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.
I find myself saying this to a lot of people in 262--and this is maybe the only thing I have to teach you in the long run: you write so well, so beautifully that you can afford to let technique and skill carry you along, but technique and skill will not carry the day. They are an illusion, a mirage.
ReplyDeleteSome people would kill to have your technique and skill. But the trick once you have them--is to forget about them, assume them, and then ask yourself 'what next?'
I offer you 'Night Shift' and 'About Me' up there on the right as examples of skillful writing that goes beyond its own technique and answers 'what next.'
Writing with an edge, with something at stake. Writing that is not just good writing but is demanding writing, insistent writing, hard writing, mysterious writing, pressing writing, risky writing, maybe even weak writing.
But it has a presence.
speaking of travel - I just found out that you are next door neighbors with a dear friend of mine from Swanville. Small world!
ReplyDeleteI wanted to lighten up on this piece. A challenge for me will be learning how to stay demanding, edgy, and mysterious without relying on heavy or dark subject matter to get me there.
I'm all for light, and, yes, being light, but not lightweight, is a trick.
ReplyDeleteLight is very serious because it is one of the only two available ways to understand the universe, so it places its demands on the writer.
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ReplyDeleteMy next-door neighbor to the south is Joan whose son, my daughter's age, just died Monday.
ReplyDeleteTo the north it's L. and if she is your dear friend I better not mention the dead cat, the stolen mail, the deer carcass, the black powder muskets, Buddy and Abby the famous roamin' chocolabs, and the arrows in my horse pasture....
the Hurleys? maybe next door was an exaggeration on my friend Matt's part. But they are Swanville.
ReplyDeleteOne stop past L is definitely the Hurleys! Good neighbors.
ReplyDelete