried something new and mostly happy to have experienced a sweet, easy, and authentic connection.
The green GREEN jungle on the way home filled my heart to the top and turning right into the village was, as it always is, a quiet joy.
SCARED OF THE SACRED