For ten thousand dollars, I went to hell. Narrow streets twist around nooks and stone pathways.

Lose my way. Google maps change direction, confusing me. Spins me round and round about. Then, when I need her most, Ms. Map’s voice fades away. My mind is fuzzy; my lips dry. Lost in a Gothic city—every building is grey—no one is speaking English.

For ten thousand dollars, I went to hell. Satan’s devils play–stomping, drinking, blowing horns outside my bedroom window three floors below. Echoing voices, bouncing off ancient walls, seep through the closed windows. Sleepless for three days now. Can’t find myself, my tooth brush, my earbuds.

For five thousand dollars, I went to purgatory in a line of hundreds. Finally stood at the pearly gates. I extended my arm; my ticket in hand. Go back. The man in black said. Wrong day. Not your time yet. Stop; go back, he commanded.

But I can’t come back.

You wait. He said again. Now swirled about in a sea of blurry nameless faces—can’t get in, can’t get out.

Sacra Familia, my ticket wasted. Purgatory still charges; no refund for your mistake.

Was only a venial sin, and I didn’t do it; I shouted to God to save my husband from my simmering scorn.

How could he hit confirm and pay for the wrong day.

5000,00; still in purgatory. Every nicety was followed by trial. Cab driver stuck in warfare. Wheels turn, slow to a stop. Can’t go farther, the marathon, he points. Runners at night in Barcelona. You see. Get out, walk up.

But where am I. In darkness with faded street lights above, my right foot tapped the pavement. I stepped; I stopped.

For 5000, I went to Purgatory. Night train to Seville. Two Spanish women, one looking like an aged drag queen in a leopard scarf. Creaking voices, seated behind me. Serious colds, blew their noses like trumpets repeating a theme in variation–coughed and coughed again, cleared their raspy throats spat in their babushkas. Constrained for three hours. Caught in recycled air. I swear they have the Spanish flu.

I went to hell in a handbasket. My grandmother said I would.

Got a checked bag for free, though, and a window seat. But Satin was up to no good. On the plane, Steward says, I don’t even see your name on the app.

What do you mean! I showed him my ticket—38 A—a window. But a lady is in it. I uttered.

Well, I don’t see you here. What’s your name again? Oh, you are in row 27 B.

Stuck in a middle seat— between a white princess and a kind woman. You look tired. The kind one said.

I am. (And don’t you know I am on my way to hell—or is this hell?)

The pilot speaks. Sorry, there is a broken seat—need to call maintenance should be ten minutes. I know a liar when I hear one. An hour later. The seat is fixed, but we found a strip lose on the door. Won’t be long now. After it’s finished, we’ll be ready for inspection and once signed off, we are good to go. Thank you for your patience.

Patience, I’d kill you if I could, liar!

Two hours waiting, we taxi off. Since our later departure, there’s a holdup, we are fifteenth in que to take off. Shouldn’t be long now.

Six hours, ten minutes, touch down. It’s 85 degrees in San Francisco. Time 8:45pm. They are experiencing an unprecedented heat wave.

Somebody yell fire, I murmur. I am in hell.

10:30 pm, I lie in my bed, a bed of my own making. A little bit of heaven and it cost me nothing. But I haven’t looked in the mirror yet—there will be a price; no moisturizer, no medication, no cosmic spirit can undo.