St. Martin, French West Indies

Nathaniel Wyatt, a prosperous, native
islander ferried us around the island's narrow roads, in
his immaculately kept six passenger cab.($25) He
lamented the driving habits of some of the islanders,
calling them “Haitians.” According to the natives, no
one in Haiti owns an automobile and therefore has no
conception of any “rules of the road.” So, those who
emigrate to St.Maarten and drive a cab for a living
become swash-buckling road warriors who do pretty much
what they please when driving, much to the consternation
of the other drivers.

Thirty minutes later, we were standing in
the airy and attractive lobby of the Hotel Mont Vernon,
on the French cul de sac, on Orient Bay. The hotel is
built into the hillside, on several levels, starting
with the lobby and dining complex on the top of the
rise. Then, 12 three story complexes of rooms, named
after different Caribbean islands, stagger down the
hillside to the pool, and beach level complexes. The
entire hotel had just undergone a seven-month
refurbishment. The fresh paint and green-colored,
copper, roofs sparkled attractively in the tropical sun.

We checked in and were assigned chambre
# 3211 in the Aruba building. Conrad, the porter,
ferried our bags to the room level with a small truck,
as Mary and I descended two sets of steps to reach the
room. It is large and attractive, with a deep balcony
that looks out upon the ocean and rocky promontory below
us. The visage was natural and quite beautiful. We
unpacked and settled in. Thus ensconced, we decided to
reconnoiter the complex.

Off the main lobby is a bar area. Through
it, sits a dining complex for both breakfast and
dinners. A small notions shop is just off the lobby. We
stopped in to pick up some snacks, a bottle of wine and
some designer water.

Next, we walked down several more sets of
steps to the poolside complex. Three pools, of
progressive depths, are surrounded by a huge, hard- wood
deck. It is flanked on one side by a pool bar and lunch
area. The rest of the large area is surrounded, on the
periphery, by a shaded roof with chairs to escape from
the fierce sun. The beachfront area is immediately below
and adjacent to the pool. We settled in for
lunch, poolside at “Le Sloop” and ordered, in our best
French, sandwiches and French fries, with iced tea from
Zina, the pleasant island waitress. The food was both
fresh and tasteful. After lunch, Mr. Nelson called
us, so we returned to the room for a wonderful mid
afternoon nap.

Later that afternoon, we ventured down to
the beach. The rollers here are powerful as they crash
upon the white-sand shore. The beach is wide and flatter
here than at Great bay. We set out for the 2-mile walk
up and down this famous beach. The Mont Vernon end of
the bay has much rougher surf and is less crowded. As
you walk further along, the Tiki, Kontiki, Waikiki, and
other beach resorts get more crowded. Each has its own
distinctive colors for beach umbrella and chairs. You
can see collections of maroon, bright green, blue, and
yellow umbrellas, delineating the beach boundaries of
the various complexes. Para sailors floated overhead,
dragged by powerful motor craft and the ever-present
wave runners roared by like angry hornets. Scores of
bathers frolicked in the surging surf.

At the far end, of the wide crescent of
Orient beach, lies a clothing optional resort
named “Orient Bay Beach Club.” In this arena, anything
apparently goes. The “naked neds” and “noras” lie
starkers in the sun, walk around that way and indeed
take their meals “au naturel,” if they so chose.
Different things for different people I guess. I came to
regard the mostly middle age men, walking along the
beach, as “ anciens qui dit regarde moi, regarde moi!”
(old ones who say look at me, look at me!)

Later, we stopped by the lobby to send out
a few internet messages and enjoy the warm, evening air.
We sat outside the lobby looking far off to the
twinkling lights of passing vehicles on the main road in
the distance, enjoying our good fortune in being here.
Then, we returned to our room for a glass of wine on the
balcony, to watch the ocean, read for a time and turn
in. It had been another long day in paradise. In the
real world, the Queen Mother had died in England at age
101.

Easter Sunday, 3/31 St. Martin, French West Indies.

Easter Sunday, on St. Martin, dawned
gloriously at 6:10 A.M. We watched the sun rise out over
the ocean as the water and sky turned different shades
of blue. Frigate birds and pelicans drifted by lazily in
the rising thermal currents of the morning air. The surf
was rough as it broke upon the sand below us.

We prepped for the day and at 7:00 A.M. set
out for our customary morning walk. What we ran in to
was an eye opener. Unbeknownst to us, from 7 to 9 A.M.
on the beach is the early morning parade of the “naked
neds and noras.” A score or more of couples and assorted
single flashers walked up and down the beach as naked as
the day they arrived here on earth. We came to several
early conclusions. One, is that there is a reason the
lord made us wear clothes, good taste. The other is that
there should be a judge on the beach who points at
people and says ”you, you can walk here without
clothes,” and “ you, you go back and cover up before
you offend people.” Lastly, walking “au naturel” on
the beach is best left for the hard bodies of both
genders who are under twenty and look good that way.
Everyone else should resign themselves gracefully to the
realities of their age and cover up in the name of good
taste.

We finished our eye-opening walk and then
ascended the several sets of steps for breakfast, which
is included in the price of the room. A small open-air
breakfast area, with retractable awnings, sits in the
center of the lobby, office complex. We entered
saying “Chambre- Trente du, onze(3211) to the
maitre 'd. Fresh fruits, omelets to order, and a whole
array of breakfast foods were of good quality. A great
coffee machine dispensed fresh coffee and even decaf
cappuccino. The Mont Vernon, as we were to discover,
tries its best to cater to its guests.

After breakfast, we walked up the Rue Mt.
Vernon to the Rue French Cul de sac and back, a distance
of about a mile or so. Rue Mt. Vernon is in pretty tough
shape. We espied a few neighborhood restaurants,
the “Taitu” and the “Sol e Luna,” and decided to try
them later in the week. We also noticed a small French
boulangerie and hope to sample some of their fresh
pastries later as well. Get out the bicycle pump!

We were sweat soaked from the walk in the warm
tropical air, so we cooled off and changed in the room
before walking down to the pool. The three pools were
empty of piccolo mostri( little monsters), so we swam
and enjoyed the pool and the early morning sun. After
our swim, we sat on the beach, under blue cloth
umbrellas, and read for a time before wading into the
rough surf and frolicking like kids. The salty ocean
water was novel to us, as it splashed around and over
us. I still kept a wary eye out for the great white
sharks in the water. I know they are always looking for
a tasty morsel like me.

An outdoor shower cleaned the salt and sand from
us as we sat poolside and had some great Caesar salads
and forbidden French fries with iced tea. Aye
caramba, the calories. From lunch, I could hear
the “nelson song” summoning me to the cool air
conditioning of the room and a delicious one-hour nap.
Life is good when it goes this way.

In the late afternoon, we walked around the
rocky promontory below us. The Cliffside here is erose
and about twenty feet in height. You can see all of the
non-biodegradable flotsam that washes up against the
shore and gathers here. We walked around the headland
and saw the French cul de sac, resort area in the
distance. A rather new time-share complex, just around
the bend, appeared to be closed and boarded up. Is all
not well in paradise?

We admired the wonderful groves of sea grapes
and thorny Bougainvillea along the shore, with their
delicate and colorful blossoms. The broad-leafed sea
grapes have a star-shaped blossom that is purple on its
tips and center against a delicate white background. The
thorny bougainvillea are a riot of reds and other bright
pastels. The flora really added to the beauty of
landscape as well as providing their extensive rooting
systems that help hold the shore in place.

A quick shower and a change of clothes made
us fresh for dinner. We met and talked with Linda &
Peter Brownell, from Vermont, in the lobby. We had
signed up and paid for the “Canadian plan,” which
allowed us three dinners at the hotel. We were glad that
we did. A warm goat cheese on bread, salad, a salmon and
snapper platter and fresh ice cream with good coffee and
a passable French red wine made for an exquisite repast.
The French do know how to prepare a meal. It was
delicious.

From dinner, we repaired to our room to sit
on the balcony and admire the surf crashing, on the
beach below us, in the warm night air. The stars were
flickering in the inky night sky and we knew we were in
paradise. Life is very good sometimes. We settled in to
read ( “Blue Nowhere” - Jeff Deaver) and then let the
sandman carry us off amidst the sound of surf crashing
on the shore.

Monday, 4/1 St.Martin,French West Indies

We arose at 6:15. A.M. It was cloudy out
and a light rain was falling. By 7:00, the “naked neds
and nora's” had begun their daily parade, so we read on
the balcony, enjoying the morning air.

We chatted with Linda Brownell in the
lobby and then, a leisurely breakfast of omelets, fruit
and great coffee started us off for the day. When
the “parade” had ended on the beach, we set out along
the beach for a two-mile walk. We were wearing tee
shirts and as much sun block as we could lather on. The
sun here is fierce and unforgiving. One missed spot and
you get an awful patch of burnt skin. The wind had risen
and the surf was much rougher today. Still, the
frolickers were out in great numbers and the beach life
continued unabated. We stopped at “pedro's” for designer
water and watched the activity up and down the beach.
Like harbors, there is always something going on. Next
to Pedro's sits the “naked egg,” a breakfast spot named
for its proximity to “ned and nora ville” I guess.

On the beach of the Mont Vernon, Mary
and I again played in the surf letting the powerful
rollers push us back and forth. I still kept a sharp eye
out for pirates and sharks. An outdoor shower to clean
off the salt and sand, led us to the pool. We swam for
half an hour, unmolested by piccolo mostri.

A lunch at “le sloop,” of mixed green
salad, ice tea and bread was refreshing. Then, a
one-hour nap, in our air conditioned room, finished off
a lovely afternoon. Who says life isn't good?

We showered and dressed for the 6:30
P.M. “managers cocktail party” in the lounge. It was a
lame version of “name that tune.” We met and talked with
Doug and Karen from Kalamazoo, Michigan while we sipped
some decent cabernet.

Dinner afterwards in the dining room
consisted of that wonderful warm goat cheese on bread,
grouper and tasty sorbet, with coffee and red wine. This
was getting to be a life style you could get used to,
right up to the point they buried you.

After dinner, we walked the grounds
in the warm night air, enjoying the quiet and the
beautiful surroundings, before returning to the room to
read and retire. It had been a nice Easter Monday on St.
Martin

Tuesday April 2nd, St. Martin French West Indies

We arose later this morning, enjoying the
ability to get up whenever we want. That is the nicest
part of being on vacation. We didn't have to do anything
if we chose. Breakfast was pleasant as always. We were
heading into Marigot this morning to do shop shopping
and sight seeing.

The passenger van picked us up in front
of the lobby. We were joined by Joyce and Rich from
Indianapolis, a very pleasant couple. The ride over was
uneventful. “James” deposited us on the Marigot
waterfront and said he would return for us at 1:00 P.M.

Our first stop was for the bank to raid
the cash machine. No luck, it was out. Then a twenty-
minute stand in a bank line sent us off to one of those
larcenous “Bureau D' change.” They are just as larcenous
here as they had been in Paris, but at least we now had
cash to throw at the locals. It was warm and a light
rain was falling. The traffic was snarled with
sightseers and locals getting transacting their business
after a long holiday weekend.

We browsed several stores and then
succumbed to the inevitable, buying three island tee
shirts for $10. Some film ($4), sun tan lotion ($20) and
a gift for Lori Dollman completed out purchases for this
round. We set off for Ft. Louis, high on a hill over
looking the Marigot harbor. A winding road brought us to
a set of stone stairs, a stone escalator, that ascended,
switchback fashion, up the remainder of the hill to the
stone entrance to the Fort. Though in better shape that
Ft. Amsterdam, it too lay in ruins. A central keep and
the remains of part of the stone parapet were all that
was left of this fortress that had seen so much action
during the 1700 and 1800's. We admired the view out
across the Marigot harbor, under a beautiful blue sky. A
few pictures of us, sitting and standing by the
remaining canon, competed our survey of the ruins. It
was time to move on.

We walked back down the hill, past the
fire department and the hospital and onto the main
boulevard. A liquor store attracted our attention and we
bought two bottle of good French wine. From the
Ft., we walked along the waterfront until we came to the
entrance of one of the more charming areas of Marigot,
the Marina Royale. It is a working marina surrounded on
three sides with small open restaurants boutiques and
other charming tourist attractions. We walked up and
down, admiring the bangles and bead and the swirl of
people floating by. The café American drew us in for
coffee . We sat and watched the tourists and local's
stream by along with the harbor activity. A light rain
began to fall and everyone scurried for cover. It was a
pleasant respite for us.

It was getting near noon, so we ambled back
along the waterfront nearer our cab stop. It was hot so
we sat on a shady bench and relaxed. Two sisters from
Toronto sat near us and we talked for a time. They were
waiting for a couple from Buffalo who were spending the
day touring with them. The world gets smaller. The young
couple returned and we introduced ourselves and smiled
at the coincidence. I advised them that as a courtesy, I
wouldn't ask them their last name in case I was to see
them walking naked along the beach later in our stay. We
all laughed at the new island humor and parted amidst
well wishes for a nice vacation. They were staying near
us at the Le Meridien in the French cul de sac. We
browsed the native stalls hawking jewelry and bought a
nice coral necklace for Mary. The cabbie was early and
so were the couple from Indianapolis, so we loaded up
and drove back to the Mont Vernon. It had been a nice
excursion into Marigot.

I sent a few messages into the ether
of cyber space and then we retreated to our room. The
air-conditioned room was a pleasant change after the
heat and humidity, so we chilled out and read for a
time. It was like recharging an over heated battery with
cooler air.

We had decided to stem the caloric tide
today, so we were going to walk the beach and have a
late lunch at one of the many places along Orient Bay.
Our walk along the beach brought us to the posted menus
of several places. Most of the prices were pretty steep.
I guess the tourists sit still for the gouging as part
of the price of a day at the beach. We finally settled
upon the “KaKoa Beach Bar.” It had the thatched roof
huts with benches underneath and was shaded by large
palm trees. We sat and enjoyed some designer water as we
browsed the menus. One very loud “New Yorker” was
carrying on with his extended family on some domestic
subject or other. We had a delightfully presented platter of
grilled mahi mahi, grouper and red snapper with tasteful
vegetables. It was an elegant and leisurely meal for a
beach side bar. We much enjoyed it, even at the
inflated prices.

We strolled back along the beach,
watching the roughening surf and the white caps out
along the horizon. Hard weather was coming in some place
in the area. Mary met with the air transat rep in the
lobby to get some information. I enjoyed the air
conditioning.

The day was getting longer and lazier as
we sat on the balcony drinking some decent French merlot
and reading our books. The surf crashed below us and the
sky and the cloud formations changed endlessly. I think
I could do this daily routine forever. The sun set and
the warm night air caressed us. We read for a time and
turned in, happy with the day.

Wed. 4/3 St. Martin, French West Indies

I was up early this morning reading “By The
Rivers of Babylon”-N.DeMille. It was very windy. The
surf was frothing in white luminescence, as it crashed
upon the sandy shore. I watched the false light of early
dawn arise from the distant horizon and then the full
light of the sun as it peeked above the water at 6:10
A.M.

The Ned and Nora parade was getting boring.
I thought about leaving a sign below on the beach that
would say “excessive sunlight leads to impotence,” but
smiled the idea away and continued reading. Breakfast,
at 8: 30 A.M., was crowded. I think several of the
guests were headed home and stuffing in that last
caloric overload to carry them on the plane back to
wherever they came from.

We had decided to walk into Grand Case
this morning. A good-natured argument erupted between
one of the French staff and Conrad, the porter. Conrad
said you could walk there in a few minutes. The French
kid rolled his eyes, said “Mon Dieu,” it would take
forever. There-in lay an implied story of cultural
differences and impressions. In any case, we set off to
see for ourselves. Just over the rise, near the “Sol e
Luna” restaurant, Peter and Linda Brownell pulled up and
offered us a ride. They were out exploring. We jumped in
and chatted with them for the brief ride into Grand
Case. It was only about three miles in total, but the
road shoulder is almost non-existent and the walking
precarious.

The Brownells dropped us off at the end of
Grand Case. We walked along the small beach, beneath the
restaurants, whose second-story, dining patios were
cantelievered out over the beach. A pier extended out
into the ocean about mid-beach. It was occupied by
island children who were off from school for the Easter
Holiday. We saw others cooking fish and ribs over
barrels and readying for the night's hungry trade. The
beach itself was pleasant enough, what there was of it.

The town of Grand Case is a narrow side
road that splits off from the main highway circling the
island. Both sides of the beach front road are lined
with pricey restaurants and some small boutiques. At
this time of the morning, nothing was open, so the place
was virtually deserted. We sought out and found, on
Point Chien, the Grand Case Beach Club. Carl Calabrese
was thinking of staying there and asked us to check it
out for him. It is gated and fenced and looked pleasant
enough of a resort. But, except for the pool and a very
small beach, it didn't seem to offer too much. You would
need a car to stay there as well.

We started our walk back to the French
cul de sac along the narrow roads. A few bulls were
grazing in the pasture and looked dully out at us while
chewing contentedly. Some mules and goats, in the next
pasture, were doing the same. I wonder what they thought
of us, walking by?

Before reaching the main road, we came
upon the Grand Case airport. We had watched any number
of small plains fly out over Orient Bay from here.
Orient Bay was just over the mountain and in the flight
path of this small strip. And when I say small, I mean
small. Built at the head of a former salt pond, it
consists of a few one story buildings and some
surrounding Quonset huts. It looks like the American
mid west in the 1940's.Two fully armed French soldiers
are a testimony to the way things had changed everywhere
after 9/11. We bought some Evian in a small hut and
walked out along the road, in the late morning heat.

The traffic was getting heavier as we
stepped carefully along whatever shoulders we could
find. When one of the larger trucks rumbled by, we would
stand still and scrunch as far onto the shoulder as was
humanly possible. We came upon a large portable food van
and bought some more designer water. It really is
important to keep hydrated in this heat, when exerting
yourself.

The walk itself was pleasant enough,
but I wouldn't recommend it to most. We came upon the
turn off for the Anse Marcel (French Cul de sac) and
walked along the newly paved roads looking at the flora
and fauna around us. I don't think you really see a
place until you travel it on foot. There is much arable
land here, but none of it is under cultivation, for even
the simplest of crops. I guess the water needed for
cultivation is not plentiful or regular enough. The
island had once fielded several sugar cane plantations
and this area had been one of them. Our hotel was built
on the site of the manor house and took its name, Mont
Vernon, from one of the larger plantations.

We soon came upon the turn off for the
Rue Mt. Vernon and walked a little quicker, with the
thought of our air-conditioned room so nearby. First, we
had to stop at the cute little boulangerie. We had some
good coffee and bought French pastries and a bottle of
red wine for the room. The room did indeed cool our body
temperatures down to more acceptable levels. We were
soon able to venture out for a late morning swim in the
pool. Life is hard here It was windy and warm. Rain
was soon to come.

A one-hour conversation with Mr. Nelson
(nap) in the room was delicious. It revived us
immeasurably. Later, we sat on the balcony, enjoying a
good cabernet and enjoying the ever-changing tableau of
beach and shore life below us. I could watch the sun,
the surf and the sky like this forever. A shower
freshened us up and we headed to the lobby to send some
internet messages before dinner. We sat, as was our
custom, and enjoyed the daily drama of the hotel lobby,
for a time. There always seemed to be some drama
occuring here daily. People scurried, complained,
weaseled and acted out all manner of other
transactions with the hotel, cab and bell staff. They
could and probably have made movies about scenes like
these.

Dinner this evening was exquisite. A
good French Beaujolais led us into the wonderful goat
cheese salad, followed by great piece of salmon,
flavored with anchovie butter. Sorbet and crème
brulet, with coffee, finished this great meal. I could
feel the bicycle pump working overtime.

We sat for a time in front of the hotel
and enjoyed the night air. About 9:30 P.M., several
locals arrived for a dinner of twelve. As each of the
first three tall, coffee-colored “gangsta-rappers”
arrived, they came in at 10-second intervals. Each was
chatting busily on his cell phone, in a recognizable
business ritual dating from the 1980's. This is the new
commerce of the Caribbean, ganja moving. It wasn't the
1950's and it wasn't Appalachia, but it had all the
appearance, to me, of the same meeting taking place. We
smiled at their antics and headed for the room to write
up notes, read some and surrender to Morpheus. It was
getting long in the vacation and it felt like it was
time to go home.

Thursday, 4/4 St.Martin, French West Indies.

We were up early again. It must be the
clean living. We watched the sun rise out over the
Atlantic at 6:13 A.M. and readied for the day. The “
Nora & Ned parade” was in progress, on the beach, so we
set out over Rue Mt. Vernon and up the road to the
French cul de sac. The road is newly paved here, but the
shoulders are literally non-existent. I guess folks
don't walk the roads much here abouts. We made it to a
small rise in the road, occupied by a pharmacy, grocery
and gas station. From there, we headed off over land,
climbing through a large drainage area, to the crest of
the hill. An automobile graveyard occupied a flat
portion of the land. A few junkyard dogs were barking
and straining at their leashes. The roosters crowed
their morning salute, uncaring of any of us. Along the
skyline, we could see several nice villas tucked into
the hillside. I think the last hurricane that passed
through the island made them all think about protected
sites.

No one else was about as we walked back
along the Rue Anse Marcel towards the Rue Mont Vernon.
There seemed to be plenty of arable land here as well,
but no cultivation of any sort. We stopped by the
boulangerie for coffee again. The surrounding
residential community stopped by daily for their
baguettes and pastries, just as they do in France. We
sat for a time and watched the comings and goings of the
bakery and then headed back to the room to change for
breakfast.

Made to order omelets, juice, fruit and
great coffee made for “un bien petit de jeune.” From
breakfast, we set out along the beach for another two-
mile walk. The wind had risen and the surf roughened. We
passed by all the sunbathers and even surrendered to the
inevitable curiosity to walk along the beach
outside “ned and nora ville.” As advertised, there were
scores of men and women laying and walking about in the
same suit that God gave them when entering this planet.
Most of the men would look more natural in raincoats
but, to each his own.

At our own beachfront, we sat under blue
umbrellas and read our books, enjoying the sun and surf.
For a time we played in the ocean, but the rollers were
over eight feet and that depth can hide a lot of sharks
and pirates. A light sprinkle chased us under cover for
a few minutes. Then, we swam for 30 minutes enjoying the
clear blue pool, sans piccolo mostri. We were forgoing
lunch today to get ready for the caloric onslaught of
dinner in Grand Case this evening. Edam cheese and
cabernet on our balcony were enough to hold us over
until the evening.

“James” had contracted to drive us into
Grand Case for dinner at 6:00 P.M. The ride was quick
and easy. We were dining at “The Fish Pot,” one of the
more elegant French restaurants in Grand Case. We knew
that at this early hour, only Americans and barbarians
ate dinner, but we didn't relish the thought of heavy
nighttime traffic along those narrow roads.

The “Fish Pot,” has a small awning over
its shrubbery-laden entry porch. Just inside, are
several seats in a nicely styled waiting area. The
dining area occupies most of the patio, which is
cantilevered over the beach and surf about 20 feet
below. The table was elegantly set, the waiters and
waitresses nicely dressed. We started out with une demi
boutaille (half bottle) of Beaujolais Nouveau and
ordered the Lobster special dinner. The Lobster bisque
arrived with a puffed pastry cover that you had to
puncture with your fork. The scented steam escaping was
a delight to the olfactory senses. The bisque was creamy
and exquisite. Next, came a platter of one-pound
Caribbean lobster. The shell had been cracked and the
tail separated for ease of the diner. We savored the
lobster, enjoying the meal and each other's company. The
waitress was from the French Alps. We engaged her in our
limited French. She replied in better English and we got
along well. For dessert, that needed twenty minutes to
prepare, we had an apple torte with ice cream in a
caramel sauce and a grand marnier custard in puff
pastry. To say that they were delicious would not serve
them justice. We savored everything and finished with
some wonderful French coffee. This was a meal to
remember under the stars on the ocean in Grand Case, St.
Martin. We knew how lucky we were to be here and to have
each other. The tab and a generous tip were expensive, but
it was well worth the price.

After dinner, we wandered along the main drag
for a time watching all of the many dinner patrons
scrambling for reservations. The street traffic
continued unabated. It had the look and feel of a
carnival under the gorgeous, warm Caribbean sky. We
stopped for a time and engaged an African American woman
in conversation. She was waiting for a bus to return
herself and son to Simpson Bay. She was a minister and
from Los Angeles. We chatted with her for a time and
then scooted to catch our cab that had arrived to pick
us up. James drove us back to the Mont Vernon and we
thanked him for his service.

It was 80 degrees out this evening, the
stars were twinkling and we were reluctant to retire,
but we gave into our better instincts. We returned to
the room, had a glass of merlot on the balcony and then
read for a time before surrendering to the sandman. It
was time for us to go home.

Friday 4/5 St. Martin, French West Indies.

We arose at 5:30 A.M. to a light rain moving in
from the Atlantic. The gray light of false dawn was
followed by sunrise at 6:10 A.M. The weather systems
roar through here like freight trains, never remaining
for more than a few hours. We dressed and prepped for a
walk.

An elderly French woman was struggling on the
long steps with her bags, so we helped her to the lobby.
A warm-smiled “merci beaucoup” was appreciated. We again
walked up the Rue Mont Vernon, to the Rue Anse Marcel
and return. We saw the Sol e Luna restaurant and decided
we would try it out this evening.

As we neared the Mont Vernon, we decided to
walk along the service road to the beach. New
construction was in progress just next to the hotel. A
huge construction crane stood starkly, mute and vulture
like, against the blue sky. At the bottom of the road,
as it emptied into the beach, we followed another mud
road that parallels the beach. It led us amidst the tall
grass. This area must have been the heart of the sugar
cane plantation from the last century. The road led us
behind the rear of “Boo Boo Jam's” beach bar. A dog
barked plaintively as we walked by.

The surrounding flora is tropical, with palm
trees and broad-leafed grasses. The broken tops of some
of the palm trees are a stark reminder of the
destruction caused by hurricane Luis. It had roared
through the island in 19996, virtually denuding it of
vegetation and causing general havoc. One modern anomaly
caught our eye. A rusting bulldozer sat broken and
useless amidst the tall grass. Creeper vines had already
started to encircle the faded, rust-stained iron
monster. It is a reminder to us that all things man made
will eventually deteriorate and return to the earth from
whom its elements had sprung.

After our morning walk, we cleaned up and had
one last petit de jeune in the hotel. The omelets and
other foods were uniformly good every day that we tried
them. It is reputation for fine cuisine that the hotel
is seeking to cultivate.

We opted for another two-mile stroll up and down
the beach. The “ned and nora parade” was over by now, so
we waded in the shallow swells and felt the cool ocean
waters bathe our legs. The surf was much calmer today.
The sky was that brilliant rain-washed blue that makes
the eyes squint from its brightness. After our walk, we
read for a time on the beach, watching the surf and
people interact. It is a timeless pastime that is
restful and pleasing to the eyes.

The pool was empty of piccolo mostri, and every
one else, so we swam laps for forty minutes enjoying the
feel of the sun and wind on us. Tiring some, we returned
to the room for a glass of merlot and some Edam cheese,
before surrendering willingly to the sandman for a one-
hour nap. This is a routine that you can get used to.
After our nap, we shook off the sleep and decided to
walk one last time up and down the beach. Who knew when
we would this way travel again? At the far end of the
bay, we enjoyed a final bottle of designer water at
Pedro's, to the backdrop of driving reggae music. They
really like this stuff down here. On the return walk, we
noticed that most of the “cruisers “ had gone for the
day. The beach was emptying. We were left with the
setting sun, the crashing surf and the warm ocean
breezes washing over us. A four-masted windjammer, with
sails unfurled, was just rounding the headland. It might
well have been a time warp visage from a century ago.
This is what the islands are all about, visions in the
noon-day sun. We had walked six miles today and were
still going like the energizer bunnies. This is a life
style I would like to cultivate.

We left the beach, reluctantly, to shower and
prep for dinner. We were walking up to Sol e Luna for
our last evening repast on the island. It was a
delightful choice. The staff was polite enough to
tolerate my abysmal French and I enjoyed the eclectic
exchange. I even got the correct pronunciation for decaf
coffee. It is “De Ca.” We started with mussels and
snails for an appetizer and a vin rouge a la maison.
Next, a delightful filet of salmon, avec vegetables, was
equally as tasty. A strawberry and ice cream dessert was
exquisite. We sat on the rear porch of this quaint
neighborhood bistro and enjoyed the outdoor ambiance
amidst other diners, thankful that we were here and with
each other. The tab was reasonabl. The walk back
was pleasant. It was 80 degrees out at 9:30 P.M. in the
evening. The stars twinkled above us and several glasses
of vin rouge fired us from within. We sat on our room
balcony, watching the stars and the surf for one last
time as we sipped the last of a decent merlot. It was
time to sleep and then go home.

Saturday. 4/6 St. Martin. French West Indies

We were up early. It was going to be a long
day. We finished packing and then had a last breakfast
in the upper dining area. We placed our bags out side
the room by 9: 15 A.M., as instructed, and then sat in the
lobby for a time enjoying the interactions of the
guests. Sat. is always a big “turn over day” in these
hotels. The action gets fast and furious.

A passenger van collected six of us for the
airport. To my chagrin, the man sitting opposite us was
the elderly gentleman that I has seen walking the beach
in small silk thong and carrying a black gym bag, filled
with the lord knows what. Oy vey! And he looked so
normal, with his chatty wife. Who knows what secret
lives these people lead all year, waiting for this one
week of tropical fulfillment to carry them for another
year of some dead end job sharpening pencils someplace.
I guess you can't help but understand them. There, but
for the grace of god, and a well honed, and innate sense
of what truly is and is not ridiculous, go we.

The cabby tried to rock and roll, but the
roads were impossibly crowded through Marigot. Every Rue
he turned into, to make time, became a parking lot of
Saturday shoppers in the small French capital. No
worries mon, this is the tropics. W just sat back and
let it happen.

Soon enough, we descended upon the madness
that is Queen Juliana airport on a Saturday morning.
People and cars and luggage were spilled all over the
place. We were ushered into a line to check in. That
took an hour and a half. It was shaded and wasn't too
bad except, we stood next to one of those “interminable
bores” who talked on and on and on about family
genealogy and other subjects about which he knew
EVERYTHING! It was a race between strangling him and
checking in at the counter. Luckily our turn came and we
checked our bags in. We were assigned seats in row #47,
the last seats on the plane. Our tardy cab driver had
cost us. A good tip, that we learned too late, is that
for an extra twenty dollars, your travel agent can pre-
register you for seats on the plane ride home. This
would have saved us an hour and one half standing in
line and listening to an obnoxious and over bearing
cretin.

Next, we stood in line for 30 minutes to
process our “exit fee,” something that came with the
tour, but had to be stamped and notarized anyway. The
word “bureaucracy “ did in fact originate in France.
Finally, we merged into the seething throng that was
funneling through the security detectors to the boarding
gates. The machines must have been pretty sensitive or
their operators pretty stupid because there was a long
line of men who stood with their belts off, because the
belt buckle had registered on the machine. Ay caramba!

The waiting area looked like the American
embassy in Saigon, during the last hours before the fall
of South Viet Nam. There were literally hordes of people
trying to even find a patch of wall space to occupy. The
cattle flights all left their far Northern ports in the
early mornings, arriving on St. Martin around noon.
Then, the process is reversed and these same mega-
airbuses filled up with sun burnt and shopped out
touristers, returning to their far Northern homes. I guess
it is amazing that it runs as smoothly as it does. We
ran into any number of people that we had seen during
the last week, exchanging brief nods and smiles. I
figured if they hadn't tried to engage us socially in
the last few weeks, I wasn't going to bother with them
in the last few hours in a crowded and busy waiting area
of the airport. Luckily, the place is at least air-
conditioned. About 30 minutes late, we boarded the
massive airbus after yet another brief inspection at the
boarding gate, may Allah curse the bombers and their
descendants as they emerge through the slimy reptilian
ranks of karmic retribution.

We sat in our last row seats, glad to finally
be under way. Unbeknownst to us, it was to become the 5
hr “flight from hell.” One set of parents and grand
parents had the seats immediately in front of us. The
airline had apparently allowed them to carry their two
and three year old children on their laps. These “
piccolo mostri” started to scream, yell, carry on,
squirm and run amok from the takeoff onward. Spilled
coffee, yelled admonitions from parents and grandparents
had no effect. I had hoped for some one to catch the
little monsters and gas them to sleep but I guess the
humane societies had precluded that option. We read out
books in grim silence. The stewardess even gave me a
free bottle of vodka to help dilute the aggravation. It
is a testimony to the relaxing power of vacations that I
didn't run screaming down the aisles.

Like all tortures, it ended finally as we
flew into Pearson international airport in Toronto. It
was 34 degrees and cold out. Naturally, we were dressed
in shorts. We recovered out luggage, paged the hotel for
a shuttle, and stood in the freezing cold while the fat
schmuck of a van driver was no doubt feeding his puffy
face. I, no doubt, was having a mild reaction to five
hours of torture by two midget demons that should have
been incarcerated at birth.

We picked up our car in the long-term lot of
the Carlingsview Inn and set out for Buffalo, 90 miles
away. It felt good to drive a car again. The traffic was
light for Toronto. We crossed the border into the USA at
the Lewsiton/Queenston Bridge and finally sailed into
the palace around 9:30 P.M. The place hadn't burned down
or been burglarized and we had made the return trip
safely. We straightened up things as best we could and
crashed “stanke morte” (dead tired) into the arms of
Morpheus. It had been a long and wonderful vacation for
two aging honeymooners.

-30-

Joseph Xavier martin