day 8

Two words - sand fleas.

Three more words - WTH?

I researched the crap out of every place on this trip, and not once did Trip Advisor show me this:

Watch Your @$$, Or It'll Be Covered With Flea Bites

I loved our stay at Sanibel Suites. It was so much fun to paddle board and watch the sunset over the surf, while Miguel served me giant margaritas. Too bad I had to head home to Dubuque looking like an unvaccinated smallpox victim. #paradise #bennadryl #hopethesescarsdontshowoninstagram.

I didn't even know sand fleas existed. 

I still can't figure out why.

What the hell is so delicious out in the sand, that fleas feel the need to congregate there in the first place? Fish don't get fleas. Crabs don't get fleas. It's like they're just sitting there waiting for tourists.

I'll spare you photos, because the only thing worse than plague-like, white hot welts cropping up on your legs, is pictures of plague-like, white-hot welts cropping up on somebody else's legs.

Thankfully, only Kooka and I seemed to be of interest to the little blood suckers, and once we got to Orlando, Aunt C, shared her prescription strength something-or-other that seemed to cool the burn.

The evening was filled with games and cousins and dinner together and trips to the arcade, and sleepovers - things we'd do much more often, if we weren't half a country away.

(Full disclosure - our hotel was not Sanibel Suites, I didn't want our lovely seaside resort to get blamed for this vile pestilence.)