Punta Cana, DR

 The wet heat blinds my senses as I step off the plane into the humid habitat of Punta Cana. I look around, wondering where I’ve just put myself for the next week. Will it be college kid heaven? Or will we be crawling our way out by the end of it?

Palm trees line the horizon, and I hear the rapid-fire rhythm of a language I studied for years, one that I still struggle to understand at the speed the Dominican people speak. The language barrier becomes more and more evident, and I realize that my time in South Florida did little to improve my Spanish.

We find our way to the bus, where funky, gray-stained shades cover every window. As we settle in, a wave of panic washes over me, one I’ve never felt before while traveling. Fear. I sit on the worn cushions and try to peek out the shades, hoping to catch a glimpse of the island. As we drive, the roads are littered with trash, people sitting along what they consider a highway, and remnants of what used to be homes. The reality of the Caribbean islands, far behind the lavish resort walls that populate our social media feeds. College kid spring break heaven, or so we thought.

Beautiful resorts still line the beach, but behind the polished screens lies the truth: power outages, no food, no water, and dirty hotel rooms. College kids stuck at the resorts for the week, downing cheap alcohol to pass the time and wash away the memories that should have been made.

The people are kind but fiercely protective of their own. They are hard workers, hustling up and down the beaches, trying to make a living any way they can. Who’s the next person they can convince to buy something? We sit tanning, muttering “no, gracias” what feels like every minute when we're not staring into the bottom of our all-inclusive drinks. Where has the time gone? we ask ourselves, reminiscing about everything up until this point. The stark contrast between our opportunities and their hustle, paired with our privilege and complaints about things the resort doesn’t have.

Oh, how little we knew how different our lives would feel halfway through our bender. I called my love every night, escaping the bottle, the bodies dancing, and the dark beach. I’m more thankful for those calls now than I could ever explain. We talked about our future travels, how they would be nothing like the one I found myself surrounded by now. No marriage in sight, just two adults who felt like kids, eager to experience all that life had to offer, together. My friends, meanwhile, celebrated the bottle that would become the stories of their college years.

The next morning, police swarm the beach in every direction. Whispers ripple through the resort and the college students seem more frantic to find a new bottle at 10 a.m. A 20-year-old girl has disappeared from thin air, vanishing on the beach at the resort next door, near where my friends had claimed their spot just hours earlier. Where had she gone? Had she drowned? Was she taken? The questions remain unanswered. Were we safe with just two days left? My friends return to the bottle, while I lose all sense of calm and sanity.

As I sit here, back in my college dorm room, I’m thankful that I made it back. I’m grateful that I’m not fighting for my life, that I’m in a land of opportunity, where I can build the future I’ve always wanted. I’ve always craved the unknown, always wanted to explore things that have never been done before. But this is the first time I’ve felt fear that wasn’t paired with adrenaline. This was different. This was fear screaming at me to leave while I still could.

Because two weeks later, she still hasn’t been found. And that could have been one of us. But we made it home.