The Tourist

John had complained frequently that I made a poor tourist. At the last stop, I snuck into the disembarking crowd and disappeared around the corner. I was exhausted of posed pictures and tight smiles, of lectures and shortened histories, of directed moments and inadequate schedules. I wanted more for my mind, more from Mexico. I knew he would be mad, probably panicked that I had been abducted by a low-life thug who would demand a ransom in American dollars. Even that was preferable to another flash followed by "now if you will all come this way." Slowly I wandered away from the main group and found a country away from the pristine shoreline of tourism. I'm not sure I will ever return from whence I came.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***