4) 1990

I grew up in The Colony, a tiny neighborhood within a tiny community consisting of one tiny loop of a road and eight or nine houses.  Our house was the first on the Colony Road, and it was on a corner with a huge wrap-around yard, a field of long grass and raspberry bushes, and two maple trees with perfectly equidistant branches, ideal for climbing.  My father built a tree house in the crab apple tree out front one year, and after that my house became ground zero for summer evening games of kick-the-can, and fort building expeditions into the neighboring woods.  

My neighbors and playmates were all boys, the youngest two years my elder. Not only was I younger than them, I was smaller in stature and slower in speed.   They tolerated my company, not only for the perks of my sweet pad, but also I imagine because they looked forward to daring me to follow along on their adventures, to see if I would climb to the highest branch in the maple tree, or steal lawn ornaments from Merle Pendleton’s house across the street without getting caught.  If they ever tired of hanging out with a girl, they would race away on their bicycles so I couldn’t keep up, laughing and hollering like a proper pack of hooligans. 

When my father took me to Ames on my fourth birthday to pick out a bicycle, I walked straight past the pink bikes with wicker baskets and streamers coming off the handle bars, and begged and pleaded for a bright blue Jammer with a straight bar and removable training wheels. I eyed those training wheels like a pair of spiders I wanted to smush with my Velcro sneaker. Despite the advice of my parents, upon returning home with my new bike I immediately and adamantly searched my father’s shed for a wrench, and demanded those repulsive training wheels be removed. I imagined I would master the art of bicycle riding in a matter of hours and start training for the Tour de France by the next afternoon.  

My driveway connected to the paved one lane Colony Road, a veritable luxury compared to the long dirt driveways that most of my friends lived down.  Thanks to the sporadic and slow moving traffic, I had free use of the asphalt to practice riding my new bike, and practice I did. Without the help of training wheels, every day I would force my parents or older sister to walk along behind me with one hand steadying the seat in case I started to lean to one side or the other.  I refused to let the neighborhood boys witness my progress, preferring instead to reveal my innate bicycle proficiency once I had mastered riding the two wheeler with no assistance. 

My two favorite movies at the time were Grease 2 and a behind the scenes documentary about the Ringling Brother’s and Barnum & Bailey Circus.  Not only had I memorized and performed every song from the Grease 2 soundtrack and my own rendition of the circus trapeze routine in my living room, both films showcased motorcycle stunt montages, and I secretly fantasized about wowing a crowd of friends and family with wheelies and jumps on my new Jammer.  When the boys asked why I never rode my new bike with them, I flippantly responded that I was training to be a stunt artist for the circus, and due to copyright agreements I was unable to reveal my moves to the public at this time. If they were lucky and they let me borrow their Ninja Turtles action figure collection, I would invite them to attend a private showing at a later date. 

After weeks of wobbling up and down the street in front of my house, I started to find my equilibrium and didn’t need someone holding the seat anymore to keep me upright. I was at once ecstatic, and subsequently crushed to find out that neither my parents nor my sister had any tips for how to learn a wheelie, or a backwards flip through a flaming ring of fire.  In fact, my parents were so intent on crushing my lifelong dream to be a motorcycle stunt woman that they enforced a rule that I was not allowed to leave our driveway on my bike without adult supervision.  

I spent the next several days making sullen car-lengthed circles on my bike in our severely inadequately sized driveway. The pavement was only feet away, a golden road to freedom and independence that I could see but not touch.  My blood boiled as the pack of neighborhood boys zipped by on their 10 speeds, laughing and yelling for me to join them, making jokes about all the gnarly tricks they couldn’t wait to see me perform.

The next day as my mother hung up laundry in the back yard, I stood straddling my bike in the front driveway, longing to escape from the brutal confines of my tyrannical and insensitive parents. As I gazed down the road I was overcome with frustration.  Without a second thought, I pushed my left foot onto the pedal and slowly crept to the end of the driveway. Another little push with my right foot, and the front wheel of my bike rolled across the ridged metal water pipe that divided our driveway from the road.  I glanced behind me, but my mother wasn’t watching.  Another pump of the petal, and there I was, in the middle of the road, alone and unnoticed, free at last. I waited nervously, expecting my mom to come running around the corner of the house, as if she had an internal radar detector that could sense my whereabouts at all times. I held my breath and counted to ten but she never appeared. 

Riding down the road alone for the first time felt better than anything I’d ever felt in my four years on earth. It was better than ice cream, better than getting to visit the statute of Andre the Seal on the mainland, even better than having the best hiding place of all the boys’ in kick-the-can.  Unfortunately my bliss was fleeting, abruptly interrupted by a long deep crack in the road, left over the previous winter's frost. My tire got stuck in the crack, and I veered sharply to the left. Losing control of the bike,  I toppled head first into a ditch, the Jammer not far behind me.  Lying there in the wet cold muddy ditch, my bike pinned on top of me, the world felt like a very cruel and lonely place. I couldn’t call out for help, my pride was too strong and I feared consequences, horrible Draconian consequences like not being allowed to watch the Cosby Show before bed.  

I spent hours, maybe days lying in that ditch, but my mother says she found me after 20 minutes. When she asked me what I was doing there, and I why I hadn’t called out for help, I had to explain to her in the simplest terms so her feeble brain could comprehend, that the impact of hitting the ground after a fifty foot quadruple back flip was enough to knock the wind out of anyone.    

3) St Martin/ San Maarten

After an hour of waiting, I started to lose hope that Don Nicholas would arrive with our Jeep Wrangler and directions to our new home for the next ten days. Growing up on an Island you become accustomed to variances in time relativity (it always takes longer to drive to the ferry when you’re about to miss the last boat, and there will always be too many cars in line when you have an appointment to make that can’t be rescheduled), but here, Island Time referred only to a vague notion of regularity. Basically, people get where they are going when they feel like it, and any expectations of punctuality are a waste of time.  

When Don Nicholas finally did arrive, the shiny 4 x 4 we were expecting resembled something more like an Apocalypse Now prop reject, covered in mud and dents and reeking of exhaust fumes.  Fitting our luggage and ourselves along with the ample girth of Don Nicholas was a feat in itself, but once we were in, any expectations of a lackadaisical drive went flying right out the window, along with nearly all of our hats and sunglasses. Don Nicholas whipped the Jeep into gear and took off full speed ahead ignoring speed bumps, pedestrians, motorcyclists, and every traffic law I ever learned in Driver’s Ed. 

As we made our way from the airport on the Dutch side to the French side of the island, casino lights and happy hour signs faded quickly into the distance. The sun began to set over the Caribbean Sea just as rental cars full of sunburned retirees gave way to scooters precariously piled high with three or more passengers and livestock roaming freely.  Arriving at our apartment rental, we paid Don Nicholas his fee for the Jeep and off he went with a huge smile and a chuckle. 

My boyfriend Sam and I chose St Martin for our winter vacation because of its white sand beaches and reputation as the gastronomic capital of the Caribbean.  Jointly owned by both the French and Dutch, the island is split down the middle with the tacky Margaritaville style American resorts, nightclubs and casinos on the Dutch side, and according to French locals, the best of everything else on the French side. The apartment we rented on the beach in the town of Grand Case came equipped with strong roasted coffee ready to brew on the stove, a bidet in each bathroom, and we were allowed to smoke wherever we wanted without judgment.

After unpacking our suitcases and changing out of our travel clothes, we decided to venture into town and sample some of the delicious French food that Grand Case is known for.  Exhausted from the flight, we decided to skip a fancy ten course dinner and instead ended up at a casual strip of beach side barbeque joints known as the Lolos (locally owned, locally operated).  Native islanders manned enormous steel drums full of charcoal grilling racks of pork ribs, chicken and Caribbean rock lobster.  Bottles of Heineken only cost $1 and you could haggle for the price of your meal if you were so inclined.

Several beers and plates of food later, we strolled home on the beach with the waves lapping our feet and stars twinkling in the night sky. We were ready for bed after a long day of travelling and a perfectly romantic first night of vacation. 

“Elena, hey can you bring me some water? My stomach feels funny I think I drank too much”.  As I switched on the bedside light Sam’s face came into focus. He was pale with a slightly green tinge to his skin, covered in beads of sweat, his hands clammy and shaking. I was familiar with this look, and I was certain Sam’s affliction wasn’t caused by too many Heinekens. I’d seen identical symptoms on the face of my fellow travelers after too many street cart tacos in Mexico City and after accidently swallowing too much water while brushing their teeth in Belize.  Delhi Belly, Montezuma’s revenge, whatever you call it, Sam was in for a very unpleasant experience, and as his cohabiter of a very small condo with an open floor plan (meaning no door on the bathroom) I too felt a pit of dread developing in my stomach. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and after that first night in St. Martin the word intimacy took on an entirely new meaning in our relationship.  Several bottles of purified water, Gatorade, and Pepto Bismol later, the color came back to Sam’s face and we resolved to enjoy the rest of our vacation.  

Orient Beach is considered by most the best beach on St. Martin. The long bright white strip of sand stretches for over 4 miles, its aqua blue water calm and shallow. Vendors jockey for attention, persuading tourists to pay for parasailing, jet skiing, and water trampolining.  Beach bars and gift shops line the strip, giving off a spring break meets St. Tropez vibe.  Hoping to escape the crowds and find a quiet spot, Sam and I set off on another romantic walk along the beach, to the southernmost tip of Orient Bay.  The weather was perfect, and we were happy to soak up some rays and work on our tans for the first time in months. I don’t know if the breathtaking scenery served as a distraction, or if my rum punch induced buzz clouded by vision, but neither of us noticed as we passed a sign that read “Hôtel Naturiste, .5 km”.   Gazing out at the horizon, surrounded by paradise with the man that I love I didn’t have a care in the world.

The farther we walked the more empty the beach became, but we saw a crowd of people in the distance. As we approached I could make out what looked like aerobic steps built into the sand, and we could hear an instructor with a microphone yelling out commands.   How nice, I thought to myself, an outdoor exercise class.  As we reached the end of the beach, the naked bodies of 30 or so retirement aged French couples came into focus.  They huffed and puffed as they side stepped and clapped in unison. Legs lifts and squats, toe touches and jumping jacks combined into the most horrifying callisthenic display I’ve ever witnessed. Like a driver passing by a car wreck my eyes were glued to the scene and I couldn’t force myself to look away before the image was forever emblazoned upon my memory.

Disturbed and frustrated, our attempt at romance foiled again, Sam and I returned to the trusted Jeep, determined to find privacy on St Martin.  Friends back in Boston had recommended a beautiful hotel that was several thousand dollars a night out of our price range called La Semanna, known to occupy one of the most beautiful private stretches of beach on the island, and to be staunchly exclusive. As we pulled up to the gates of La Semanna, we finalized our game plan strategy: keep a low profile, act as if we’re hotel guests and no one will know the difference.  I stuffed the beach towels we had brought with us from the condo under the front seat and out of sight, and off we went.

La Semanna consists of a series of Mediterranean style villas perched on a cliff overlooking Baie Longue.  Private cabanas dot the pristine sand that is combed and redistributed everyday at 4am.  Cabana boys in immaculate white shorts and matching polo shirts cater to guests’ every need, supplying cold water bottles and cocktails, fruit plates and sunblock application services.  There are massage tents and three different swimming pools of varying temperatures if you prefer salt-free water.  Walking down the steps to the beach we chose an unassuming pair of beach chairs away from the cabanas and stretched out to finally enjoy a peaceful romantic day together.

On a list of top ten most embarrassing moments of all time, being forcefully removed from a luxury hotel for trespassing would rank in the top five.  Luckily, that didn’t happen during our visit to La Semanna. What did end up happening is that not five minutes after we sat in our beach chairs, hoping to fly under the radar and not draw attention to ourselves, an enormous gust of wind came up out of nowhere and carried our eight foot wide beach umbrella out into the Atlantic Ocean.  The outdoor music skipped a beat as every single person on the beach stopped what they were doing and stared in our direction, trying to piece together how that just happened. Within seconds the entire army of cabana boys was dispatched and came running down the beach to rescue the umbrella.  Ten grown men fully dressed with sneakers on went diving into the water and carried the umbrella back to the beach like a scene out of Baywatch.  The other half of the cabana boy army came running over to our table, profusely apologizing, assuring us that that had never happened before in the entire history of the hotel and making sure we weren’t injured or otherwise inconvenienced.  We might as well have hired a marching band to announce our arrival. 

Although our attempt at peace and romance was spoiled once again, the umbrella incident served as a turning point. Not only did La Semanna pick up our entire drink bill for the nuisance of our beach umbrella being carried out to sea by natural forces, the rest of the vacation went off without a hitch.  No more violent fits of nausea and indigestion, not more overweight naked tae bo enthusiasts, and no one ever discovered that we weren’t hotel guests.