Yet another Packing Day.

Semana Santa starts today.

Coincidence? No.

Puerto Vallarta is about to catch fire—
  marching bands,
  beer tents,

  sunburnt dads in Tequila tank tops
  who just discovered Bluetooth speakers.

Yesterday: I helped set up the damn festival on my run.

Today? Putting the final touches on my escape plan.

Wide awake since five— (blame adrenaline)
  pacing the house
  like a dad in a sitcom
  who lost the passports…

  and can’t find his other sandal.

The packing pile is now three piles.

One is clothing.
One is anxiety.
One is just Post-its with question marks. (and a few exclamation points)

The locals are stocking coolers.

I'm triple-checking my itinerary like it’s a heist plan.

Beachfront restaurants?
  About to be full of screaming toddlers.

Tourist boats?
  DJ’d by someone named "El Grito"

Me?
   Counting socks in a spiritual ritual,
   dropping three "Hail Marys"… (just to be safe)

   praying I remember deodorant.

Everyone is checking in,
   I've already checked out.

They arrive for *holy week*.
   I depart for *holy Her*.

And if I have to fight through
   a sea of inflatable flamingos

   to get to my gate on time: so be it.

I’ve packed worse.

I've planned harder.

And no offense to the Virgin of Guadalupe,
   but I've got my own pilgrimage to make.