insomnia haiku

Paradise lost

Have you ever felt, looking in the mirror, that you're seeing your face as you could have looked a thousand years ago? That happened just now. Bleary-eyed after two flights, no makeup, face lined after a week in the sun, hair straggly after I took it out of its wet ponytail, exhaustion oozing out of every pore -- I looked straight ahead and saw, in me, some dull-eye peasant girl who knew nothing of the life I now have. One who looked tired and plain and slow. Me, in another life. One difference: the electronic toothbrush in my hand. I'll hazard a guess they didn't have those a thousand years ago.

Home now from paradise, which makes me sad, but it had to end sometime. I spent achingly beautiful days on the beach, in that clear waveless perfect water, floating with my face to the sun. On the beach I consumed burgers (2), hot dogs (1)  steak (1, ribeye), slice of sausage pizza (1), pina coladas (2), bloody Marys (2) and rum punch (1). Oh, and many many beers. I learned the names and life stories of many of the locals, and the others I knew well enough to wave to; I finally (after some 10-odd attempts) managed to drive my way around the island in a little electric golf cart-like car without getting lost or tipping over. I read three books (Catch-22, Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, Frank Bruni's Born Round), all excellent. I went to bed before midnight every night, except the day in which I read all of Moore's novel, when I barely blinked at midnight and read straight on until I was done.

I took ferries, small boats, bigger boats. Off of our little island, I snorkeled, bought expensive jewelry (I would have regretted it had I walked away), visited the same restaurant twice to satisfy a mango colada craving and got the bartender to teach us how to make it. I ate fresh saltwater lobster and a pineapple upside-down cake so good, I can't get the taste out of my head. (The mushroom and asparagus risotto was pretty dreamy, too.)

I unplugged. I did not watch TV. I did not surf the Internet. I had my iPhone so I could get emails and texts and do some light research, but that was it. (I couldn't even update my fantasy baseball team.) I lackadaisically checked work emails on my Blackberry once a day, then promptly forgot about them. When I told Wendy at the grill that the iPhone had been a lifesaver for its access to the outside world, she gave a short laugh. "The outside world is overrated."

And now, home, to a couch piled high with laundry, to a DVR that's nearly full of all the programs I missed, to a new work week that threatens to bring with it a heavy dose of drama. Vacation, it seems, is over. I will wake up in the morning and wonder if it was all a dream, as if the world we inhabited this past week was imaginary, magical, needing protection -- rather like Narnia, or the island on Lost.

But this week, at least, I will try to keep the island with me. I will try not to stress. And what will keep me going is the feel of the water on my body, the sight of those white, wide, sandy beaches, and the sound of the locals saying goodbye to us with the words, "Hope to see you again real soon."

Beach Day

Last day of vacation! This makes me sad. L and P went to St. Thomas to do some shopping and run some other errands, so I dropped them off at the ferry and hit Honeymoon Beach instead. I hope they don't think I'm being antisocial. It's just that, when I have this gorgeous beach at my disposal, and nothing to do but lie there and jump in the incredible water and listen to the locals chit-chat and read, then I would rather just do that.

Speaking of reading, I had, as mentioned, ambitiously brought five books, which was starting to seem foolish when it was taking me more than half the trip to read the first, Catch-22. I wasn't loving it at first, and it's not the quickest and easiest read in the world -- very much a boy book, I think, all about men in the military and the madness if war -- but I ended up liking it very much. It sticks with you. Finished it yesterday (Friday) morning and then raced through the new Lorrie Moore novel (A Gate at the Stairs) like a house afire, stopping only to make dinner and eat. I even powered through the Ambien I took at 1 am to keep reading (I guess if I just concentrate and focus on something else, the drug has no effect). I felt like I was a kid again, reading under the covers at night, unwilling to put the book down for anything in the world.

Today: sloppy Joe and Red Stripe on the beach, perfect day. The woman at the grill, Ashley, remembered my name without my having to give it to her, which I consider a minor point of pride. I'm kind of proud in general of my minor attempts to ingratiate myself here with the locals; it's not as if I'm considered one of them, but at least they know who I am, giving me friendly waves as I drive past or nodding to me as I walk up to Heidi's Grill. And I'm fascinated by people's stories of how they ended up here; one guy told me he'd moved to the Virgin Islands from Houston after getting a divorce. Now he does landscaping. They're all as friendly as can be, and I'd like to think it's because we're not being typical ugly tourists, but polite and sociable and respectful of what they have down here.

Tonight, dinner at Craig and Sally's in Frenchtown on St. Thomas.

At long last, the pizza boat

We had heard tales of this legendary pizza boat. Every local we asked got this faraway look and said, "Yeah, I don't know what happened to it! I think it got sold." We mourned and thought of the pizza boat we never knew.

And then yesterday... There it was, docked by Joe's Beach Bar. Miraculously, as though we had summoned it just by wishing. We walked toward it in a daze. Apparently, according to a man standing nearby, it had been sold -- he had sold it to them -- and this was the boat's re-maiden voyage.

The woman who took orders was snappish and rude, dampening our excitement somewhat. But the guy making the pies was cheerful ("yes, if you want sausages it'll be ten minutes, but a short ten minutes!") and when we took shelter at the nearby covered stage as it started to rain, he climbed out of the boat and carried our slices over to us, grinning.

And it was good.

If you like mango coladas

Ugh, another whole post eaten by this typepad app. That's it, no more pictures, sorry.

The plain, shorthand version of the terrifyingly brilliant post I had just written:

Yesterday: two ferries to St. John, snorkeling in Trunk Bay, amazing fishes the color of lilac and jade. Back to St. Thomas, third mango colada at Gladys', where a regular at the bar took a picture of our drinks to post on Facebook, and where Pauline, the bartender and our waitress of the day before, patiently explained to us (multiple times) how to create a mango colada on our very own. ("I got the recipe off the Food Network!" laughed Gladys.)

Dinner at Bella Blu (we all had the snapper provencal), wine and conversation on the patio outside, late ferry back to Water Island, the ferry this time being the ferry guy's own smaller boat, which he told us was named Six-Pack. Driving back to the house, it's possible I may have been guilty if DEVUI -- Driving an Electric Vehicle while Under the Influence -- but given that I wasn't more than buzzed, there are no cops or speed limits, and in our entire time here we've seen two other cars on the road ... No harm, no foul. At the house, pool, more wine, more conversation.

Today L and P have gone to St. Thomas to run some errands, leaving me here on Honeymoon Beach with the place gloriously to myself all morning. But Heidi's is here now, and locals to boot; after an hour of solitude I am now hearing lots of cheery greetings. So, time to rouse myself for a beer and a burger and another dip in the ocean, methinks, though not necessarily in that order.

When vacation bites

Lest you get too jealous of my idyllic vacation, please know that I am covered in painful mosquito bites, from head to toe. Many of you already know that I am allergic to mosquito bites, or if that isn't the exact medical term -- seeing as how I don't have to be rushed to the hospital in a coma -- then I simply have a very, very bad and alarming reaction to them. (Mosquitos also seem to like me a great deal more than I like them.)

For example, of the eight bites on my left arm, two have swelled to an angry red mass about six inches in diameter; three have formed bulbous, oozing blisters that could frighten away children; the other three are just annoying. There are three especially vexing and painful splotchy ones on my left back, right under my arm. On my right leg it looks like I have chicken pox, except for the big red mass near my ankle. The bites do not itch. They hurt, and they throb and swell. I would document this with pictures, but then I feel this blog would qualify for horror movie status, and it'd have to be rated R. Also you would faint.

Well, such is the price you pay for paradise, and I guess I'll never be able to live here. Tonight, I sleep with the Ambien.

Of mangoes and locals

Monday: Ferry to St. Thomas, lunch at Gladys' Cafe in Charlotte Amalie. I was persuaded to have the house specialty, a mango colada, even though I don't particularly like mangoes. And GODDAMN. You know how I like making top five lists of foods? This drink shot straight to the head of my new top five drinks list. Fresh mango, blended, some kind of sweet rum on top, presumably some other kind of rum within. I sucked one down well before my food (a delicious plate of oxtail stew) arrived, then had another. What I wouldn't give to have a third right at this very moment.

Today (Tuesday): We hit Honeymoon Beach before noon and spent a lovely, lazy day there. I finally partook of Heidi's famed burger, accompanied by a couple beers and a bag of crunchy Cheetos. The water, once again, was blissful. I went in at least three times and didn't want to get out.

Got in some good conversation with the locals. One guy said he used to live in New York and did computer tech stuff; he now works on boats. When we retired to Joe's Beach Bar for piña coladas and margaritas, we chatted with the bartender, who was from Michigan orginally and moved here with two of her kids when she fell in love with Joe himself. Those kids, whom she homeschools, ran around cheerily while her youngest, a tow-headed two-year-old, wrapped herself up in a rope swing, buck naked. We grilled the bartender on how often she has to travel to St. Thomas (every day, she said with a grimace), whether there's any sort of mayor (nope), how many people live on the island (75 year-round, 200 in the winter), what people do for medical care (there's a woman who helps with newborn care, and there's a retired veterinarian). There's no police force really, but there is one guy who, if there's any sign of trouble, calls up "all the big guys" and they go take care of it. I told Mary, the caretaker, who was hanging out at Heidi's Honeymoon Grill with some other locals, that if I lived there I would worry that I'd start taking it all for granted. All three locals shook their heads. "Every time we start," she said, "people like you guys come down, and then we remember."

On this island, the biggest emergencies are beer emergencies

Today: Slumbered til 10 (sleep was hindered by the inevitable bug bites, as yesterday's dinner on the beach meant that I, too, was someone's -- something's, rather -- dinner on the beach), breakfast of eggs and bacon, then a short trek down to Sprat Bay beach, a private little nook we had all to ourselves but for the pelicans dive-bombing fish. Eventually some folks rowed in on a boat, doing what we were not sure. They had a net, so perhaps fishing?

We thought of taking the ferry to St. Thomas to have lunch and stock up on provisions, but we'd missed the 12:15 and the next wasn't until 3:15. So it was back to Honeymoon Beach -- more driving in the Gem car, whee! though lack of power steering and scant turning circle made all-too-frequent three-point turnabouts more like 17-point turnabouts -- for burgers and hot dogs on the beach courtesy of Heidi's Grill. Cooled off with a Caribe beer (my new fave) plus two dips in the ocean. The water was incredible. Warm as bathwater and just as tranquil; perfect for floating on your back, undisturbed, for long stretches of time. A group of Brits nearby was having a birthday fête; they sang Happy Birthday complete with ending "Hip hip ... Hooray!"s. People wandered into the ocean with drinks held aloft. Most of the small crowd seemed to be local and thoroughly convivial; it was, in short, the perfect beach.

Time for a drink at the adjacent rum shack, name unknown. (I think it's Joe's.) A middle aged man spun 70s and 80s tunes (wow, it's been a while since I heard Heart's "These Dreams"), I snapped a few pictures of a visiting iguana, and a woman came over to offer us some chili she'd cooked up. We waved hello to Mary, the caretaker. On our way out, a man barbecuing nudged me to point out, with pride, the largest steak I'd ever seen. "It's gonna be good," he insisted. I never had a doubt.

Home to make a dinner of Cornish game hens, potatoes, broccoli and wine. Then I fell asleep outside, waking up at 10:30 to wonder if I dared climb into bed and call it a night right then and there. Apparently the others have done so, and therefore, having occupied myself for a respectable hour, I shall now do the same.

Tomorrow: lunch on St. Thomas, possible wandering around, plus quest for non-gouging grocery or drugstore where we can buy Advil, bottled water and good cheese. I asked the woman manning the grill at Heidi's today where people went if they needed cash (there is no ATM on the island) or had some kind of emergency and needed to buy something. "What kind of emergency? You run out of beer?" her cohort said. Her follow-up response: "We just don't have emergencies." Ah, island life. Below: Honeymoon Beach. Better pictures (taken on real camera) shall follow, but not until I get back.

Welcome to paradise

Don't hate me. Much. (This is the beach at Sprat Bay -- our own secluded hideaway.)

The little electric car (a true Gem)

Who killed the electric car? Not I! Not yet.

Tropical Do-Nothing Vacation: Day 1

(Apologies for the imperfect grammar etc; I'm typing this on my iPhone.)

Long day. Packed until 3 am, napped until 5, took two flights, slept most of the way.

A note about the Charlotte, NC, airport: it kicks the ass of most other airports, or at least New York's. For one thing, Bojangles fried chicken! For another, white rocking chairs. In the airport. And then at our gate there was an actual airplane hanging from the ceiling. Dude. Go Charlotte.

We landed in St. Thomas, and the moment we walked into the terminal, there was a guy there with a tray of complimentary mango rum shots for all. Welcome to the Virgin Islands, indeed!

We had a rum punch at Tickle's, then bought provisions at the little market next door (sadly, most of what we bought was frozen and overpriced). Then took the little ferry to Water Island, which... Such a difference. We went from the land of tourists to a dock where the girl hanging out, waiting for her mom, told us she lived on a catamaran and hung out on Water Island because the beaches were better and St. Thomas was "dirty."

Got picked up in a jeep by Mary, the caretaker of the house where we're staying (in Sprat Bay). She's lived on the island 20 years, also lived on a boat for 12 years, and told us that they don't like telling outsiders about this place because it's their little paradise. And boy, is it ever. GORGEOUS. L had been here many times, but L's friend P and I couldn't get over it, especially when we got to the house, which isn't huge but marvelous and tastefully decorated with porches and a view and a tiny pool. And there's a hammock! I'm a sucker for a hammock.

We had stopped at the beach to leave out order for dinner at Heidi's, which is a food truck in Honeymoon Beach. They said they'd be serving dinner at 6, so we only had time to change before heading back down -- this time, navigating by ourselves in a miniscule, doorless, yellow electric car (picture tomorrow). I drove. Left side of the road, winding roads, steep cliffs, very little sense of if we were going the right way, 10 miles per hour. Super fun, though. I loved it. It was like driving a golf cart.

Unbelievably made it back to Honeymoon Beach after getting lost only once; had ribeye steak and Corona on the beach as the sun set. Damn. It's too beautiful to be real. Then back to the house for wine and conversation on the deck.

Tomorrow, I crack open Catch-22.