Paranoid Crossroads

"We just got placed here," he explained. "There was something wrong with our locker in 611, so they moved us here."

I sighed, went downstairs, and got another room. 

Just like with the cab driver, I felt at the Paranoid Crossroads. 

My driver had said it would cost twenty five dollars US to drive the ten miles from the airport into town. 

I shrugged, had accepted it. I could afford it, but it sounded like more than what the guide books had said. I felt like the fat white American was being taken advantage of. 

On the drive into town, while engaging him, I was rolling some calculations: he probably could use my money more than me, and I think the book had said the ride was only to cost twenty five BZD, which would be half in USD, but how old was the book? Did inflation take hold? Was the exchange rate the same? Was it fair for me to put my own selfishness again what was probably two hundred years of colonialism? Did I make the right choice riding in the front and leaving my bags in the back? I better not pay him 'til I have my bags in hand, lest he roll off with all my stuff...

Nothing had happened with the taxi. When the car enter the gates of the Ramada, I knew I wasn't gonna be abandoned and all my suspicious energy had been squandered. For nothing!

On the elevator back to the lobby, though, I thought I'd give negative thinking another shot: what kind of game was this? Was my identity somehow being stolen, in the seconds between I checked in and now? What was going on? What fresh hell was this? What evil scheme will I uncover when I return to reception?

The elevator opened, and the concierge immediately apologized, offering me another room on the top floor. 

No worries. 

I elevated back to the sixth floor and thumped my bags down. There were only two: carry-ons, so I could move quicker from place to place. I was relieved that the room safe was big enough for my electronics, my meds, and my heaping pile of cash. 

Now I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my day. 

Because of all the delays, I only had a few hours left and piddling amount of energy, but I didn't want day one of my international vacation to be wasted. I lacked an international phone plan, so had to figure out in advance what to do. 
Dinner. I'd bought an overpriced Krispy Kreme in Miami, but otherwise subsisted on airline gratuities and the three pieces of fruit I'd sneaked onboard with me. I needed something to maintain my hulking frame.
But also: put clothes away. Dry off from the moisture of being Jon Berger. Decompress for a little bit. Figure out wifi for all my devices and the plugs and the water situation. Unpack. Get used to my one week new home.

...the sound of a camera failing to flash inside an empty room...

What a dump. Still, a view of the Caribbean Sea. Relaxing...
I didn't know what to see out there in the world. Everything in the drive to the Hotel looked kind of depressed and dumpy. Not sure what I was expecting; Belize City has a population of 50,000 - a place of that size can only have so much in terms of accommodations.
I expected a more cosmopolitan crowd on the streets, but everyone looked so... Caribbean (I really should have done better research before this trip). I knew there wasn't enough time to take in any serious tourist stuff. So what could I see? What could I do?
Fuck it: I stashed some money in my pocket, some more in my sock, and took to the streets.