“Favreau.”

 

My boyfriend says my name as a warning, with a cautionary edge to his voice. I look down in the dim light of our LED flashlight to see that I am three inches away from stepping on a tarantula, furry and the size of a lime. I yelp and hop to the side as if I’m performing a move from some lost ’60s dance craze (“Let’s all do the terrified lady!”), and keep hopping as if the longer I can keep myself off the ground, the less likely I am to step on something potentially venomous. It’s some form of logic, but one that I can recognize in retrospect is also likely to startle any sort of potentially harmful creature into attacking.

It is nighttime in December, and we are walking towards a tiny beachfront Indian restaurant… More…