there were certain chemical explanations for this, but i think much was motivated by my eagerness to shake the habits of guilt and absconding-from-self that had ruled my behavior and emotions nearly as long as i can remember. i wanted to hold my head up, buy flowers for people i liked and take them out to coffee, and most of all i wanted to dress in clothes that expressed just how kick-ass i felt i might be, given the opportunity.

it was, however, not until spring break of that year that i made the decision that made a lasting wreck of my finances.

my new kick-ass spending habits precluded any increase in my savings that year. but that spring, as murphy would have it, the opportunity arose to go to a small, overlooked island in the caribbean sea for the two weeks of spring break.

for an extensive matrix of reasons, i felt that i needed to go. i prayed for the money to be provided; it wasn’t. it occurred to me that i could use what remained of my savings account, the substance of the last three summers’ jobs. i forced the lock on possibility, and bought an airplane ticket less than a week in advance of the flight.

as i clicked the button on my second-hand computer to complete the purchase, i began to shake, to cry.

i was that child who has determined to jump from the high diving board, but is petrified at the top of the ladder, suddenly seeing that the surface of the water is immaterial and measuring his actual height from the deep blue floor of the pool.

i suppose i shouldn’t have gone. i have looked back at to the island for valuable lessons, moral or otherwise, but none present themselves. it wasn’t like my summer in france, whose value i never seek to prove because it was the over-and-above fulfillment of a long-awaited wish.

going to the island was an exercise in futility, more than anything.

i suppose that could be somehow valuable. take, for instance, the day i left to come home.

i was weary at the end of two weeks, unfashionably eager to return to the us. eagerness and island time don’t mix well, and i woke up on the day of my flight with my relief curdled to dread by the prospect of getting to the airport on time.

i had not slept a full night the entire time, thanks to the importunate mosquitoes that came out in the cool of evening. i had drunk hardly any water for two weeks in fear of contamination. my nerves were frayed and my guts were dry and twisted, and the thought of the journey ahead made me almost frantic. so i took the advice of my dearest friend, who has to travel a lot and doesn’t always like it. she said, “just look at your trip in stages, and get one done at a time.”

so.

first, there was the hike down the mountain of castle comfort to the gas station at the bottom, inexpertly schlepping my bag like a recruit marine, to wait for the taxi. then there was the wait at the gas station for the taxi…i knew not to expect him to be on time. then followed the five minutes intervals of worry and self-soothing. when at last i began to look around me, in case somehow i had missed the obvious, a man who had been parked at the gas station all the time and checking his phone walked up to me and said, “you are miss chelsea?”

i thought, if i make my plane at all, at least i won’t be waiting long for it.

there followed the drive into roseau, where i left the taxi and boarded the airport bus along with several other people, one of whom—an old man, ill-dressed—insisted on small talk for the beginning of the ride, and revealed himself to be the father of the island’s representative in the united nations. the journey took a good two hours, maybe more.

when we arrived, i found that i owed someone twenty dollars in order to leave the country. the airline clerk was the one who demanded it—i know she mentioned “customs fee” somewhere in her explanation. i had spent the last money i had on the taxi and bus fare.

intrepidity and enterprise sometimes looks very different from how we imagine.

i looked around me for rich americans.

there was a family—a father, a mother, and a girl and boy my age—all standing at the entryway together. the boy kissed the girl—not a brotherly kiss—shook hands with the father, hugged the mother, and left them. in a few moments, i went up to them.

i don’t remember what i said, but i do remember that i concentrated on producing an expression of humorous helplessness. isn’t this funny? is the note i hoped to strike, as i asked them for money—of all times to have left my millions back at home. these silly rules of intercontinental travel.

the mother looked at me pityingly, and forked out a twenty-dollar bill with a resigned expression.

i said to her, “when we land in puerto rico, i’ll go to an atm and get cash to pay you back.” i meant it.

as luck or something decreed, we all ended up sitting together at the terminal gate. they were from somewhere in california, or maybe it was the midwest, or florida—i can’t remember. the daughter was engaged to the boy who had kissed her, who was studying at ross university, the medical school on the island, where people from all over the world come to get their M.D. for less. she was thinking about coming out to live with him next year. her parents had been in portsmouth, the island’s other big city on the opposite side from where i had lived for the past two weeks. they had stayed in a resort hotel, eating and drinking and snorkeling. the father wanted to know where i went to school and what i intended on doing with a liberal arts degree. when i told him i was a writer, his face lit up. he had always wanted to be a writer. he liked tim o’brien and ernest hemingway. i liked ernest hemingway and john steinbeck. i was, at that moment, reading the brothers karamazov; he had never read the brothers karamazov. he wanted to know what i was working on right then. i don’t remember what i told him, nor do i remember whether it was the truth or not. the daughter and i spoke about school and the horror of graduating. the mother said little to nothing.

we sat nowhere near each other on the plane. i gazed out the window at mountains furred with green like river rocks, white-knuckling my bag of Doritos.

arriving in puerto rico, i lost track of them. but it was small airport and we all had a good while to wait before our connecting flights. i leapt on my quest for an atm machine, but could not find one anywhere. i walked up and down the one hall of terminals, about the length of a football field, poking my head into every notch in the wall.

i stumbled upon the family an hour or so later, in the food court of the airport. i was embarrassed as i approached them. i said, “have you seen an atm at all? i’m looking all over for one…”

the father stepped forward and said, “don’t worry, don’t worry, we’ve got you covered, don’t worry.”

i looked at mother—her face was studiously benign, much as she might look if her husband decided to take up some embarrassing hobby. i suppose, in a way, he had.

the next thing i knew, he was pressing another twenty dollar bill into my hand.

my jaw started to shake, soundlessly.

he said, “just one condition, i want you to tell me one thing—do you write by hand, in a notebook, or do you type?”

i could not look at the daughter—i could not face her. i looked again at the mother—her face was a cipher. i looked at the father, trying to gauge the boyish enthusiasm of his face, his sparkling eyes, red cheeks and open mouth. i wanted desperately to give him the best value for his money.

“in a notebook,” i told him, stammering. “i like the moleskine notebooks…that hemingway used to write in…”

his eyebrows shot up like fireworks.

“that’s what i like the best, too!” he crowed raucously, barely containing his inspired excitement. he began to say more, but the mother pulled at his arm, saying “our flight’s boarding, hon, we have to go.” i looked at her and said, “thank you,” in a low voice meant to convey my sympathy, my apology. she smiled with closed lips. i ducked my head over and over, pandering like a majordomo, and we all retreated from each other. i wonder if she was telling the truth, or, like me, just wanted it all over with.