4:25 a.m. — 73°F on the island. On paper? Absolute paradise. In reality? Add 92% humidity, sideways trade winds ripping straight off the sea, and you’ve got yourself a damp, airborne refrigerator set to “mild suffering.”
Our blood has officially thinned to the consistency of coconut water, so we are freezing. Locals are bundled up like we’re prepping for a polar expedition—hoodies, knit hats, long pants, socks and shoes (a clear emergency indicator). Meanwhile, tourists are wandering around in string bikinis and I can only assume witchcraft is involved. It’s so cold people are running space heaters in restaurants, which feels both illegal and deeply ironic.
I briefly considered bringing the rescue tortoises inside to spoil them… then remembered they smell like swampy bad decisions and would absolutely spike my stress levels. And I keep forgetting chickens couldn’t care less about cool weather—yesterday I went full treat panic mode to “make sure they were okay,” because if I’m cold, logic immediately vacates.
Okay, done venting, it is just a huge swing, mind you- I have lived in arctic conditions down to -30F... but for us, these temps? bartenders are wearing sweatshirts in outdoor bars.
