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“If I find that you’re wasting my time, I’m going to put you in handcuffs right now in front of everybody”. That’s what an Aruba Police Force officer told me as I begged him to let me use the bathroom in the Queen Beatrix Airport terminal. My mind raced as I had pondered all of the events that led me to being accosted by an officer minutes before boarding my flight. Aruba was a whirlwind of white sand beaches, turquoise waters, sweltering heat, alluring vistas and delicious cuisine. I was ready to return to my affordable life and obligations. However, I had a sinking feeling in my gut that told me I wouldn’t be coming to America any time soon. It all started with a date with Josh, a NYPD officer I had matched with on Tinder. We met at Lucy’s Retired Surfers Bar for strong margaritas and dinner. I felt tipsy as I devoured two juicy grilled shrimp off his kebab. The nachos had me mesmerized until I saw something green fluttering in my peripheral view. It was money. Lots of it. On the ground right under a stool where an oblivious, intoxicated tourist sipped on a beer. It was my second day on the island and I had already spent over $60 on food, so I could have used the extra money. Regardless, we decided to let the guy know that $800 had fallen out of his pocket. He was grateful that we had alerted him, but for some reason I couldn’t shake the feeling of dissatisfaction. Later that night I had told some friends about the story and one said “what if that was your blessing and his bad karma?”. Those thoughts stuck with me for the next seven days I had spent in Aruba. I kept my eyes open for my next “blessing” and at one point I figured that if I couldn’t find one I would make one. Songs imposing a “hot girl summer” and being a “city girl” by scamming guys and committing their ATM card pass codes to memory brought out an alter ego I didn’t recognize. There I was in a different country, feeling brand new and invincible. Then one day it happened. I found a credit card and without thinking of the consequences I swiped it at the Duty Free store in the airport. “Finally, my blessing has returned!” I thought foolishly. When the transaction went through I was shocked, but held my composure in front of the cashier. “Hold on, I’m going to get a few more things for my mama,” I said to her as I littered the counter with more goods; liquor, Dior cologne, makeup, rum cake and cheese. I felt intoxicated by the power in the piece of plastic between my fingertips. But when I tried to swipe the card for a $500 gold necklace I knew that the spree was over. The City Girls didn’t give instructions for what to do when that bank card gets declined. Meg wasn’t there to help when the owner of the card pressed charges. I begged the officer to let me use the bathroom so that I could secretly send messages to my family to let them know what was going on. I’m glad I did because I wasn't allowed to make any calls at the police station. The American Consulate in Curacao served as the liaison between myself and my family. My heart dropped when I was led to a dark, musty cell and forced to go inside. I burst into tears and said, “No! I’ve never been to jail. You can’t leave me here!”. A compassionate officer reminded me that the Aruban justice system is different than America’s. There is no bail. There’s a process that every offender must go through and it may take up to 10 days. “Don’t break. Stop crying. This will be over soon,” he said. I spent a little under 48 hours in that cell crying, praying, reading and asking God for forgiveness. My mother called the Consulate twice before they contacted her. Traveling made me feel so invincible that I thought I was above the law. Karma told me otherwise.