We ran into Pamela, the resort manager, on our way to the office to check out this morning. She’s a no-nonsense New Yorker and she asked me if the wedding party had quieted down after I called her last night. I told her it had.

“The phone conversation I had with them was funny,” she said. “It went like this:

‘The other guests cannot sleep.’
‘What should I do?’
‘Stop!’”

God bless you, Pamela. You’re all right.

We flew home and made it back safe and sound. Then La Raymunda ate some spaghetti laced with peanut butter and her Allergy of Death kicked in and she spent an hour curled up on the bathroom floor. Not so much fun. But she’s doing better now, and all will be well.