So I’m in Cuba trotting through a resort after dark. No, the resort is not mine. In fact, I haven’t a clue where I am, but we don’t pass a single sole and it looks REALLY nice.
After taking a leisurely stroll up from the beach and past their condo-style bungalows, my hubby decides to detour to their lovely washroom, so I take a seat on one of the benches that lines the walking trail, with my two girls seating themselves on either side of me. Keep in mind, there is NO ONE around. Not a single sole. We’re simply walking down this path surrounded by landscape and flanked by a two-storey building of rooms and a dream-like shanty with linen-coloured curtains tacked to each of the four posts.
Out of no-where, a golf cart comes flying toward us, like a bat out of hell. A handsome Spanish security man leaps from his post, approaches me menacingly and promptly asks:
“How old are you?”
I’m like: What the hell? I’m clearly old enough to be drinking, which I hadn’t been, much. But I had my two children with me, both obviously close to their double digits, and I probably had a couple of years on him to boot.
“My age?” I ask, wondering if I didn’t understand his English properly. Seriously, I was stunned.
“Yes. How old are you?” he repeats, with a rather attractive accent that tells me English is barely his second language.
“Um. 34?” I answer, posing it more like a question than anything.
My oldest daughter whispers to me, horrified by my response. “No, Mom! You’re 33!”
Haha. Oops. “I’m 33,” I correct, snickering to myself and a little happy to hear it.
He doesn’t look amused in the slightest. Nor does he understand my English. “33?” he repeats.
“Yep. My birthday’s next week,” I explain, hoping he’ll understand the confusion. He doesn’t, but at least he looks good doing it.
While he doesn’t get my language, I don’t get that it’s a rather luxurious ADULT ONLY resort. Bahaha. Yay for possibly being mistaken as a teenager?!
Next he states, with a rather forceful undertone:
“Come with me if you want to live.”
Christa Simpson 