PTSD (post tropical stress disorder)

In the Dominican Republic, we measured time by hunger and by the position of the sun. Therefore, it was always time to eat, and it was always either "too hot" or "most likely after 5." The clocks in the room were 30 minutes too fast (as per our careless estimations), and the man who crooned with his acoustic guitar below us would play with equal fortitude at 6 in the morning and 6 in the evening. Time didn't stop, but it was playing hide and seek.

The four of us were half-expecting (half-hoping for) a cliché week filled with fountains (kegs) of wine (Presidente light), boys (the heterosexual kind) emitting arbitrary, indistinct loud noises, and lots of unabated (threatening) sun. All of our dreams came true (and I'm 7 shades too dark for my own caste).

On our first night, we had found a group of equally excited (aesthetically pleasing) spring breakers taking full advantage of the open bar. We decided to engage them in discussion and before we had ordered more banana mama's, there was a charged and aggressive argument about the welfare state and "crackhead Medicaid recipients." We soon decided we were tired from the long plane journey, and retired to our rooms. When we awoke the next day we were completely refreshed, and after blaming away the world's problems on Republican college students, we reneged cliché spring break and decided to simply indulge in the timeless, drunken stupor created in the convergence of blue ocean, burning sand, languid stillness.

And we indulged in unlimited sushi.

As Americans, we felt completely at home. At the VIP pool, which had exclusive shot and cocktail recipes, teasing garden burgers that rendered our appetites insatiable, and beds with canopys randomly planted on white sand, there were two flags proudly waving in the coquettish Dominican zephyrs: the American flag and the Canadian flag. There was no display of national pride, nor was there a thought to include any of the other countries from which visitors hailed (all over western Europe, Australia, and parts of South Asia). While we would have otherwise cared enough to ask why these two countries were arbitrarily given VIP designation (no, really, Canada?), we were in a constant state of soporific overheating and overeating, and cared only to giggle and take a picture or two before falling sleep on a plate of French fries.

In the evenings, after we ravaged the buffet three or four times (we used bread as chasers), we would sit by the poolside bar with all the other youth, though before making new friends (our move to renege cliché spring break soon conceded to curious new shipments of people), we would sit wide-legged, our hands on our stomachs, in our ever so attractive means of digesting our fourth dinners.

We met several groups of people over the next couple of days, and always ended a night of dancing (at the resort's own night club, Vibe), of rum & cokes (we were just trying to encourage the local industries), of excited chatter (about libertarianism or post-graduation) with games of flip cup at Blue Lagoon, which served burgers and fries and pitchers of Presidente (for the sake of the game). Sometimes, people would get a little competitive. Sometimes, there was flip cup drama between the various tables, which had been hauled together as makeshift flip cup fields. And most times, there was just endless, inocuous rounds of the game, bringing together kids from all colleges, all countries, all levels of membership (VIPs and the common Cheap Carribbean folk, alike) in a monolith of unassuming, joyful youth.

We may or may not have stolen a golf cart one night. We were feeling adventurous (though I decided to leave a cart full of fun and straight kids to go "walk off my bread").

The feeling of adventure lasted over the next few days. One day, the four of us headed on a river safari, where we traveled miles through rural villages and savage wildlife, stopping for freshly ground coffee and ripe pineapple, before stopping at the base of the forest. The guides joked about the severity of the excursion, for "only the strongest survive," as we put on our helmets and life vests. And our used, rental white tennis shoes, which we told were water shoes. They made squish sounds as we hiked on to the falls.

For the entire hike I thought I was going to die. Every time we were to climb up against a waterfall, against the hard current, amid rocks and icy water, I thought it was my last climb ever. I would close my eyes, and for half a second my life would pass before me, my mother's face, my jewelry alcove, my favorite burrito place. And then immediately I was kicked in the face by someone doggy paddling in front of me, and strong, sopping wet Dominican men without life vests or a helmet would easily pull me up (I don't know why I ever bothered with bicep curls).

Once we reached the top of the cliff, we would slide or jump down. Again, every time it was my turn to descend, I thought I would be the one exception who hits her head or breaks her elbow. I would close my eyes again, and try to pray to the Gods with whom I share a casual relationship (it would be complicated on Facebook), but as soon as I barely dipped into a meditative state, I was pushed into the water, and had the thrill of my life, all thoughts of my mother, God, and burritos drowned into the water surrounding me.

With scratches and bruises and popped shoulders, we embarked on a new adventure a couple of days after. We awoke at the crack of dawn to go ziplining. We again wore helmets and harnesses and sneakers, and our safety was joked about. Our guide taught us how to break in the zipline, and as I overcompensated (to save my life) I ended up pulling a muscle. We traversed the jungle like apes. As we slid across these hard ropes, we issued shrieks and hollers, falling back into our primal roots, needing nothing but the biting air and the lush green below.

The rest of the time was prolonged R&R, peppered with desperate attempts to stretch our stomachs to full capacity before returning to America, where it was unseemly to eat large plates of coleslaw between meals. We attended the VIP Welcome party (a farewell for us), with unlimited top shelf drinks, unlimited food (somehow this was different from the buffet), unlimited music and dancing. We started dancing with a group of 20 spring breakers from Maryland, but soon decided instead to dance with recently released cougars, who ended up having more fun that we could ever have.

On our last night, we treated ourselves to a fancy dinner at one of the VIP restaurants. The food was incredibly delicious, and uniquely displayed (the caesar salad was a head of lettuce with a 7-inch crouton). This time, the unlimited imbibements truly were wine and not Presidente. For a full two hours, we pretended to be classy and sophisticated. And as soon as we finished dinner, we played a 50-person game of flip cup on the ping pong tables.

The following day, I felt sick. I wasn't sure if my body was finally violently reacting to what I had put it through the past week, or if it had become dependent on explosive, volatile fun and was simply going through withdrawal. Regardless, we found ourselves sprawled lifelessly at the gate, awaiting our plane home. As if our physical pain was not enough, God/Allah/the jungle spirits/the Man on the Moon found it funny to send us off with music--the man who crooned at 5 in the morning was apparently homeward bound as well. For me, exclusively, (once a VIP, always a VIP) he played Eric Clapton and the Beatles. I almost vomited into his guitar case. My stomach had the capacity only to hold rice and beans, not self-proclaimed balding musicians.

Once home, I tried to reconnect myself. I turned on my blackberry, my phone. Each exploded with text messages, emails, Facebook notifications, and then froze and needed to be rebooted. I knew the time for the first time in one week. And I immediately felt late for something.

It's been two weeks since we've returned, and all we've felt is cold, sore (the pulled muscle was no joke), and incredibly rushed. Our bodies have not stopped protesting our vacation endeavors, but have not yet willed to acclimate to a reality of the gym, of commuting, of sobriety.

And we're still not used to limiting our food intake to three meals daily.