(b) in Parenthesis: “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.

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.”