John Solo

Most of last week I had the place all to myself. Brooke's big birthday present from her Mom was a trip to a fancypants all-inclusive resort in Costa Rica which, needless to say, is a swell cushion to any blow that comes with turning 30.

The group left out of Midway Airport early early last Wednesday morning. Brooke said she'd call during a brief layover in Atlanta, but didn't have the chance to. Then I wasn't surprised when she didn't call to say they landed in Costa Rica since the international rates would be mucho expensivo. Taking for granted the ease of global communication, I never asked Brooke to give me her flight or hotel info. It was strangely unnerving to think that I had no way of getting a hold of her in an emergency like, say, I was at the grocery store and couldn't remember if we needed peanut butter or just bought some. What is this, 1998?

Despite the lack of verbal confirmation, I wasn't especially concerned that they didn't make it safely. Put bluntly: if the plane crashed, I would have heard about it. So, content in the knowledge that Brooke was just too busy having a great time, I gave up worrying and settled in to catch up on some shows that were collecting cobwebs on the DVR. Specifically, I had several episodes of The First 48 to watch.

If you've never seen it, The First 48 is a terribly addictive crime series on A&E which, I reluctantly concede, falls in the otherwise deplorable "reality TV" genre since it's not scripted. The show follows actual homicide detectives during the first 48 hours of a recent murder investigation. You see police analyzing the crime scene, questioning suspects and, more often than not, charging someone with the offense.

With few exceptions, the resolution is pretty clear from the beginning – there are almost none of the complicated twists you'd find in the average network cop drama. The down side of such an entertaining but unfiltered look at criminal justice is the real acknowledgment of the potential violence in any urban environment. And that realization is exactly what I didn't need clouding my short-lived satisfaction that Brooke and her fellow travelers made it on time. Now I had a whole new crop of disastrous theories on why they hadn't called.

Yes, I would have heard if the plane crashed ... but what if they never made the flight? Three single women parking in the remote lot of Midway Airport for a pre-sunrise departure? Seems like a great place for some thug to stage an abduction, especially since no one planned on hearing from them for several days anyway. Or what if they did make the flight and got nabbed in Costa Rica? All I know about the country is that it's in Central America, and all I know about Central America is what I learned in Predator. So since I already assume that everywhere outside of America survives on a robust white slave trade, my mind ran ragged about what unspeakable peril was befalling my girlfriend.

Needless to say, all my semi-comical worrying was for nothing. After a little detective work of my own (thanks, The First 48!), I eventually found the name of their hotel and had Verizon add International Dialing to my service plan just to make a quick call to their room, where Brooke picked up the phone. She felt bad for not calling and wanted to tell me all about the trip there, but – despite the fact I just spent 45 minutes tracking her down 2200 miles away – I quickly interrupted her as I envisioned the phone bill digits climbing like years in the Buck Rogers TV show intro.

We agreed to save our all our exciting anecdotes our reunion on Sunday night, which we did. Hers were about frequenting a swim-up pool bar and zip-lining over the rainforest. Mine were about loafing around in boxers and not putting used plates in the dishwasher (which is my M.O. even when Brooke's not jetsetting all over the hemisphere). They had a great time on the trip and I learned that my wild imagination is a horrible roommate.