That Bread. Baking, Still.

“Sorry, what did you say again?”

It was my mother, dressed up, me in an itchy tie and starched dress shirt. This wasn’t going to be fun.

“Why do you always bake bread before an open house?”

A simple question, maybe she might answer. She would fill the house she wanted to sell with this fantastic smell of baking bread, then take the half-baked bread and discard it.

"Enough of that!" She would say, laughing, just before clients would arrive. "No need to feed people!"

But today, no smiles, no joking. It was all about the brochures that I made and how the spec sheet looked.

“That’s not the color I wanted,” she said, finally tossing the bread into the garbage.

You shouldn’t complain about the unpaid help you employ! I thought.

When I wasn’t working for free on weekends, it was always: Come and visit us! Mom would pour her second gin and tonic, with two more later in the day.

At their place, it was every five minutes. I would time it like clockwork, that telephone, a call every five minutes. I couldn’t talk or breathe when I would visit.

#

I will never forget that family vacation. Mom and Dad were ecstatic. Gin was so cheap it flowed like water. And it wasn't just the gin that was cheap. There was the hired help to consider.

One such helper was called Miguel. Miguel's perpetual smile had a job for a day. Towels and drinks. Towels and beverages for pay with too small umbrellas and women everywhere on the beach.

“Here you go!” I said, unknown bills exchanging hands and, judging by Miguel's exaggerated grin, too much money. How was I to know? It wasn’t my country.

Dad’s reading a book. Mom eyes everything that moves. She has a line on another Miguel, a little taller and younger. She keeps giving him more and more money; drinks flow freely. It was just a joke that Miguel was on her lap for an unbearably long time—burning into my brain to this day.

Then Mom finally got bored; beach vibes get old when you never swim. So she would chat me up.

“There are so many young women your age in this hotel!”

“Yeah, Mom,” I said. I start sketching people on a small artist pad I brought with me.

Then, it was the family outing to the market. More than one visit was needed. The same stalls, the same people every day. It got so that the crazy tourists hardly noticed the submachine gun police with their sweaty, itchy hands, eyes scanning everywhere for that one terrorist who might be up for whatever had to happen.

So many tourists are haggling and insulting the vendors over blankets and trinkets they will never use. They were carrying their loot off like war prizes.

I had to get away from it all. I hung around the hotel desk until someone showed up. Some young, perky child, her uncle was a pilot. She booked me on a Kingstream 200 Caravan to see a local pyramid. It was either that or try snorkeling in a brackish sea pond.

While waiting for takeoff, I thought I saw some resemblance—the uncle, smoking and laughing with no copilot for all those equipment checks.

Still waiting, I then scrolled through my cell—such an old plane. I was relieved it sat only seven passengers, the cramped quarters already were unappealing.

The many crashes that the Kingstream model had been through caught my eye. Hmm, only nine that we know of? What about the ones lost and never recovered?

The advice is: In a crash, always stay with the plane. Small comfort for those skeletons found in a 1992 crash, recovered in 1996. For me, once underway, the mottled green of that fast-moving jungle was as remote and unknown as any Google Earth landscape.

We droned on. No air conditioning, so the cabin windows fogged opaque from interminable conversations about who got this deal, where, and what the best drinks are. Nervous like me? It's hard to tell when everyone is so intent on being some model death-dealing tourist.

What a mistake! I wanted it all to end. I soon got my wish.

The best in casual flight control had nothing on us. As our only engine intentionally faltered, I parted beads of window sweat to see what our landing spot might be—a dusty, short road.

No air traffic control tower, no emergency vehicles, special check-in or valet service. It's fairground ride amateur hour. I carve fresh markings on my armrests through my half-closed eyes and clammy hands. Then, like an elevator ride, it's suddenly over. A bump down, hop twice, and expire!

The passengers erupt like it's a touchdown at a football game. Gathering up what little of me remained, I refuse to clap. Do you fly much? Do you? I inwardly raged as I disembarked, my arms too little for my fervent embrace of all things solid and tangible.

I only begin to recover when my tour guide grins, halfway through his practiced ancient history spiel. He points out a field near the pyramid.

“They used to play soccer with people’s severed heads!”

I stare down his open throat and wonder what science could separate his talking from my unplanned actions? But instead, I focus on that damn pyramid. What else could soothe my ragged soul but crazy tourists pyramid climbing, the scalding sun glinting through their sweaty legs?

You know how vital eyebrows are at times like this. They're absorption spots for sweat no workout ever gave you! So you thank evolution and move on to that next unmissable moment:

To ponder spindly tourist footing.

Amateur climbers, one and all. Even alien thoughts that flood me are preferable. Of some creature overtaken and dissected, quivering and saying what never could be imagined:

Fall! Go ahead! It will only hurt for a few seconds!

#

Then, I'm back like nothing happened, and after a cold shower, I wake up all bright-eyed in bed close to the flowers.

They were just there, all potted and rooted. There with no sound, no fanfare. If they could listen, it wouldn’t be to me, afraid like things that are never good enough. Hotel flowers are so ingratiating. Such survivalists.

Another day, and we do what everyone does. Again. The same beach. What seems a nirvana to my parents is more like hell to me. As if to parse my sullen look and worse demeanor, one tourist looked me over and asked where I was from.

“Canada, eh?” she laughs. “I should have known from your tropical burn! Did you bring your hockey stick?”

I suppose she meant to be funny. But before I could begin to be insulted, Mom and Dad horned in. Dad is the eye of the storm for these things. He works his magic. We’re invited to have dinner with this woman and her husband.

Dinner. Hotel food. No wonder people go out all the time, even when meals are included in the price of a room!

“We should have paved Vietnam!” too much liquor said, his hands explaining what words could never convey. “Must do better next time!”

I think of Afghanistan. "Do the people of these countries care what we think?" I ask.

Dad laughs. Mom smiles. It’s such a shimmery evening; the flowers on the table twinkle near the too-small candle. Like our glass table top groaning under everything: too much food and attention from servers who live for their tips.

“Rent a motorbike! See the island, why don’t you?” Mom suggests later. “You look so unhappy. Those women I told you about are having a party!”

I decided not to tell Mom about the pyramid trip. She'd only sigh and say something stupid, like "Thank goodness that's over!"

That same evening, dusk came early; a burn developing where no lotion could ever reach. A woman had her nets out; she already had a man, so why not two?

“Join us for a drink?”

I turned to go. You have to watch out for those sharks! Crazy tourists are swimming after dark. I had already seen the manta ray. Dolphins, the people say, like to play.

Then there's a dorsal fin. You think you see it. Then you say no, it's not there, only in the next instant to hear yourself raving.

“Shark! Get out of the water!”

A stunt actor in a slow-motion silent movie would know better. Those swimmers hardly looked up, laughing and telling jokes.

#

It was my last stab at something to write home about. To please my mother, who in her infinite wisdom only wanted the best for me, I rented that motorcycle. A step up from the mopeds that were already rented. Too much money again, the glint in the eye said.

“Enjoy! Don’t crash!” the proprietor winked as he kicked the skinny dog that hung about the place.

I wobbled on that motorbike, the only life between my legs. Wondering how to drive through such dusty, dry streets, the sweet, sick smell of flowers drooping from passing hotel baskets.

I finally came to these crashing, gigantic waves. Not a hotel in sight with a sea salt smell and grinding sand. There were no red flags, surfers, or lifeguards to greet me. I had the beach to myself.

It was overwhelming, alone against such enormous power and tumult—nothing but myself and what might be.

A fierce anger gripped me. For once, do something! Be someone! It came to me like a primal, untouched longing. One swim against the odds. What else should matter?

But the bike wouldn't stay upright in the baking soft sand, sinking past its kickstand every time. Then I imagined that someone might steal it.

I turned away and plowed down yet another main thoroughfare. A small street beckoned, then another still smaller. Down a wormhole I went, fast as any mark, running from a bit of action. Exhilarated, I imagined that thieves must have siestas, too.

A little community store. Beyond thirst, I stop by. Chickens scratching and pecking, animal sounds. With smooth transitions, the house is a business that backs into a farm! I could have sketched it from memory only.

The glass entrance was locked. She had flowers in her hair. Sweat poured from my face. Yet she keyed open the door. No English, she said. The sweet smell of tortillas filled the air.

“Por favor,” I said.

She smiled—my failing eyes could see so much more here than anywhere else.

“Pop?" She opens the battered cooler, a swirl of condensation clouding the half-hidden bottles. Hands one to me. Wink, the frigid label said. It is exquisite-tasting, as if I have never tasted anything liquid before.

I did not see her again. It wasn't my place or my life. So soon gone through so many miles.

That telephone is ringing and ringing down the hall…I think I'll answer it.