Found in Translation

It was the first time in years that my travels didn’t include a Mountain Equipment backpack, moldy shower curtains and sleeping on the couches of friends or near strangers. No, this trip would be in style. It would be all-inclusive, first-class and luggage with wheels. It would be a pair of white high heels instead of cement-covered shoes, and chartered buses instead of hitchhiking. There would be hot compresses on the plane, and magazines in my carry-on instead of burdensome travel guides. I was headed to the Dominican Republic for a weeklong Thanksgiving vacation with my cousin and two friends.

Apart from nearly getting hit by Hurricane Omar, the week was amazing. We were one of the few groups of Canadians at the resort, but that didn’t prevent us from making friends. On our second night in Punta Cana, we were walking to the club when an energetic girl ran up behind us to tag along. Sveta was on vacation alone, so we were more than happy to let her join our entourage for the night.

In turn, she introduced us to two fellow Russians she has also befriended at the resort. Both were in their mid-twenties and police officers back in Russian. The only problem? Unlike Sveta, neither Dima nor Anton spoke a word of English.