3:30 am. My roommate has just entered our bungalow. The door swings and makes a screeching noise against the tile floor. The light switch is turned on. Then off. Then on again. It is our last night in El Salvador and while half of the group stayed up drinking rum and Cokes and probably a healthy dose of tequila, the rest of us had less rum and Coke and tequila, played a few raucus games of UNO, danced Latin American style around the living room and descended the stairs to sleep in our comfy beds for the last time at a more decent hour, although decent is relative.
3:35am. The light is turned off yet again. She noisily walks to the bed that is a mere foot and a half from my tiny bed that is squished in the corner with sheets that don´t fit and a few springs that have slowly made their way closer and closer to the surface and my spine. She has changed clothes and is now ready for sleep. What else could she do? I assume that now all will be quiet. I can go back to sleep. I love my sleep.
3:38 am. Plastic bag crumpling. Still crumpling. Plastic bag falling to the ground. Hitting the ground. My mind races, what is happening? Then I hear it. It becomes clear. She is opening a bag of potato chips. At 3:38 in the morning. An hour and 7 minutes before I am to wake up and get on a bus for twelve hours that will take me to Nicaragua via Honduras and the open road. Bag opened. CRUNCH. Is she really doing this? How could she do this to me? She loves me! Crumpling. Chip. Mouth. CRUNCH. Chew. Chew. Chew. Each movement is like an audible bomb. Chip. Mouth. Crunch. At this point, not only can I swear on my life that she is eating each chip inches from my ear with the intent of instigating a physical brawl, but the bag must be three feet tall. It is never ending, these chips. They continue taunting me and screeching with laughter as her teeth descend on their salty bodies. Chip. Mouth. Crunch. CRUNCH.
3:52 am. The chips have been eaten. The roommate is asleep. I am awake with the echoes of fried potatoes resounding in my ears.