After only two wrong turns and a few bumpy lanes of construction, we made it to our destination. The hotel is a paved wonder of flowers, gigantic morph butterfiles, and bubbling volcanic rivers.

My daughter claimed the biggest bed and the keenest end table. She unpacked her suitcase by throwing two items on the shelf and the rest on the floor. My son skimmed his legs back and forth on the cool ceramic tile after a long ride in the car.

Before suiting up to swim in hot pools of mineral baths fed from volcanic waters, my son proceeded to poop the moment we put on his swimsuit (notice I didn’t say diaper). The poop got on Coco’s swimsuit and that no-longer-clean ceramic floor. For some reason the smell drove my daughter to vomit. She ran from the little bathroom to the couch on her toes while her stomach lurched forth her lunch, which I just paid more than I cared for.

So, things were in order. Now that we’ve settled in after the traditional vomiting and passing of bowels all over the floor, we can dig in and really enjoy ourselves.

This is living.