"Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase). FINAL CHAPTER

We took two steps into Unit #3, and froze. No words were exchanged as we surveyed the layout of our luxury suite; the oasis for our sundrenched bodies after a day relaxing under billowing palm leaves, with rum-laced beverages to quench our thirst and induce languid thoughts of amore:

• Immediately to the right was a medium-brown wooden desktop attached and protruding from the wall, with an avocado-colored Formica surface and two front legs to brace it against the mottled avocado, beige and grey swirl pin-wheeling across the linoleum flooring; it featured gently raised warps mimicking the waves breaking outside on the beach;
• A sole wooden chair of a different shade of brown and avocado vinyl seat covering pushed beneath the “desk” protrusion;
• Set dramatically atop the desk was a single flyswatter leaning majestically against a large can of “Industrial Strength Insecticide” with a logo set in its center displaying the (large) silhouette of a mosquito in the middle of a large black circle, and a blood-red line cutting diagonally across its diameter and the monstrous insect;

• The double bed awaited, its puffs of synthetic foam pillows, (nearly) white sheets and blanket, and an avocado floral printed duvet folded and draped over the end of the bed beckoning us into its comforting arms;

• An open, sans-screen window above the bed, single ceiling fan wobbling sluggishly above us and lukewarm breeze heightened a dawning consciousness that there was no air conditioning;
• The room was…warm.

Gathering our courage, we moved into the next room to discover an early circa 60’s kitchenette with a chipped white enamel electric stove that would have made Dwight D. Eisenhower proud. It had a brushed aluminum teakettle on one of the burners, whose profusion of dents looked as if it may, in fact, have been wounded and sent home from the front lines with Ike himself.

The matching chipped white enamel cabinets were perched above the avocado green- speckled countertops.

Placed neatly adjacent to the chipped white enamel sink were two bubble-textured clear plastic tumblers, and two place settings of Corelle; you know, the dishware that you can drop on the floor without breaking or having to pick it up, because their space-age material enables them to vault, unscathed, directly back into your hand.

Valerie quickly went for one of the tumblers and downed a glass of water from the sink. I knew the moment had arrived that I must step up and take charge of the situation.

“Valerie, we can do this. We can make this work.” Not allowing her time to respond I continued. “Besides, we won’t be in the room during the day, and by the time we come in to go to sleep we’ll shower and enjoy the cool ocean breeze. C’mon, we are right on the water, for God’s sake!”

I’m convinced that she was more beaten down, tired and hot at this point, than being ready to agree with anything I had just said.

“Sure we can,” she surrendered and took another gulp of water. “I’m going to get out of these clothes and take a shower. Why don’t you change and I’ll meet you on the beach.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” I acknowledged her suggestion and turned to leave the room.

“Brian.” There was tenderness in her voice. I turned to see her smiling at me as she completed her statement, “it is going to be fine. I know we will make the most of sharing this amazing place together. Thanks for making it all possible.”

__________________________________________________________________

Dream-crested waves bubbled across my legs as I stood ankle deep in the water in front of our unit. The harmony of softly breaking waves and breeze combing through palm leaves soothed my frayed nerves. I was remembering all of the images I had painted over the last four months; rediscovering stolen moments, imagining lazy mornings sipping coffee in bed and anticipating prolonged touches after another intoxicating day in paradise. All of these heavenly images were now replaced with a collection of terrifying projection; feverishly dodging, spraying and swatting at a variety of blood-thirsty flying insects, the complete absence of any form of body contact (there was a better-than-good chance I’d be staying alone), and heavily ingesting volumes of rum to facilitate sensory deprivation and impenetrable sleep. I would have lingered in this well deserved moment of self- castigation, had it not been for the quavering whimper of misery and death-like moan that welled up behind me like a dense cloud. It was repeating, rising in amplification and seemed to be emanating from the unit.

“Briiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnn…” Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan….”

When I arrived in the bathroom, breathless, I opened the blotchy Plexiglas door to the shower and encountered a scene as if taken from an Alfred Hitchcock film. Valerie was standing and covering herself in a self-protecting embrace, suds covering her head mixed with streams of water and makeup-infused tears cascading down her distraught face, and above her head a catawampus array of water projectiles escaping from the rusted-over spray hole openings.

Quickly surveying the stall and not finding the scorpion…or tarantula…or boa constrictor such as could cause such an horrific sound coming from a human being, Valerie emitted a final shrill, “Brian…look!”

She looked down and pointed to the mildew-seamed white tiles, and then I saw it; the source of her terror. I was aghast at the sight of it. There was a two-inch diameter opening in the center of the floor; at first glance just a normal drain. Upon closer investigation, the bright light reflecting off the falling water and glowing up through the opening revealed a hole that went all the way through the structure, out the bottom of the foundation and directly into the sand ten feet below.

I looked at the hole again. I looked up at Valerie. My head turned as I looked over at the toilet. And then, I erupted.

“THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD IT! WE’RE OUT OF HERE.”

I had arrived at the desk in the reception area likely even before Valerie was out of the shower, dressed and on her way to meet me as instructed before I stormed out the of the unit. Testosterone armies were mobilizing in every sector of my body, alert and ready to fight for justice. Someone was going to pay for these last nine hours of living hell, and unfortunately, sarong or not, whoever was at the desk was going to endure the full brunt of Tropical Storm Brian. Our former native hostess was the winner. Greeting me with that annoying, infernal island way grin she opened with,

“Hello again. May I assist you?”

I thought to myself, “No hesitation, baby, here it comes.” I delivered the assault with the deadly precision of 007’s Walther PPK. “Yes, you certainly may. I’m Mr. Kagan from San Francisco.” I leaned in, tightening my glance.” My wife and I just checked into Unit #3. There is no air conditioning. No screens. Warped flooring. Bug spray. Naugahyde vinyl seats. Make-believe dishware. And holes in the bathroom floor for…it doesn’t matter; here’s the deal. My wife has a serious allergic and asthmatic condition and, given the stifling air and particulate infusion in this unit, there is a good chance that upon reaching a certain body temperature she could go into convulsive seizures. This is NOT what I signed up for. Tell me, please, that you have another unit somewhere on this property with air conditioning, real furnishings and connected plumbing.”

Noticeably aghast and recoiling from my punishing salvo, she stammered out a pathetic response.

“Well…uh…Mr. Kagan I am so sorry. All of our European guests prefer units with no air conditioning.”

“We’re Americans, for God’s sake! And no wonder they lost the war. You must have another unit somewhere on this island with air conditioning and screens.”

Valerie had now joined me with one of the bubble-plastic tumblers filled with water, which she steadily emptied through the duration of the exchange.

After fumbling anxiously through her 3X5 note cards, the receptionist looked up and delivered the following as a gesture of surrender. “There does appear to be one unit at the other end of the property that has air conditioning…hmmm, let me see…but, unfortunately…” I cut her off before her lips could even form the next words, “Stop! We are removing unfortunately from the Tortola language. Only yes, we can, fortunately kinds of words are permitted from this point on."

“Well, I suppose we could make this work, although the room is more expensive than the American plan you paid for.”

“I don’t care how much it costs; we’ll take it.”

The room was absolutely marvelous; real terracotta tiled floors, real tropical print fabrics covering all the real furniture made of rattan, real cotton sheets covering the luscious king-sized bed, a real bathroom adorned with decorative tiles, glass-block walls and door-less opening onto the expansive deck with generous cushioned lounge chairs overlooking the real crystalline waters of the Caribbean, and best of all…real cool delightful priceless air conditioning. Ms. Sarong had walked with us over to these two-storied units to check out the room, and more importantly to avoid another onslaught.

There was no need for any further discussion.

“Yes. We’ll take it.”

Ms. Sarong and Valerie radiated with two wonderful island way smiles.

___________________________________________

The return walk to the reception office to execute the specifics for the new room, was the most relaxed I had felt since we stepped on the first plane out of San Francisco. Valerie and I, now holding hands, were finally taking in all the surrounding glories of our private paradise for the next ten days. We even giggled, remembering some of the craziest moments, amazed that all these events could have possibly happened to us over the span of just nine hours.

“It’s truly amazing, dear,” I commented, then continuing, “and I am so glad it happened on the front end of our trip, and now it’s all behind.”

“Me too, Brian. And I wouldn’t have made it at all, had I not been drinking water since I got to the room.”

Ms. Sarong, who had been walking about five feet in front of us, stopped in her tracks. She turned around, with an expression of wide-eyed panic mixed with fright.

“Water? You drank the water in the room? No... no, you must never drink the tap water here in Tortola.”

THE END

EPILOGUE

Just in case you're wondering...Valerie miraculously did not have a negative reaction to the water she drank. The ten days that we spent in Tortola were absolutely as magical as I had hoped that it would be, and more wonderful than we could ever have imagined. And...I strongly offer the following suggestion to my brotherhood of men: DO NOT attempt this type of surprise planning alone and without adult supervision. Trust me on this.

For emphasis.

(b)

“Caribbean Vacation” (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 13

The path leading into Long Bay Beach Resort must have been designed by the Angelic Host, as an early glimpse of heaven on earth. A wrought-iron archway spanned the road, woven with thick emerald coiled vines and the dribbled paints of blossoms, greeting and drawing us into another world. The road sauntered gently through a tunnel of overgrown trees that opened to punctuated sparks of beach, handsome landscaping and ocean.

The transformation from where we had come and what we had experienced over the past few hours was like a potent elixir. The tension and anxieties softened and melted like cold butter set out on a sun-drenched countertop. And as if the potion was simultaneously trickling through our bodies, Valerie turned towards me, extending her right hand and laying it tenderly on top of my hand on the seat. I looked up to find her smiling and nodding her approval; we were, in fact, someplace extraordinary. I released a deep sigh and knew that everything was going to be just fine. All the angst, worry and sweat were a small price to pay. And this was just the driveway into the property. We continued for another mile or so, passing a pool area embellished with thick-cushioned lounge chairs, folded towels and potted flowers before turning to our left and stopping in front of a small bamboo building. We got out of the car and, rejuvenated, walked towards the open-air reception area where an exotic-looking woman immediately greeted us. She appeared to be in her twenties with a cappuccino-colored complexion, radiant smile and supple figure wrapped snugly in a floral-printed sarong.

“Welcome to Long Bay Beach Resort. We are so very glad to see you.” Her diction was perfect, with only a hint of Britannic influence. “And who might I address, please,” she offered more as a statement of affirmation than a question.

“I am Mr. Kagan from San Francisco, and this is my wife, Valerie. We are very pleased to be here.”

We proceeded to a desk that was situated in the center of the small hut-like structure where she opened a folder that had a label with our name typed and placed neatly on the tab. It was clear that our arrival was anticipated. We took our seats in two, dark rattan chairs with cushions covered with the identical fabric of her sarong. “Nice touch,” I thought to myself. To our left I looked into a room that I immediately recognized as the restaurant’s dining area, with its pristine white tablecloths and glistening ebony piano. “Just like in the brochure,” I confirmed in my mind.

“Yes, Mr. & Mrs. Kagan, we have everything set for you, with your ocean-side suite and American meal plan featuring our four-star restaurant. You are in Unit #3 which is just out this door and across the path where the signs will direct you to your door.” I nodded, confirming the package and noting mentally, “This is my kind of service.” She stood up, gesturing towards the door with her final comment, “We are here to help make your visit to Tortola a wonderful and romantic memory. Please let us know if there is any way in which we can serve you.” A mental image of Sean Connery began tickling my male ego as I reflected, “Yes, and romance.”

“Thanks so much. Now, if you would just give me the room key we’ll be on our way.”


“Room key? Mr. Kagan, there are no room keys here at Long Bay Beach. Our staff and guests are very exclusive, and trusted.”

“Really? That’s amazing. OK then, thank you.”

We shook hands and headed to the doorway. Valerie leaned over and whispered into my ear, “I am going to go to the bathroom over there. I’ll meet you out front.” I stepped outside and noticed that our car and driver had gone, apparently to deliver our luggage to the room so we would not have the hassle. I enjoyed the surrounding ambiance of the area; rows of palm trees and flowering beds lining a web of pathways to the khaki green guest buildings hidden behind the trees.

The floral and ocean scents were exhilarating. I was ready for us to shed the travel- weary clothing, don bathing suits and imagined the two of us reclining on the private beach in front of our unit, allowing the crystal water to caress us into blissful oblivion. Valerie’s hand touching my arm brought me back into the moment.

“The bathroom was amazing. Very decorative,” as she continued with a rise in her voice, “and I finally had the chance to drink some water.”

“That’s great. So, are you ready to get out of these clothes and really get into the island way?” I asked.

“Baby, I am beyond ready.”

We walked with renewed energy, anticipating our delightfully cool room and ensuing relaxation. The trail led to the right, leaning around a cluster of trees and then bending to the left past a sign printed with, “Units 1-5 Ahead.” The one-story building to our left, which we assumed to be ours, was elevated about ten feet above the sand on thick metal columns. Noting this structural curiosity, we turned the corner and saw a closed wooden gate in front of us that served as the private entrance to a thin sidewalk running along the front of the building. I lifted the rusted metal latch; it emitted a short creaking sound as I opened the gate to allow Valerie passage. After she had passed me, I released the door and moved forward. We kept walking down the sidewalk, noticing that each unit had two steps up to the all-glass fronts with sliding doors and a small black number placed above the entrance to indicate the unit. Unit #1…#2…and there it was, Unit #3. Anticipation running rampant through every niche of our bodies, we took the two steps up and stood in front of our palace entry.

The converging sounds of sand, rust and metal that bled forth from my muscle-searing effort to open the sliding door to our unit was something akin to fingernails across blackboard or the hideous screeching of the Harpies that tortured Ulysses’ men beyond insanity in Homer’s The Iliad. But that was nothing compared to what awaited us inside, the scene of which triggered an immediate thought and horrified realization from another moment…from another place…from another galaxy far, far away.

“Oh…my…God. I never saw a picture of the room.”

For emphasis.
(b)

"Caribbean Vacation" (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 12

The road leading out from the airport was more of a dirt road that was riddled with pocked ruts reminiscent of a WW2 bombing run. What little suspension that remained attached to the bottom of the car emitted all types of rattling and metal-upon-metal grinding sounds; the clatter only occasionally drowned out by the full attention you had to pay while holding onto your seat to avoid smacking your head on the roof, backside of the front seats, or the sidewalls. All of the aforementioned acrobatics were delivered by a nonstop assault of jarring swerves and road bumps that would launch us skyward. And yes, there was no air-conditioning. The only thing that might have been worse would be admitting defeat, giving in to the urge to vomit and weeping openly while begging for Valerie’s unwarranted forgiveness…who, for the next forty-five minutes would not look at me, assuming her stoic demeanor staring out the open window, the stifling breeze whipping her hair and clothes into a frenzied tangle of fiber. But that “guy thing” would not allow me to surrender.

OK, it would not be fair to the Tortola Bureau of Tourism for me not to highlight a few of the sights, sounds and scents we were able to experience en route to Long Bay, with the final thread of hope that I still clutched to with a primal death grip. Along the way:

• We saw an un-tethered long-horned ox, about the size of Rhode Island, walking along the road, which prompted a sudden stop when he decided to cross to the other side of the road;
• We came into a quaint village-like area peppered with palm trees that twisted in all directions, framing a flower-adorned intersection faintly resembling a town square;
• At the intersection of the quaint village-like area peppered with palm trees, our driver stopped and called out to a man standing nearby on the left side of the road, triggering his coming to and getting into the car to join us for a ride;
• Our new quartet moved on, the rattling and heaving car movements now adorned with the addition of dual body odor and conversation vaguely sounding like the English language. The words I could decipher pieced together to reveal that the entire island had, just the day before, ended their annual festival; seven days of non-stop dancing, partying, eating and the consumption of volumes of rum;
• Every so often, our driver would slow down as we passed through areas of partial habitation, all the structures built from concrete blocks, corrugated metal roofs and doors, glassless windows, and adorned by a mangy dog sleeping against the wall…likely Tortola’s national mascot. Shuddering fear raced through my body each time he slowed, thinking at any moment he might turn around with that wide, rummy smile and say something that bore a resemblance to, “Welcome to paradise, luxury and escape: Long Bay Beach Resort.”

Not long after dropping off our added commuter at an unmarked place along the road, there was a gradual shift in the scenery. On our left side was a series of harbor-like coves with sail masts bobbing in the water and waving to us as we hurtled past. A vista of increasing elevation and lush greenery exploded with new colors as the car veered to the right and began a climb towards what was apparently a mountain pass. It was exquisite and offered some unfamiliar encouragement that we had possibly escaped tropical purgatory and were headed to the “other side.” The pass spilled us out into an opening to behold a fresh landscape of small hut-like structures and what felt like a more pristine lifestyle. The view featured colorfully painted fences, a few upscale residences and the distant aquamarine shoreline. I would have loved to share my newfound encouragement with Valerie, but she was still looking out the window.

The road coiled around a bit and ended, arriving at what appeared to be a beachside town. The connected buildings on either side of the narrow road were what you might imagine of a Caribbean town by the ocean: sandaled feet, lightweight attire, sea-weathered structures of tropical colored paints and the incomparable sound of waves cheering onto the silken beaches. I thought we might be close to our destination, but instead of turning into any of the openings cut through the buildings, we continued past the town and began climbing again. We had travelled only a short distance, when the car rounded a corner opening to a breathtaking view; the exact panoramic scene that adorned the front of the travel brochure. The shoreline bent to the left, then made an unhurried rightward sweeping arc of linen sands and palm trees that ran almost out of sight. Above us to the left emerged architecturally fabulous homes that were built right into the side of the mountain and hoarding their cherished view.

“Welkam to Lawng Beh.”

For emphasis.
(b)

“Caribbean Vacation” (not starring Chevy Chase). Part 11

The fact that the last twenty minutes had not involved any interaction with farm animals or juntas, and that Valerie had recently smiled, gave me the feeling that maybe the worst was behind us. Perhaps we’d discover we were not rehearsing scenes for the sequel to The Out-of-Towners. We gathered up our luggage, proceeded without incident through customs and headed towards the exit. We had this unspoken confidence that just beyond the front door our uniformed driver would be awaiting us; our Long Bay Beach Resort opulent carriage would be ready to transport us to our island hideaway.

We walked out the front door, suitcases in tow, only to discover that there was no elegant shuttle anywhere in sight along the curb. In fact, there were no curbs at all. The front door had opened to a narrow ribbon of concrete that was at the same level as the ground, aka the road. Added to this disarming image were two beat-up compact cars and three Men of Tortola leaning against the wall. Disappointed as I was at this revelation, I was unwilling to give in to discouragement’s loathsome grip. I snapped into action employing the “island way” method and my supreme prowess of deductive reasoning before delivering, “Damn, I was hoping they’d be waiting for us. I guess they’ll be here in a few minutes. What do you think?”

Valerie must have been operating on the same fuel of enthusiasm, as she quickly responded, “I bet you’re right.” Then she added, “Boy, the people here sure seem to be moving slowly. Guess it’s the pace of the tropics.” Nodding agreement, I began to more closely survey our surroundings.

The scene fanned open onto our first panorama of Tortola’s landscape: lush, broad-leafed green foliage, palm trees bowing to greet us with the gentle wind and vibrant floral specks of reds and yellows everywhere. The captivating perfume of ocean and island flowers wafted gently around us, beckoning with long slender fingers. I closed my eyes and momentarily surrendered to its seduction. Upon opening my eyes, I scanned the horizon hoping to see our shuttle approaching. In the absence of any vehicular movement, my attention was drawn back to the three men standing along the sidewalk. All three were wearing what appeared to be the local Men-of-Tortola garb comprised of light-colored and baggy cotton pants, short-sleeved cotton buttoned-down solid colored (and soiled looking) shirts and sandals. The furthest man from us was about thirty yards away, with the closest around ten yards to the left of where we were waiting. All three sets of eyes appeared closed.

Sudden movement to my left caught my attention as the man standing in the middle position against the wall straightened up, began walking in lazy strides and was clearly looking in our direction. I looked to my right, thinking that he must be looking for an arriving friend. There were no other people beyond us. As I turned and looked back it appeared, curiously, that he was almost within striking distance and looking directly at me.

“He’s just going to ask me if our plane just arrived from Puerto Rico,” I thought to myself.

It was becoming clear that the man approaching us was, in fact, looking right at me in the way you do when you’re trying to make eye contact and seek acknowledgement. He was not carrying a little handwritten sign with our last name on it. He was not wearing a resort-styled uniform or badge. There was no adorable island shuttle anywhere, just three old and rusty cars. The knot in my neck and shoulders squeezed tighter as I awaited the unnerving question he bore.

“Kay-gon?”

Note: I feel compelled to insert a cosmic addendum at this point in the story. Ever since my Oklahoma University stint during the heyday of the Hippie era, circa early 70’s, I have maintained my conviction that there is a “higher” order in the universe. Among numerous revelations about life, nature and social justice it was widely accepted that “what goes around, comes around.” It was hard to avoid such conclusions after ingesting heavy doses of Kahil Gibran, Timothy Leary, J.R.R. Tolkien and Kurt Vonnegut read to the background of Led Zeppelin, Hendrix and the Moody Blues; all best experienced with Day-Glo painted fishnet hung from the dorm room ceiling, black light and incense. And adding to this higher order of things, unlike a contemporary and future figure of presidential note, I admit that I did inhale. Given my history, it was a sure thing that what I was experiencing at that Tortola moment on the hot sidewalk, wrinkled and damp, was cosmic payback from a childhood event. I was ten-years-old when I had set the backyard storage shed on fire in Dallas. I had been playing Cowboys and Indians. I was the Indians circling a hapless wagon train of ants, and with my magic lighter fluid and matches, was enjoying their “popping” as they met their blazing doom. Arriving home from school later that day I was greeted by a scene of two hook-and-ladder teams and one really pissed-off mother. Sustaining only a brutal scolding I had dodged a bullet, narrowly avoiding the distinction of becoming Texas’ first ten-year-old Jewish kid murdered by his own mother. Delayed justice was about to be served.

“Yes,” long pause and grimace before confirming, “We are the Kagans.”

“Lawng Beh Bich Rezot.” Our newfound escort beamed and stood taller with a prideful expression reserved for international dignitaries. Standing only a few feet in front of us he suddenly extended both arms; Valerie and I instinctively took a step back, unsure as to whether he wanted to shake our hands…or possibly embrace us in some sort of full body, intimate ceremonial group hug. Instead, he moved past us and somehow collected all our luggage while head-gesturing us to move behind him towards the road. And behold, there to our surprise was our love buggy to paradise: a grey, dented 1970’s Toyota Corolla hatchback.

We stood watching in awe as our very own Man of Tortola managed to cram our luggage into the rear of the car, only then to be stunned when he wrapped and knotted a fraying rope to (almost) close the hatchback. He motioned us to get in, which we immediately obeyed, fearing personally inflicted assistance. Once inside, he donned a broad smile of accomplishment and walked to the driver side door, easing his lanky shape into the seat. He closed the door and, while staring forward, turned the key to start the engine and said in a cordial, island way, “Ahh, Lawng Beh Bich Rezot.”

Justice had finally been served.


For emphasis - (b)

“Caribbean Vacation.” (Not starring Chevy Chase) Part 10

Have you ever found yourself standing in front of the baggage carousel at the airport waiting for that infernal flashing red light and piercing buzzer to announce the arrival of your luggage? Have you stood there checking your watch every trudging minute, checking for messages on your cell phone, pacing and emitting a series of breathy huffs in frustration at how frigging (I have to be a responsible adult, as there might be small children reading, along with my Christian friends, many of whom know and use expressive words but won’t admit it) long it takes to get your bags. And then, after wearing a groove into the decorative linoleum floor, the lights and sounds erupt and bags hiccup out of the opening. And yours is ALWAYS one of the last few to arrive. Sound familiar? I would have relished and even performed the Happy Feet dance in penguin makeup for even a semblance of that experience.

Our trusty, rusty open-air shuttle meandered for a few minutes through what seemed more like an auto parts junkyard than an airport before arriving in front of one of the larger concrete block buildings. We were seated in two facing rows on either side of the paneled flatbed. Valerie sat next to me on my right. However, had we not been wearing similar attire you would not have recognized that we actually knew each other. She had replicated her onboard pose from the plane: staring quietly out into the distance. Finally, after we had jumped down from the back of the truck and were headed towards an opening in the concrete wall, I gently (and carefully) touched her shoulder. She turned in response, and even though I could not see eyes concealed behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses, I knew from the straight (unmoving) line of her mouth that she might be a bit concerned. OK, pissed.

“The good news is that our resort host driver will probably be out front, holding a sign with our name on it. He’ll take our bags and put them into the small, cozy van and we’ll be taken to the property.” I presented this message with a reassuring smile and tender squeeze on her shoulder, to which I added with a lift in my voice, “Hey, we can handle this. It’s the island way.”

At this point in our marriage I had known Valerie for eleven years, during which time we had dated, frolicked, consummated, laughed, cried and dealt with the typical kinds of things that couples deal with in a relationship. And we always found a way to make the most of every situation, and then move on. Of course, these eleven years had been spent in the United States of America; the home of the brave, land of the free and where the closest we had ever been to experiencing a third world country was a hotel without room service and an ice machine in the hallway. In those rare instances when I had unwittingly delivered what might be best termed another Brian Moment, Valerie had come to develop “the look.”

The Look:

• The aforementioned straight lined, unmoving lips;
• Head tilted upwards at a slight right angle;
• Translucent sky-blue eyes morphed into scorching cobalt flames;
• Body language inappropriate for minors;
• Steely, cold silence.

It’s a good thing this trip happened many years before the airing of Desperate Housewives. I felt (guardedly) confident that if we got through baggage claim and customs we would be fine.

We passed through the large opening and entered the ”baggage claim” area. The space was reminiscent of the interior of an dilapidated barn, dotted with wooden crates, dented folding chairs and a single ceiling fan that looked ominously ready to break loose; it was hung with a series of frayed wires and wobbled as it turned ever soooooooo slowly. I doubt that even the small ribbon of flies circling the blades’ perimeter felt any ripple of a breeze. Outside a rope that separated the arriving passengers from official entry into this province of Her Majesty the Queen, were about twenty or so “large, sinewy and rock-solid with luminous dark skin” men of Tortola. Most of them appeared exhausted and were propped up against the wall, a few of them walking slowly and scanning the people in the baggage area. I thought to myself that they must be looking for friends, family members or their returning livestock.

The sharp, rasping sound of metal rubbing against metal split the silence as the exterior door was lifted up to reveal the back end of another pickup truck. Piled high in the bed was a mound of luggage that, after a brief flurry of movement, was tossed into an open metal bin just inside the opening. We wormed our way forward with the crowd and, to our surprise and amazement, our luggage was all there.

The brief rush of gratitude and optimism was so potent, that it must have burst through my outer tantric aura and pierced into Valerie’s; standing to her left I noticed that she had softly grinned and let out a long sigh in unison with my own. She must have felt the same energy shift in the room, because she turned towards me and lifted her face to meet my gaze. The spark igniting in my belly was instantaneous. It was the same feeling I had the first time that I saw Valerie walk into the trendy shoe store I managed in Norman, Oklahoma a decade earlier.

“Baby…” Valerie was apparently lightening up a bit, given the fact that she had leaned closer and was now sans sunglasses and making direct eye contact with me. Her expression was the most tranquil it had looked since the first hour of the flight from San Francisco to Puerto Rico. “…this is good sign. I was convinced they had lost the bags and I’d be wearing these same clothes for the next week.”

Noticing that I was releasing a few pounds of the stress that I had added to my posture, she continued, “We can do this, you know. It’s the island way.”

My pulse quickened and I was feeling renewed energy. I knew we had made it through the gauntlet. We had not surrendered our exotic, luxurious dreams to a few minor inconveniences along the way.

It was our time.

I sighed a final punctuation to the moment, “The island way is the only way. Let’s get out of here, baby.”

All we had to do now was go outside and wait at the shuttle area for our driver host to whisk us away to the splendid arms of Long Bay Beach Resort.

For emphasis – (b)