Allison Robicelli reflects on her sense of disconnection during a recent girls' trip to Nicaragua's Little Corn Island.
Allison Robicelli reflects on her sense of disconnection during a recent girls' trip to Nicaragua's Little Corn Island.
Opinion by Allison Robicelli
Allison Robicelli is a food writer and humorist based in Baltimore.
OPINION
Small talk isn’t my strong suit, but my new friends Bruno, Spots and Dingus didn’t care, writes Allison Robicelli.
Those who know me best know it’s not a great idea to invite me to most girls’ trips. My idea of a good time is singing sea shanties and sharing fun facts about the Black Death, not putting cucumber slices over my eyes while letting a stranger touch my feet. So I take no offence at being left off the guest list for the typical bachelorette party or baby shower.
But then there’s the friend who insists I go anyway. She loves my weirdness so much, she can’t imagine a better way to enter her 50th year than watching me squirm under the weight of it. And I love her enough to drag my vampire-white skin and humidity-hating blue hair on to three planes and a small boat to party with her girls.
That is how I wound up on Little Corn Island in Nicaragua, a tropical getaway with 1.5 square miles of land, zero roads, 800 people and at least three very special feral dogs.
When I took this trip, I did my best to embrace each Instagram-worthy moment, even if I was bad at it. I don’t own a kaftan or a glamorous floppy hat like the other fabulous women in our party. The last time I dressed up for Halloween, it was as a hot dog, and not the sexy kind.
It’s hard getting old when you’re the weird girl. When you’re young, you’re told your personality is a phase and one day you’ll softly assimilate into mainstream female culture. You’ll finally fit in, and you’ll never feel lonely again. Years go by. One day never comes.
My social flailing may have put off the other girls on Corn Island. Maybe I should have talked less about old-timey whaling and my anthropological fascination with Insane Clown Posse.
The writer found comfort on holiday with her three new furry friends.
I know life would be easier if I could muster the same sort of enthusiasm for dance parties as I do for dinosaurs, but alas, my neurodivergent brain has only grown more ungovernable with age. I used to be able to pass for normal on special occasions, but masking well requires energy that I no longer have the willpower to muster.
Yet I was still able to make new friends, albeit ones with four legs and wet noses. This ragtag pack of very good boys greeted me the moment I landed on the white-sand beach, and they followed me like shadows all week. Big dumb dogs don’t notice your messiness. At worst, they see you as an equal. Maybe that’s why they singled me out from the pack.
The dogs didn’t have names, so I gave them some. Bruno had soft chestnut fur. Spots was covered in large brown spots. Dingus was a freaking dingus.
It should be easy to participate in partying, and friendly invitations from fellow humans shouldn’t incite anxiety. They’re not supposed to be scary, like thunderstorms and mailmen. But sometimes, the simple act of being wholly human is utterly terrifying.
Perhaps my furry followers saw me as a kindred spirit. Or they realised I could easily be separated from the herd and manipulated into doing their bidding. Whenever my social battery flickered, my dog friends would appear as if out of nowhere, with wagging tails and big stupid grins plastered across their faces, ready to save me from any emergency.
The girls of the girls’ trip were lovely, inside and out. There was nothing wrong with their company. But for me, how could sunset cruises and selfies possibly ever compare with chasing crabs in circles around a coconut tree?
The final night of our itinerary involved a trip to a local karaoke bar. In their last act of service, my island dogs gave me a good excuse not to go. It would have been cruel to expect me to spend the night listening to the caterwauling of strangers when I could be barking at the moon.
We walked miles down the shore into darkness until we’d reached the end of the world, where there was nothing but starlight, surf and sand. I threw rocks toward the horizon while my fellas dug holes, and we didn’t question the validity of each others’ actions. We were big; we were dumb; we were on a beach. Everything was beautiful.
I didn’t cry the next day when I stepped on to the small boat that would take me to one of my three planes home and their soggy paws stayed glued to Little Corn Island. I didn’t want their last memory of me to be a bad one.
We sailed away, and I stared backward, watching my good boys become tiny specks of fuzzy brown before fading away forever. I turned and looked forward, surrounded by women with frizz-free hair sipping their final mango mimosas.
Then the birthday girl’s playlist jumped from Beyoncéeto an old sea shanty. The girls hooted and hollered as I sang along, and they clapped their hands as I redefined what a dance party could be.
Maybe I’ve never actually been as alone as I thought.
