The CDC says that, “social isolation significantly increases a person's risk of premature death…a risk that may rival those of smoking, obesity, and physical inactivity” and that “more than one-third of adults aged 45 and older feel lonely.” Worst of all, you can still feel lonely without being socially isolated. What chance do any of us stand?

Even Pop-Tarts come in pairs. Do they ever tire of one another and conclude that polyamory might save the relationship? In order to save on the costs of individually wrapping Pop-Tarts in mylar—the same polyester film used by NASA in various balloon-like satellites—Kellogg’s doubled up on the toaster pastries. Economics prevail in most of our cohabitation decisions.

I was full up on marijuana the first time I had a Pop-Tart, the only time really any of us should be eating Pop-Tarts. I devoured them directly from the bag, straight up, no toaster. It was the frosted blueberry with sprinkles. I had to look up the flavors to confirm that that was in fact one of them. You can buy Pop-Tarts on Amazon, although, what can’t you buy on Amazon? Pop-Tarts are supposedly a good source of B vitamins. They also have 29g of azúcares añadidos. What if I were one of those assholes who always and only wrote in English and Spanish so that everything I wrote was only accessible to the bilingual. A real dick move. (I’m just jealous that I’m not bilingual.)

If I order within 14 hours and 43 minutes, the fastest delivery of frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts with sprinkles could be here “tomorrow.” Could we all collectively overwhelm the system by ordering blueberry Pop-Tarts at the exact same moment? Would Amazon burst with travel-ready, crumbly pastry crust, proudly baked in the USA, family favorite morning treats? I sure hope so. It’s a sad world where Pop-Tarts are so easily accessible.

A couple of weeks ago, my brother said he was worried that if I continue traveling, I might fall into a depression. That set off the alarms as I’ve been very careful these last six years about avoiding activities that might trigger depression. All things remain fresh while traveling and yet, there is always the possibility of feeling isolated. A city’s history, culture, population, food, and of course its watering holes are all waiting to be explored. More often than not, socializing ends up with drink after drink until I’ve had enough and end up back at the hotel room having only observed and never really interacted. Until last night.

Hotel Haya is like a little resort town and I’m its lowly barfly sipping on costly cocktails with names like “painkiller,” “penicillin” and “conquistador.” A couple sitting next to me last night was stuck for nearly an hour feeling the effects of a socially insatiable and starved individual. I was in rare form. I hadn’t talked that much since before that infectious disease thing that’s been going around.

The fellow was originally from Tunja, Colombia, an area he described as an agricultural center of Colombia. His lady was from Coatzacoalcos, Mexico, though she mentioned nothing of its significance, only that it was a port city in Veracruz. She was studying to be a data analyst. I didn’t get much more from her. I was having a mezcal cocktail and becoming increasingly aware that no one likes to be stuck next to a single, loquacious, avuncular type, especially not one who might use those words in a sentence in a bar.

The evening fizzled out as it always does and in the morning, I went for a stroll to investigate the Parque Amigos de José Martí, the only property in the US that has been continuously owned by Cuba since the 1950’s. The park is an unimpressive square block with a cream and vermilion tiled pathway that leads to a statue of Jose Martí, considered to be the “Apostle of Cuban Independence.” He stands, a lonely figure in a forsaken park, with one hand directing our attention across the street to the old V.M. Ybor Cigar Factory where Martí delivered one of many speeches on its steps advocating for Cuba’s independence from Spain that is now the home to the Church of Scientology of Tampa.

I went back to Hotel Haya and had my usual breakfast while in Tampa: a guava poptart and a coffee from Cafe Quiquiriqui. I returned to my solitary room, considered the poptarts unfortunate namesake, and concluded that since I can now spell quiquiriqui on the first go, that I’ve been spending too much time in Tampa. I ate half of the poptart while my pancreatic enzymes worked overtime and arranged for my return to Naples.