“Caribbean Vacation” (Not starring Chevy Chase) Part 6

We'd been flying for just over six hours.

+ We’d traveled coast-to-coast enjoying first class pampering.

+ There was giddy conversation about our next ten days in paradise, frequently interjecting “It’s the island way;” our new credo.

+ At last count, we had sipped our way through five Mimosas plus a Kaluha and coffee chaser thrown in for good behavior.

= Feeling really fine.

We gathered up our carry-on bags while simultaneously attempting to smooth out the surplus of wrinkles in our tropical linen outfits. Valerie noticed my busy movements, reaching over to touch my elbow as she reassured me in a soft voice, “Brian, relax. Wrinkled cotton and linen is stylish. Remember, it’s the island life.”

“Mmmmm.” That was all I could muster in response, largely to disguise the fact that my “busy” movements were less about trying to smooth my outfit than they were about trying to find my center of gravity. I had a bit of a buzz on; and I certainly wasn’t going to admit that I couldn’t hold my liquor. I had no idea whether or not she was in the same (or worse) condition, but it was doubtful. You see, Valerie was an experienced champagne devotee (we lived literally next door to the Sonoma and Napa valleys) and she and her best friend were one or two glasses short of having the Korbel vineyards name a variety of grapes in their honor. Being a rookie (and single malt scotch guy) the champagne had anything but a “sobering” effect on me.

Having conquered my balance, we exited the plane and looked for the nearest flight status monitors. There was one a few gates down on the left, so we headed towards it, eagerly scanning the screens before reaching them. There it was: American Eagle flight to Tortola: Gate D46. We smiled at each other.

“Ready, baby?” I asked accompanied by an expectant, raised eyebrow.

“I am, baby. Let’s go. I’m ready to grab our piece of the island life with my island man.”

“Wow. Let’s go. Our private jet awaits.” Our exchange was like a scene taken right out of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

From reading the gate number of our next flight on the monitor, and assessing our current location at B22, it appeared that we would have a bit of a walk. Actually, after I stopped an airport employee to ask where the gate was, we learned that we had to go to the other end of the airport. “Just follow the signs. You’ll know you’re headed in the right direction when you notice all the remodeling on that side of the airport.”

We started walking.

And walked.

And walked.

And walked.

There was no mistaking when we entered the “remodel zone.” The beginning of the work area was subtlety announced by a barricade of thick translucent strips of plastic hung from ceiling to floor and a sign reading: WARNING!! YOU ARE ENTERING A CONSTRUCTION ZONE. BE AWARE OF WORKERS AND HAZARDOUS EQUIPMENT. We chuckled to ourselves and pushed through to the other side. “Remodeling” is hardly adequate to capture what we found. It was more like the aftermath of an earthquake, with skeletons of metal beam, nails, jackhammers, workers and errant tools scattered…everywhere. It was just a minor hindrance to our destination; that’s up until the moment I perceived a climate shift along with some beads of moisture gathering on my face, back and within the underarm region. And then a small sign appeared ahead, hanging from the ceiling: WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE OF NO AIR CONDITIONING DURING OUR REMODELING.

“COTTON: The fabric of our lives.”

The cotton industry’s logo is accompanied with one word below: Natural. What they omitted related to our current situation was the following disclaimer:

Cotton, although organic and natural, is not known to possess any “wicking” characteristics associated with other fabrics. That “cool cotton” feeling is best experienced in dry, moderate climates. In more humid and/or tropical climates, and if you have a tendency towards generous perspiration, you may experience sensations of uncomfortable stickiness associated with the high absorbency nature of cotton.

As noted earlier, I come from a long line of genetic sweaters. FACT: My mother has to keep a tissue in her hand when she writes, as the sweat actually drips from the bottom of her hand onto the paper. FACT: On my father’s side, I remember my grandmother (Fanny Cohen) who was a large woman, and our visits to her apartment in Brooklyn each summer when I was a kid. Her place had no air conditioning, and when she’d move her flabby arms in a gesture the pungent beads of sweat would launch in all directions across the room, triggering frantic dodging. FACT: When I am in an environment of more than 60 degrees (indoor or outside) I am subject to enthusiastic sweating, stifled only by standing in front of a fan, A/C vent or transcendental medication.

Valerie, on the other hand, comes from a rare species, a lineage created without sweat glands. FACT: Her father, T. Norman, could play two sets of tennis on their family’s home court in Oklahoma City, mid August, and not even be moist. Needless to say, she was dry. I was rapidly warming up. I was rapidly getting stickier. My center of gravity was rapidly shifting. I looked over and noticed Valerie noticing my growing discomfort. I took a deep breath, forced a smile and said, “No problem. We can get into this. It’s the island life.”

It took another 15 minutes before I washed up on the shore of Gate D46.

For emphasis.

(b)

"Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 5

Like you, I wish I could just go ahead and fast-forward through the story right to that evening scene on the beach; you know, the one you have probably already painted onto the pages:

SCENE:

BRIAN AND VALERIE SITTING ON GOSSAMER WRINKLED BEACH…RECLINED, LEANING AGAINST EACH OTHER…CRYSTAL CHAMPAGNE FLUTES WITH BUBBLES BLINKING AGAINST SUNLIGHT…STEMS OF FRESH STRAWBERRIES SCATTERED AIMLESSLY AROUND THEM.

LATE EVENING… AMBER-RED DISK SUN AN “INCH” ABOVE THE HORIZON… WAVES OF INDIGO FINGERTIPS STRAINING UP TO BRUSH AGAINST THE MOLTEN LIGHT.

WAVES CHATTERING AND STUMBLING BASHFULLY ACROSS THE DRUNKEN SHORELINE.

THEIR EYES MEET, VALERIE’S GOLDEN HAIR SLOWLY WRITHING, THEN LIFTING UNDER THE CARESS OF THE CARIBBEAN BREEZE’S TEPID WHISPER…HER SHEER GOSSAMER COVER-UP TEASING SLIGHTLY OPEN TO REVEAL THE SUPPLE FRUIT OF HER….

But, no, that was not the path we were headed down.

We do, however, skip ahead to the departure day for our exotic birthday getaway. It came one sunny morning in August. I had not revealed the secret destination, and being the quintessential prankster had enjoyed offering a series of disjointed clues when Valerie would ask for at least some hint about the climate; appropriate wardrobe planning and all.

Four weeks out: “Sweetie, when was the last time you wore hiking boots? Did you say you have, or have not walked with crampons?”

Three weeks out: “You know, I was talking to a guy the other day who was telling about a vacation he and his wife took; you know they actually did hang gliding off the cliffs in Kuai!”

Two weeks out: “OK, I need to tell you one part of the trip now, because it involves a bank of immunizations over a four-day period. You’re not highly allergic to any animals or anything else that I might not be aware of aware of, are you?”

One week out: “We are going to a warm, tropical climate. Think light, carefree, alluring, sheer, body contact.”

There is nothing, nothing that is like a San Francisco bay morning in summer. Crisp, azure air. Fog blankets thawing beneath the sun’s gaze. Morning’s gulls dancing atop chilly pirouetting waves. The rumbling, yawning sounds of the foghorn. Everything was arranged and perfectly in its place: light-colored island attire in wispy linens and cottons, two stacks of books for poolside reading in between unplanned naps. The reservations confirmed. The anticipation was over. It was time.

I had redeemed my American Airlines miles for first class tickets…yes, for the entire roundtrip route from San Francisco to Puerto Rico, and from Puerto Rico to the island of Tortola. And on top of that, arrangements were prearranged with Long Bay Beach Resort for us to be met by our courteous personal driver and limo who would then whisk us away to our little slice of rapture (all included in the $4300). And then… it’s luxurious pampering, glamorous landscapes, gastronome delicacies and (oh yes) romance.

We arrived at San Francisco Airport (we got there an extra hour early so we could be the first onboard; full pampering) and boarded, where we were immediately greeted by our team of handsome men and women; our “personal attendants” for the initial leg of the journey. Not more than two minutes after we were seated we were brought two Mimosas (champagne and orange juice); our harmonizing “island” attire of white and off-white outfits undoubtedly conveyed our discerning stylish disposition that warranted immediate “alcohol-ization” (we’d down five glasses each before touching down in Puerto Rico). We took off and floated for the next hours among the cotton candy clouds…heading south…to the islands way of life.

“Honey,” Valerie began at one point about an hour from landing, “so are you going to tell me more about the resort now? I’d love to see the brochure; did you bring it?”

A glowing smile emerged from deep within me as I responded, “The resort is so exclusive that our agent only had one copy. But, let me say that the beach and landscape and flowers are beyond exotic; it’s the definition of enchanting. Just relax, imagine unforgettable moments of luxury and just keep reminding yourself, ‘It’s the island life.’” Her accepting smile illuminated the cabin; the only thing she didn’t come right out and say was, “You’re my knight in shining armor, my sweet prince.”

The rest of the flight was filled with light conversation, various gourmet nibbles and more Mimosas. And then, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. I hope you have enjoyed the flight this morning. If you look out the left window you will see that we have started our decent into Puerto Rico; that’s the aquamarine waters of the Caribbean spreading out in all directions.” The engines began their pronounced drop in tempo. Glancing over to Valerie, her azure eyes looking more lustrous than ever, I could feel loving adoration and appreciation for the luxury about to begin. I grinned warmly, punctuating the captain’s announcement with our new mantra: “It’s the island life.” She was beaming radiantly.

It was the last beam of radiance I would see for the next twelve hours.

For emphasis.

(b)

“Caribbean Vacation (not starring Chevy Chase).” Part 4

It felt like taking that first cup of water after wandering in Death Valley for a couple of days. Soothing. Life-giving. Refreshing. That’s what I felt when I heard the wellspring of Leslie’s ten words: “Wait a minute. I think I might have another option.”

“Really? (Brian, slow down…you sound too happy. Remember, control. Control.) I mean, great, tell me about it.” Leslie had left the shelving unit with the array of brochures and had moved to her desk. She sat down, opening the lower drawer of her steel grey desk, rummaging through some papers from which she emerged triumphantly with a #10 envelope- sized color brochure. I thought to myself, “Yes, redemption!” Then suddenly she stopped, her gleeful expression shifting to a frowned concern. “Hmmm…no, maybe not.” Her was voice barely discernable. She turned back towards the drawer, evidently having changed her mind. Screw control; I had to do something, fast.

“Wait. What’s the problem?”

“I thought this might work for you, but this is a location I rarely suggest to people. It’s a fairly remote island in the British West Indies (that sounds exotic), they have very limited accommodations (more exotic), there’s really not much to do beyond walking the empty white powdery beaches (even more exotic), white tablecloth gourmet dinners (very exotic) and rooms that open right onto your private beach (yes…romance…and sex!). Long Bay Beach Resort is really not for everybody.”


I felt a ripple in the Force. It beckoned. I leaned into it.

“Leslie, I know it’s obviously NOT the Legacy Voyage, but I must say that the concept of ‘remote, quiet and private’ are vital to my core mantra. Go ahead, tell me more.” I delivered the volley with my smooth, unshaken demeanor. I could feel the early hints of confidence; and even a few dry spots in my shirt.

“Well, Brian, the whole inclusive package, minus air, is $4300.”

Do you believe in divine intervention? That there are cosmic forces working out there that are influencing events? That there is a God of exotic vacations? Well, I do. And I knew that He, It, They must have heard my urgent pleadings for a way out. It also felt as if I could hear the threatening nemesis, Darth Vader, as he spoke about the power emanating from Luke Skywalker: “The force is strong with this one.”

Back on the planet, I was gleefully writing the check for the deposit while Leslie described more attributes of our little slice of Caribbean paradise: on the island of Tortola, British West Indies. As she talked she unfolded the brochure to walk me through the photographs:

• An expansive vista captured of the crescent-shaped beach, bending it’s white-gloved fingers to cup the azure shoreline like the left side of a parenthesis done in calligraphy;

• A black iron-arched gate, lushly ensconced in an explosion of tropical flowers, leading to a sumptuous pool scene with cushioned lounge chairs and perfectly folded cobalt-colored towels;

• A night scene with elegantly arranged and adorned white tablecloth settings, crystal stemware, rattan furniture, tropical print cushions, wicker ceiling fans and outbursts of flowers dotting the tabletops.

What can I say? I held back my tears of joy, knowing that through some quirk of providence I was now able to give the gift of endless adoration to celebrate my island princess, my treasure, my love. I sighed deeply. I smiled deeply.

Somewhere deep in a mental galaxy far, far away there was a slight tremor in the Force. In a difficult to get to place located somewhere in the innermost wastelands of my mind, a slivered thought penetrated the grey matter: “I don’t remember seeing any pictures of the guestrooms… no big deal.”

For emphasis.
(b)

“Caribbean Vacation (not starring Chevy Chase).” Part 3

FACT: Guys have big egos (you might have somehow missed this; those of you not currently inhabitants of Earth). And the size of said ego (contrary to popular myth) does not correlate to any anatomical accoutrement. The Bigus Egotistis syndrome probably emerged during early human evolution; circa Neanderthal Period. This likely included such DNA-shaping moments like:

“Hey Urghnrk (male name), dude. I just out-witted that dim-witted Saber Tooth; looks like it’s Tiger Burgers tonight. Beats the hell out of eating more of those lousy tree moss pâté concoctions.”

Or

“Hey Grrrrntz (male name), dude. I bet you I can swallow this handful of rocks in one big gulp without actually hurling any.”

Or

“Hey Eeeeyaay (female name), dudette. Wanna watch me flip some big T Rex chips into the lava pool tonight? I can get four skips before the awesome sizzles and brown cloud explosions.”


We can’t help it; it’s in our genes. That’s why after Leslie delivered the $20,000 gut punch I had to keep my cool, preserve the male species and not let her know that my life was passing before my eyes – and at the tender age of thirty-eight that’s not even a decent movie trailer. To make matters worse, I was faced with trying to manage an abundance of sweat building up under my arms, streaming down my back and chest; my very own perspiration relay race. My very manhood teetered in the balance. Not only could I NOT afford the $20K, but after a quick mental audit of my finances (this didn’t take long) I determined I might be able to afford a couple of nights at the local Motel 6, appetizers from a local takeout restaurant, strawberries in chocolate (frozen, with Hershey’s Kisses) and a bottle or two of Cold Duck (make believe) champagne.
But fear not and remember, I AM a man; the genes finally kicked in.

I executed the “slow head nod” gesture, simultaneously feigning my best “sure, I can handle that” smile.

“Wow, that sounds beyond anything I could have ever imagined, Leslie. Really fantastic. I just can’t imagine how I could do any better.” After a few more “stall nods” (realizing my fervent prayers for a “Scotty, beam me the %#$% out of here!” escape would not be answered), a flicker of hope sparked in my mind. Maybe there was a way out this she-devil-Black-Widow-sent-from-the-dark-side-of-hell-to-extract-the-very-essence-juices-of-my-manhood death grip.

I continued. “Sounds, perfect. Yup, perfect. And sticking to my policy, you do remember don’t you that I did mention that I never accept the first option presented to me regardless of how seemingly perfect it might appear, can you suggest another option? And just for comparison, I’d like to know what I’d sacrifice if we were to scale it back to, let’s say, give or take $5000.”

The t-shirt under my short-sleeved shirt had absorbed most of the sweat (the Hawaiian print disguising the other wet spots among the pattern), which was enough to lend some credibility to my otherwise shaky comeback. Leslie smiled, gathered up the other brochures she had selected, returned them to the shelf and walked back and forth along the shelves eyeing the remaining pamphlets.

“Hmmm. No. Let’s see...no, that won’t work. Hmmm. Hmmm.”

The sails of my imagination, previously billowing with the fulsome laughter of Caribbean winds, went flaccid:
• No white linen clothing…maybe Hanes t-shits…and no romance;
• No sunning on deck like lazy turtles, gesturing periodically with a nod for the prompt arrival of a single malt scotch for me and some bubbly for the lady…maybe poolside at the Motel 6 with whining kids and the delight of abrupt warm spots in the water…and no romance;
• No lobsters leaping gleefully on board with buttery dreams of our impending appreciation…maybe Red Lobster…and no romance;
• No phones, clients, deadlines…maybe ever again…and certainly no romance.

And then, when all seemed lost and hopeless; ten words changed everything.

“Wait a minute. I think I might have another option.”

For emphasis.
(b)

“Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase): Part 2

Leslie, my new-found guide to paradise walk over to a shelf filled with piles of brochures, gathered a select few and brought them over to the table. She sat down beside me and commenced with, “I have a picked a few of our more creative ideas for you to take a look at, based on the vision you gave me.” A little chest swelling on my end, and she continued: “Here’s the one I think was made, or dare I say created for this occasion. It is called the Caribbean Legacy Cruise (tidal wave swell in the chest) and is really for the discerning (more swell) adult who wants to find the treasures buried (more swell) in and around the magic waters (even more swell) of the Caribbean (stand back, there might be a swell explosion).

“Here’s the highlights,” she said while causally pointing to the rich color photographs melting across the pages of the glossy brochure:

• Multi-mast sailing vessel, The Caribbean Legacy;
• Ten-day islands getaway;
• Limited to 20 couples;
• Relaxing, exotic, luxurious, pampering, fine dining;
• Small, experienced crew understanding the meaning of “touch” and “service”;
• Private island visits, discoveries, swimming, snorkeling;
• The only schedule to keep…is yours;
• Bring your imagination;
• Experience a lasting and treasured legacy.

Considering myself a discerning adult (I am a professional; my business card says so), I listened quietly, expressionless, occasionally dimpling my brow (a professional “discerning” gesture) and nodding. This was to adroitly mask the images that were whirling around my imagination like a runaway carousel:

• LOTS of white linen clothing, and less…and romance;
• Sunning on the spacious deck like lazy turtles, gesturing periodically (with merely a nod) for the prompt arrival of a single-malt scotch for me and some bubbly for the lady…and romance;
• Scarlet lobsters literally bounding gleefully on board, with (sacrificial) buttery anticipation of our delicious appreciation…and romance;
• No phones, clients, deadlines…and (oh yes) romance.

“Well Leslie, I make it a policy to never say ‘yes’ to a first suggestion without hearing all the options; and because you have really ‘gotten’ what I am all about this might be the first time. I’m oblivious as to how, on your first attempt, you could possibly have found anything more perfectly suitable for Valerie and me.” I still portrayed a modicum of cool, unmistakable through my unflinching demeanor and monotone tonality (though my heart was pounding wildly).” I milked the ‘discerning’ pause a bit more, and then brought it down the home stretch. “I think that if I am correct, and I am a pretty good judge of people, you like to do business with people who know what they want…and claim it, right?” She smiled and nodded; I had her in the palm of my hand. Now, for the clincher. “I’d like to know the ‘real’ price if I were to write you a check, today -- that’s right, cash right now, as the deposit for this perfect vacation.”

Clear. Concise. Commanding. Deadly.

I had her in the palm of my hand.

“Wow, Brian…may I call you Brian (bonding attempt; good sign)? That sounds fantastic (better sign). Here’s the deal: The fixed inclusive price per couple for this ten-day journey is $20,000. And you’ll be pleased to know that this does include all your air, ground, food, drink and gratuities.” Pause. “So, should I go ahead and write this up for you, Brian?”

Clear. Concise. Commanding. Deadly.

She had me in the palm of her hand.

For emphasis – (b)

“Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase).” Part 1

*Note to my readers: The following is a departure from my typically random column entry topics; it's a full story. It's probably something like a novella, or novelette or novelocity. This is largely in response to one of my "starstruck" readers who has encouraged me to commit myself to one theme. To see if I can manage my A.D.D. over an extended period of time AND hold the attention of all (3) of my loyal fans. So, here's the deal: give me the first two or three entries and let me know if you are enjoying it. I might even try the "S" word: survey (all my Jewish buddies are cringing and saying, "Oy vey, not another sur vey!"

Here we go...

I watched the movie Christmas Vacation the other day. My stomach ached laughing at Chevy Chase’s antics and mishaps trying to plan the perfect family vacation at Wallyworld. What an idiot! And candidly, I was a little pissed off at how bad it made us men look; bungling, egotistical, stubborn, prideful, haughty, know-it-alls. But, I am a mature adult male and know how to control my emotions.

After the movie, I switched back to cable mode and immediately saw a commercial promoting travel to the Bahamas. And that brought back memories of a saga about which I have wanted to write for almost twenty years. I’ll let you be the judge if you concur that it carries wisdom for the male species of all ages, colors, shapes, sizes, cultures and dispositions: never ever should a guy try, alone, to plan a surprise “exotic” dream vacation. Never.” Now, I know there are women out there nodding in agreement; there’s probably even some men who are rolling their eyes, puffing up their chest, flexing their pectorals and grabbing their crotch (it’s a guy thing) while making prehistoric throaty sounds. But stay with me on this, read my testimony and then judge for yourself.

It was the noblest of gestures; I wanted to plan something exotic and memorable to celebrate Valerie’s 40th birthday. We’d always made birthdays a big deal in our family; the entire week leading up to the actual birthday was designated for pampering the Kagan honoree. And this was clearly a year warranting a 40th Birthday Extravaganza of Olympian Proportions.

READER NOTE: I am a creative type. Creative types have gargantuan egos (if you’re one, get over yourself and admit it – you know I’m right!) and are never satisfied with just OK, Good or Fine. We respond most effectively to amazing, cool, fantastic and wow situations.

So, when I watched that TV commercial for Bahamas tourism the lights started flashing. “Oh yeah baby, that’s it. I’m going to take my lovely bride, my queen, to the paradisiacal waters of the Caribbean.”

I instantly enjoyed vivid images dancing across my mind like the titillating promo for a new Oscar-worthy love story:

• Clear, crystalline waters lapping indolently onto our sleepy (private) white linen beach, tickling our toes while we strolled to the tranquil refrain of palms…and romance;
• Quiet nights lounging languidly on the deck of our opulent schooner, counting falling stars as they skip across the universe…and romance;
• Attired in cotton ecru suppleness for our dreamy banquet of champagne and luxuriant island delicacies…and romance;
• Tender touches, lingering amorous glances, kisses…and oh yes, romance.

The trajectory was defined. My strategy unfolded with the kind of confidence, resolve and demeanor of other historic men of romantic chivalry: Lancelot (First Knight, Richard Gere version), William Wallace (Braveheart, Mel Gibson version), Robin Hood (Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Kevin Costner version) and James Bond (duh, the Sean Connery version). I was on a mission.

The next day I stopped in to visit the small travel agency in the office complex where I worked in San Francisco. The young woman working the small office greeted me with a warm smile, and then asked that fateful question: “Hi, I’m Leslie. Is there a travel idea I could assist you with?”

“Well, glad you asked, Leslie. I do have a specific vision for a very special 40th birthday surprise for my wife. And I’m planning it myself.” I thought I detected an aquamarine twinkle in Leslie’s eyes; staccato clips of Sean, Mel, Richie and Kev flared up before me. Before she could reply I cleared my throat, stood taller and continued, “I have vision…something with an exotic Caribbean vibe. I want it to be an experience she will never forget.” Delivery: flawless. I awaited her response.

“My, what a cool thing to do, especially for a man. I don’t see this very often. I’d love to help you make your vision come true.”

That’s all she had to say. My entire upper body swelled. I resisted freeing the throaty grunt welling up in my vocal chords and the urge to grab my groin. The fireworks of my imagination were launched. Step aside Sean. The rendezvous of unparalleled passion and adventure in a Caribbean paradise had begun.

For emphasis (...and romance).
(b)