Montrealer For A Weekend; Birthday Weekend

I'm exhausted and the fat, obnoxious Augustus Gloop on my left in this puddle jumper must be American because it is my understanding those are tell take signs of my people.

I'm sad and feel empty.

I'm on my period, I'm turning 36 and I am alone. A weekend that should be celebratory. A weekend that should be a new adventure with old friends doesn't feel fun or exciting. It feels like escaping.

Maybe travel is my drug. Maybe instead of expanding my mind with drugs or distracting myself in a bar on Friday nights drinking cocktails and listening to brown eyed girl on repeat, I like to see new places, meet new people and try new things.

And you know what - that's ok. We all develop ways in which we cope to get through this thing called life and if mine is visiting far off lands to witness foreign culture and sample foreign fare - I accept that.

I accept me.

Strangely enough I was one of those kids who knew who I was from an early age.

My father loved to tell me how mere minutes after entering the world, that July day exactly 36 years ago I struck up a conversation immediately. Yammered on about what is seen and what I'd thought while gestating that near year.

I guess that never stopped.

He spent the last 32 years of his life listening to me yammer on about what I'd seen and what I thought.

I still wish he were here to listen to me. To be here with me because without him life has only become more lonely; more challenging and far far messier.

But enough of that. I'm on a plane. I have my passport and this weekend I will be experiencing a new place and, hopefully, having a chance encounter with Celine Dion.

My friend Francois had offered to pick me up, and that's what he did, but not before I navigated my way through the automatic customs machines at YUK which involved a lot of swearing, but absolutely no stamping.

With a 2 hour delay I landed just moments after my birthday began and I gotta say I was jonesing for the commemoration in my little blue book. But alas...

The Montreal night is cool and clean and my chariot awaits - by way of a station wagon. Francois is leaving for a kayaking trip in the morning and his boat is already shoved diagonally in the vehicle so I hop in the back and catch up with this stranger I feel fortunate enough to call a friend. That's how it happens though, right?

At one point Simone was just the girl who was assigned to room 220 in Mary Park Hall and, 17 years later she is my sister. Angie was just the hostess at the job I worked to get me through college and now she is family. Holly a fellow cougar and Sean a fellow Mustang and now their children are my nieces.

Hopefully 15 years from now I can reminisce on the way this stranger also became part of the inner circle I rely on to get the rough the day. To get through this life.

Francois is kind and very Canadian and before you know it we are back at his one bedroom abode in Villaney dropping my bags and, despite the hour, heading to a local bar.

At the time he does not know it but he buys me a local blonde micro-brew that is bitter, but as my first drink at 36, takes the edge off.

Despite my nerves to reconnect the conversation is easy and he is a bird of the same feather - though his level free spirit almost makes me look uptight. So just imagine.

It's late and we walk home with a chill in the air.

He makes up the futon for me and I put on my Aerosmith tshirt and before long we are both fast asleep and I am officially a year older.

I put an international plan on my phone but it doesn't seem willing to work with me so when I eventually connect to wifi in the morning there is a moment of relief.

Francois makes me two eggs and a pineapple smoothie and we chat at his kitchen table in our pajamas about the woman he is dating and the men I am not.

He offered to let me stay while he was out of town but I'd made other arrangements so I leave my bag to store while he packs up and I hit the rues of Montreal.

This is my third Canadian city and I find they all have a quiet peacefulness. Now this just may be me being out of the city or out of my life a bit - but I welcome the quiet solitude of the leafy pathways and breezy avenues.

Slowly making my way to Marche Jean Talon I decide to stop into Tea Shop and get a citrus blend ice tea that is cold and refreshing and allows me to sit in a wing backed chair and be alone. But not lonely.

Fortuitously enough whilst on wifi I got a FaceTime from my gorgeous friend and her gorgeous daughter and was delighted to see family today.

With nearly an hour spent in the cafe I knew I needed to get a move on if I wanted to see Jean Talon Marche and Parc Jarry before my ride arrived so I made moves.

But the making moves did not deter me from perusing dollar store blow outs and Indian jewelry stores tucked neatly below street level. Soon I realized there was no feasible way to make it to my destination on time and made an about face back toward the smell of curry, Christina Aguilera warbling words on empowerment in my ear.

Despite running short on time I did make a quick stop at the Tim Hortons on the corner of Jean-Talon and Hutchinson to partake in some local cuisine, make Robin Sherbatsky proud, and have a birthday donut.

My ride was for sure en route by now and I headed back to Francois', not to see him but to meet my housemate for the following two nights by way of another friend I met abroad with whom I have checked in with on occasion but whom I did not know terribly well.

Needless to say there were some nerves as I had committed to spending the weekend with two friends who were by and large strangers, but that nervousness dissipated when I saw Rubins huge smile as he watched me descend from the stairs to my previous night's abode. He was happy to see me. And that felt nice.

I dropped the keys in the mailbox, threw my camo over-sized tote in Rubins' trunk and a beautiful day in Montreal awaited me.

Seeing as I had evidently been walking in the exact opposite direction of Jean Talon, that was our first stop. We meandered the aisle ways offering locally sourced, organic and artisnal goods. With a brief respite for a cheers with Chinese egg rolls, as I revealed that today was, in fact, my birthday, we enjoyed our greasy treats and headed to the next point of interest.

With no particular destination in mind (I am not the type to do much research before a trip), I figured my guide for the day could show me the way. There were some twists and turns but we eventually made our way over the mountain and through the immaculately manicured lawns of Mont Parc Royal to Saint Joseph's Oratory of Mount Royal, Canada's largest church and a behemoth upon the hill. 

The church had an entire room to light candles, with stairways leading up to rows upon rows of red and green candles and I made sure to light my candles in silence and solitude. I truly love Cathedrals and no matter where in the world I am a quiet moment in one is always appreciated.

There is a vista upon your descent from the mountain where you get a decent view of the city - but more importantly a great view of the typically nocturnal raccoons who are all to happy to get all up in your grill for the opportunity to get a snack.

After spending several hours with this stranger friend, the stranger part seemed to fade away and our lengthy walk from downtown to the Old Port was comfortable, if not for my feet.

Old Port seems to be Fisherman's Wharf adjacent, but offers a plethora of galleries, amazing street art and souvenir shops with cobble stoned streets and a beautiful waterway. You can zip line or listen to live music. 

When it came to my attention that on summer evenings in Montreal there is a live fireworks show I felt like I had had a lovely, mellow birthday ignoring my degeneration with the distraction of exploring and the beauty of a new place.

Sidled up on cement steps for the show my Canadian compatriot insisted he had commissioned the fireworks show for my birthday, but I suspect he was pulling my leg...

The walk back to the car felt even longer than that down to the seaport, but it was still early.

It was still my birthday.

After what were many twists and turns and promises that the bar was on the next block, we finally reached La Distillerie. A cute little corner pub with delicious fancy cocktails and jovial waitresses that ushered out July 22nd and ushered in the undeniable fact that I was now 36. There was no turning back.

After a drive out of the city center I was greeted with my basement accommodation in the home Rubins shares with his family that was homey and had the comforting smell of grandparents.

After a restful evening it was up and at 'em - but not too early - to spend yet another day in this Parisian-inspired paradise.

My Converse had not properly supported my feet during my kilometers long walk the day previous, as a slab of rubber and tied on canvas tend to do, so I switched it up with some sandals - but little did I know of the walk that lay ahead of me and the regret I was certain to face.

With Montreal known for it's cuisine and my palette known for it's limitations we decided to feast at St. Viateru Bagel for breakfast - apparently a delicacy for which Montreal is proud. It is literally a hole in the wall with an exposed bakery and no option for egg and cheese on a roll, but the everything bagel was just delicious enough to enjoy naked and when paired with green tea from around the corner and the sunny breeze of a Sunday morning this foodie capitol suited me just fine.

Mile End, the neighborhood in which this eatery was located, reminded me of SOMA in San Francisco with it's mellow nouveau riche vibe. I meandered the streets looking for fun finds and quickly locating a used book store - one of my favorite places to visit when out of town. At this particular shop I picked up a book of antiquated euphemisms almost as old as me and far more offensive while listening to David Bowie - so I would consider it a success!

Deciding to leave the car where it was I literally walked the length of the city - in heels no less. Or at least it felt like it.

Wandering can be such a pleasant experience and with the perfect Bay Area weather and plenty at which to gaze this day proved that theory true. I managed to pick up a brightly colored African shirt, which of course sparked a cultural appropriation discussion, to pair with my Indian earrings as my regalos from Canada and, feeling so relaxed, opted for midday drinks along St. Laurent.

3 sips of a beer, a shot on the house and a pickle back were lazily consumed at Diablos as I chatted with a hippie couple and their well behaved dog from rural Massachusetts about being an artist and life. I may not be a journalist by trade, per se, but I do love talking to strangers and hearing their stories. 

With a relaxed buzz the wandering continued as we happened upon a haberdashery where I was tempted but could not bring myself to purchase a pricey head piece, yet my friend felt compelled to look at himself in the mirror wearing a variety of options for quite some time. Which was fine, it allowed me time to sit down and rest my barking dogs. 

Luckily this store was close to Schwartz's, which had been recommended to be my several people, as THE place to eat in Montreal, was close by. Hats in hand we went to this wait in line sort of place where I didn't realize smoked 'meat' was all they served. 

When option for the only poultry option, for which they are not known and for good reason, where I was promptly meat shamed and now vow never to visit again!

Then it was back to hoofing it again to the promenade of bugs, as the water and heat brought them out in droves.

Not yet having hung out down by the water properly it was time to sit in Old Town and consume one more drink - or at least attempt to. One more drink was partially had while seated next to a silent yet deadly couple comprised of a middle aged middle eastern man sporting a silver band and silly grin and a throw mamma from the train star look alike seated across from him, both silent as they drank their tea and are their crepes.I, of course was fascinated and dying to ask what this relationship was all about. 

This is sight seeing at it's best.

It was getting late, and cold and the hike back to the car was imminent.

Just as I suspected, the walk back was The Never-ending Story of walks and I was in need of my very own quicksand to envelop me. 

Rubins was like a personal trainer from hell always exclaiming just 2 more blocks when he and I both knew good and well the car was not 2 blocks away!

Eventually he went to fetch the car and I was left, cold, barefoot and alone on the corner of Fairmont and St. Laurent. I quickly realize that I could absolutely be left here naked and afraid in the great white north.

And for those of you who don't know me - most things white are terrifying or plain old repugnant.

I start work in 8 hours yet here I am dirty alone and in a foreign country - I certainly like to keep life interesting.

Luckily it wasn't too long before I was picked up and quickly showered, changed and repacked my bag with my new Canadian swag, as I had a crack of dawn flight to catch that would drop me in New York just in time to make it to work on time.

Merci beaucoup, Montreal. You were a great host for a birthday weekend.

33 and Broken: Cayman Edition

Like the start to any great international voyage - you land in a foreign land, fraught with the anticipation and excitement of the unknown and just like any great trip begins - you reach customs, wait an hour, wedged between strollers and senior tour groups with lanyards around their necks, waiting to catch their tour bus, idling outside all for that little stamp that proves you've arrived.

At the insistence of my very dear friend and travel soul mate I booked a trip to the Cayman Islands with Jackie to celebrate my 33rd birthday and take a long exhalation from a hellish summer. A summer from which I am bound to survive but never recover.

Landing in the balmy winds of Grand Cayman cleared my nasal passages but certainly not my mind. At least not yet. Friendly customs officers welcomed us into their tiny Caribbean country right before we hopped on the Tropical Tours shuttle to Comfort Inn and Suites along Seven Mile Beach - the luxury of a packaged vacation is an expense I usually don't incur and one I have little taste for but with limited time and even more limited funds Jackie and I were forced to travel among the banal and head for paradise in a mid level hotel with a continental breakfast included.

I suppose it could be worse.

Not 20 minutes after boarding the bright yellow bus Jackie and I were politely asked to leave as we were so immersed in our estrogen-laced conversation we didn't realize we had reached our destination for the long birthday weekend.

A single bed and kitchenette on the second floor awaited us. Time was of the essence.

A quick change and it was out of door of room 209 and back to the lobby where I may or may not have spotted some attractive men with no gold bands or bitches en tow. A quick chat with a very attractive Miamian who was there coaching a football clinic and seemingly keen to reunite state side, was almost immediately interrupted by my trusty travel companion who would not recognize flirtation if it bit her in the ass and my game was quickly salted like a rimmed margarita. I was ushered out to the bright sunlight of late afternoon in the Caribbean.

Despite the dusk approaching the sun stood strong. Cayman offers talcum powdered beaches and transparent sea, ideal for swimming literally with the fishes only several feet from shore. The bouyancy of the salty sea and warmth of the golden sun allowed a moment of reprieve from 'real life.'

Respectively reading our tomes we were only distracted by the selfie sesh taking place directly in front of us, replete with 4 Dominican women, 4 body types, 2 iPhones and 1 beautiful sunset. There was a clear hierarchy within the group - those who knew just which hand movement and booty placement created the perfect 'natural' look. Jackie and I were captivated. Captivated for a good 30 minutes or so as the shameless shes snapped from every conceivable angle and I can only imagine immediately uploaded to Facebook to show their 'friends' how much better their lives were. Oh how I love the modern world and it's implied narcissism.

With all the possible rays already caught it was time to wash the airplane funk and salt deposits away and get ready for din din.

We had read about Cimboco as well as received a discount card (which were remiss in using) from the front desk so we figured it was the hot spot to feast on our first night on the island. Meandering into a strip mall with a bootleg Chili's was not my idea of an authentic experience but I remained optimistic. That was until the food arrived and Jackie and I realized our overpriced food was filling yet not satisfying in the least, pricey yet not worth the cost of a Big Mac.

Discussions of life, love and devastating loss took place with one of the few people left on the planet with whom I can have such conversations and I was grateful.

With hours to kill before bedtime for anyone neither teething nor menopausal, we decided to take a stroll down the main drag and take in the local sights. These seem to mainly consist of boutiques selling frayed denim jumpsuits, closed for the evening, real estate offices and Irish pubs. Just when we thought all hope had been lost for entertainment on the West Side of Grand Cayman we spotted a mirage, an apparition if you will, in the form of Captain's Bakery and Grill. The Big Boy atmosphere and colorful decor may throw you off, but if you're looking for amiable staff and massive amount of homemade ice cream, including Grape Nuts flavor, this is the place for you.

With vacation being no time to skimp on caloric intake, we opted for the vat of cookies and cream, a large coconut macaroon and a piece of homemade half and half cake with what would soon discover to be lemon frosting.

Enjoying the sticky evening air Jackie and I took turns sampling the local fare whilst seated at a primarily toned picnic table. A local speaking about his multimillionaire daddy interspersed with warnings of Armageddon, in the form of a tropical storm, provided some late night entertainment. It wasn't long after he peddled off into the dark night that we headed back to the single queen room, but not before taking a minor detour down some darkened residential streets in search of what we were sure was just a rowdy house party in need of crashing. Needless to say the party was not located, but out bed and pull out couch were and we were soon hitting snooze for it was the next morning and we had an adventure on which to embark.

Coming to Cayman I knew nothing about the island, the culture. With minimal research I discovered there was the Cayman Island Turtle Farm not 20 minutes up the road from our hotel. This was my only must-do and we did. Reds, a former Californian and now Caymanian who has dreds, 6 kids, and indecipherable accent and a penchant for younger ladies safely dropped up at turtle town and we were on our way. It was only after arriving at the Turtle Farm, guised as a sort of reserve, that we discovered it was in fact a farm, and most of the turtle dishes on the island came from this very spot. The spot where you pet the turtles. The poor, poor turtles.

With the choice between a $19 or a $42 entrance fee the decision was an easy one and we entered the farm, opting out of the swimming experience. Luckily for us after watching the fully mature turtles struggle for what I can only imagine is their great escape and fondle some babies flapping so hard you thought they were trying to fly away home we were approached by a member of the staff and offered entrance into the swimming experience. It pays to have ovaries - sometimes.

After our new covert BFF deposited us at the snorkel cabana, blue wrist bands firmly in place, proving we belong there, and Jackie and I worked through our moral dilemma of the fact that these poor creatures seemingly worshiped in the Caribbean Cayman were being held captive in a place that makes Marine World Africa USA in ass crack Vallejo California look like paradise, we strapped ourselves into adult bibs, replete with crotch straps to traverse the algae-covered cement-bottomed pool used to create the sense of adventure amongst the meek and under exposed when visiting this tropical wonderland.

After a leisurely lap around the pool and making besties with the man from Chattanooga dutifully standing guard at the snorkel shack we rinsed off the turtle juice sure to cause later health complications and, after a brief obligatory stop at the gift shop, were back in the oppressive heat, humid as thick as butter.

Several weeks ago the most traumatic, awful and painful thing imaginable happened and I lost not only the most important person in my life, but my favorite person on the planet. In the wake of such devastation some falter, and some find great strength. Trying desperately to lean more toward the latter I had resolved to do something special on each journey from here on our involving this superman among mere mortals.

For years I had developed some traditions when traveling. A doll for my niece, some earrings for my mother.

Long before the travel bug bit, hell long before puberty hit, I had developed the turtle as a symbol of this integral relationship and made it a point to involve that in my travels as a way to pay homage to this great man.

Long before being safely deposited on Grand Cayman and discovering that this is essentially the turtle Capitol of the world, I had decided that this would be the first stop on a posthumous journey that would hopefully bring us around the world, together. I saw it as an opportunity to bring him to all of the places he should have seen, and all of the places we should have gone together.

Not far from Cayman Island Turtle Farm in the sea of blue and green Caribbean waves that trip began. A strange sensation, letting go - even just a little. Both painful and beautiful; just like life; just like death. 

Having taken my time with this very personal process, we missed the free shuttle back we opted for what we would soon discover was a public bus but far more resembled a taxi cab- a baxi? A cbus if you will.

A nice Jamaican man who attempted to enlist my and Jackie's services as tour guides for his inevitable trip to the Big Apple drove us into town, George Town to be exact, but not before allowing me to ride shotgun, take some quick flicks of cows and pick up a half a dozen travelers along the way.

In a fortuitous stroke of luck we ended up in flash flooded G-town just as the clouds were parting, pointing us directly to Breezes, an eatery on the water about which we had heard and for which we were ready.

In true lesbian partnership style we split a salad and French fries on the outdoor patio overlooking the grey skies and colorful pirate ship freshly docked.

Once the meal was consumed, decisions on the following day were made and the rain had subsided, we figured we would take advantage of being in the bustling Capitol (insert sarcasm here) and walk around Georgetown to see what it offered. Not much was the answer and after I picked up my customary travel baubles, we hailed a city bus back to Seven Mile Beach ready to rent a car for the following day from Andy's rentals - conveniently located just across the road from our abode.

Though Jacks was itching for a Mustang and I was eyeing the yellow Jeep Wrangler we settled on the most cost effective and least protective vehicle on the market in the form of, essentially, a moped with doors. Our reservation was set for the following morning.

Having planned to head to a cheap eatery mentioned in the all too disappointing Fodor's guidebook, we were quickly captivated by the live jams wafting across the way from Peppers, where a cover band was rocking the open air establishment. Despite the disappointment in finally trying breadfruit and being terribly underwhelmed, I remained entertained by the local lush. Everyone knew her name, the real question was were they glad she came?

Just past the girl with the backless dress and enough back far to feed this small country, an octogenarian in a linen shirt and cool guys shades late rocked out with his posse late into the night, bringing me not so hidden joy and excellent people watching. After enough nourishment, both in my belly and in my heart that swells in the joy of the golden years, I took my unique take on resort wear back out onto the street in search of our next destination.

The Royal Palms had been recommended for an after dinner cocktail and though there would be no imbibing had by me, listening to dance tracks remixed with the sounds of lapping waves while lounging on the cool sand was the perfect ending to a Saturday in Cayman.

Up and at 'em bright and early we partook in our complimentary breakfast of raisin bran and lackluster citrus and headed out to pick up up rental car, an hour later than we'd originally requested and then delayed to boot. Island time - you gotta love it! Luckily there was a curious Canadian money launderer with restaurant recommendations to pass the time.

And away we went on our road trip adventure - an all too familiar scenario with Jackie snuggly seated in the passenger position and me behind the wheel, on the wrong side of the road. Perhaps our journeys in Ireland and Australia prepared me for this, as it was the first time I instantly felt comfortable with Brit backwards driving.

First we headed East, along the waterfront, past Georgetown and through the suburban streets with candy coated homes, decorated like birthday cakes with pastel pipping and rainbow sprinkles, dotting the road shaded by trees of Dimetapp orange and crab apple green. The blowholes were our first stop, lingering just log enough to catch some sprays and become irritated with fellow tourists. Quickly we were back in the tiny white Kia, windows down, air con blasting and top 40 pumping out of the standard issue speakers.

With the Magellian goal of circumnavigating the entire island in a day there was no time to waste and it was straight down the road to the Wreck of Ten Sails and subsequently to Big Tree barbecue, a charming front yard stand operated by an apparent husband and wife team offering Cayman cornbread and the local specialty - turtle stew. Thinking I was up for the challenge is became glaringly obvious that once the grey and green bouncy bits flopped their way into a plate that I was not ok with eating the same creatures I was petting and contracting Ebola from just the day before. Jackie was not of the same mind frame and consumed a single piece of turtle and, I have to admit as I watched her chew and chew and chew and swallow, she didn't seem all that disturbed by it. She informed me the taste was quite good but, as I had suspected, the texture was suspect.

The picturesque Rum Point sits at the Eastern most part of the island and makes you feel like you're in Lake Tahoe, only with crystal blue waters and humid air. A quick dip provided us with a cool down and asking Jackie to wear my bamboo hoops in an attempt to keep them dry, and therefore minimally tarnished, provided me with a peek into how ridiculous I must look on a daily basis. And by ridiculous, I mean awesome.

With the Mastic Trail seeming to be the place to hike while on Grand Cayman we decided to head there despite the Navy officer we had met the day prior attempting to deter us. The Northern entrance to the Mastic Trail is a thickly wooded area at the end of a small street that warns of treacherous trails but really is just a long walk over ancient volcanic remains, offering the opportunity to see breathtaking red birches and the occasional lizard. Less than an hour in we decided to make an about face, Jackie in her dress and converse, me in my bikini and running shoes, both profusely dripping a milky liquid created with copious amounts of Hello Kitty aerosol sunscreen and good old-fashioned sweat .

Deciding to skip over the Queen Elizabeth Botanic Garden, and the $10 entrance fee we were on our way back west, back through Georgetown, back past Comfort Suites and straight up to the North of the island.

After stopping for a gallon of water and accidentally skipping past Smith Cove, which Jackie really wanted to see, we somehow finally found our way to Barkers National Parks. This had been suggests for a hike as well as though I don't see how that would be entirely possible with the canal like structure of this national treasure, we managed to find a remote enough beach with shallow waters as far out as the eye could see.

When entering these transparent waters  I experienced something I never had before - not even in Hawaii where the water is touted to be like bathwater - in a good way. This water was not tepid and comfortable - this water was down right warm. It was warmer in the water than on the beach. And it was heaven. I instantly wanted to call my Dad.

Deep breaths were had. A low hanging sun was enjoyed and according to Jackie a barracuda spotting was enjoyed.

With our hours on the island rapidly disappearing, we dragged ourselves out of the welcoming waves and took some time to cruise around the interestingly named 'National Park.' I suppose there are some benefits to living stateside.

Chicken! Chicken! clearly has a great marketing campaign, or perhaps there are just limited options but we had seen it all over and that, mixed with my having had a significant experience with a best friend and Chicken Unlimited in the South Bay when I was still a teenager, led us grab some island delicacies to go for beach noshing and enjoying our last sunset in Cayman. Oven roasted chicken, rice and peas, potatoes and carrots (with a side of cornbread for Jacks) and 'homemade' lemonade were packed into plastic-ware and shuttled ourselves down the street in our now sand-filled rental to catch the last of the day's rays on Seven Mile Beach while reading and eating the final hours of the day away.

Each sunset we experienced was pretty, but none was anywhere near as impressive as the one we witnessed via the cell phone photo gallery from a nice local who approached us while we lounged by the shore. He showed us a fiery red sunset from a couple months back on the same piece of beach. Trust me, I am not complaining -Jackie and I enjoyed the various shades of blue and purple that tie-dyed the sky until it became dark, but the shots on our new island friend's phone were almost unbelievable in their technicolor wonder.

We would soon discover that this new island friend was a 31-year-old named Richard and would be our tour guide for the evening. With promises of Reggae dancing and picnics on the beach Jackie and I were excited to go out with a bang and, once it was evident that bathing suits were no longer proper attire, we packed up our things and made our way up to our room just one floor up and showered and changed into our into our evening wear, ready to have a true Caribbean experience.

At 9:30 sharp Richard appeared in our lobby and called up to beckon his new Americanas, for our chariot awaited. Sadly, he made my new 22-year-old boyfriend at the front desk mildly jealous, but since front desk homie only got my number by searching the reservation book, I felt I didn't owe him much.

The Chariot ended up being our own sand-mobile as we loaded 6'4" Richard into the back of our hatchback to be driven around the island. He remained stoic despite the cramped quarters and was genial and eager to show off his Cayman pride. First stop was The Tower, a part of the newly built multiplex housing million dollar condos, interesting outdoor art and architecture and the only cinema on all 3 islands. The beautifully tiled mosaic's that line the double helix stairway up to the top of the tower offers a delicious sampling of color and texture before being are met with the breeze off the water and lights dotting the night sky.

Anxiously awaiting our nighttime picnic, we were instead then brought, on what was now our tropical double date, with gentlemen dripping in bling and color to a low key watering hole on the beach where I could drink my high fructose virgin delight while allowing the waves to lap against my legging-covered ankles. The men took turns, seeing who they might have a shot with and when the consensus seemed to be reached - no one - Richard's friend feigned hunger and we dropped him back at his car and got ourselves gas and candy - fuel of two types - before heading to a 'pool party' our social director had referenced a couple of times thus far.

This party was at Dump Road Bar, and if you think this sounds sexy - your'e right. This tiny, hut nestled in the back of a strip mall/industrial wasteland offers a pool party each and every Sunday afternoon in which a Doughboy kiddie pool is set up in the middle of this dank destination and women of all shapes and sizes are encouraged to twerk away their worries, which scantily clad and wet in the liquid circle, as the male patrons look on lustfully. By the time we arrived there were very few women in the establishment, and only one still in the pool. The pool patron was upside down in a monokini with lots of CI singles tucked away in her special spot and seeming to have the time of her life. I'll admit, I was intrigued, and saddened that I missed out on the festivities, though not the contraction of Hep C bound to be floating around that stagnant water in the middle of a bar.

It is when faced with situations such as this that Chris Rock and Chris Heard ring through my head, and heart and I realize that my father's success was keeping both me, and my sister, off the pole. Or in this case, out of the pole.

With true culture of that level reached, there was little left to do than thank my lucky stars I had booked this trip to see my own personal marine life performance this up close and personal.

Back to the hotel (beep beep) and it was bedtime, but not before Richard implored me to perhaps once day bear his progeny. He was feeling this intense chemistry - but I think perhaps his chains were merely acting as a conductor of the coming tropical storm. Either way, no babies were made. Ah, the interesting people you meet along the way.

With plans to wake early for our last chance at su,n Jackie and I were out like a light and up at 8 to feast once again on Raisin Bran, though the dorm style cereal dispenser proved tricky for my travel mate. I booked our shuttle as Jackie returned the car to Andy's (teamwork!)  and we reconvened on the beach for our last hours in this tropical paradise.

When it was time to catch the shuttle we were saddened, but reality must always be faced and our car full of a family from Queens, full of Yankee pride and Long Island accents, provided some distraction before arriving at the airport hours early, per regulations. The irony in this strictly enforced early arrival time is that the aircraft was essentially parked next to the Chryslers, and I swear there was a donkey. There is always a donkey. Daim candy provided a delicious distraction from the Arctic breeze pumped through the one room airport and with the flight boarding immediately before us being to Havana it took all of my strength not to make a break for it. But I remained strong. I remained resolute. I remained responsible.

As a wise woman once said, 'you take yourself everywhere you go.' Though I am grateful to have had some time in the sun, and grateful to have the sort of friend who encourages me to continue to do the things that bring me joy at a point in my life where experiencing that is minimal - I was still with me. Still heartbroken, still hurting, just a little older, just a little tanner; more freckled. Even though I was in the pleasant paradise of Cayman, I was, and am, still 33 and broken.