This Week: Tortola, BVI - Part Two

It gets better – Part Two

Monday was a holiday in the British Virgin Islands, Commonwealth Day to be exact. School was out, but a drum corps of school children pounded out marches in the schoolyard. Woke us up. It was also cruise ship day. Something the retirees mentioned with disdain. We wanted to visit the National Park but there wasn’t a taxi in site because they were all in Road Town picking up cruisers. About noon, the taxis and buses returned to CGB full of tourists and they packed the beach in minutes. We snuck up to the solitude of Rhymer’s deck. Amazingly no one else ventured up here the entire day. We felt like royalty standing at the railing passing judgment on all the tourists below - Old guy in Speedo, bad; Children playing limbo with broom, good; Women with giftshop bags sitting under palm tree, in-between. A group of local children arrived having finished with their holiday festivities. From the balcony at Rhymer’s we watched them build a sand castle and then dig a giant moat around it. By late afternoon all were gone. The sand castle was in shambles. Only the moat remained.

We were contemplating what to do for dinner when the solitude of the balcony was broken. A man and woman were entering the hotel room across the hall from us. We watched them enter and sadly realized we were about to have company. Shortly after their entrance they came out on the balcony. We all said hi. They asked us if we had been to Rhymer’s before. We said no and the husband told us they had been coming to this particular hotel for 16 years. Then the wife chimed in that they first came here on their honeymoon, when the pink hotel was the only one on the beach.

“There used to be no carpet, just miss-matched tile,” she told us, “and cockroaches! And this deck wasn’t here, nor the restaurant. When they first put the restaurant in it use to have a canvas roof, remember?”

The husband continued, “Yeah, they finally made a permanent structure and created this deck.” With a smile they said goodbye and went back to their room. We went into ours and changed for dinner.

So Elm’s was the place to eat dinner today. The sun was finally setting and the cruisers were gone. Elm’s restaurant and mini-suites were right next door to Rhymer’s, however, it was hidden by palm trees. As far as we could tell, it was never open, at least we hadn’t seen any people in it yet. We were curious about this place too, because of the wooden swings all around the bar.

Dinner at Elm’s was once again grilled fish and chicken, our third day in a row. However, the chef, who was standing in the sand next to a giant grill made out bricks, outdid all the previous meals. I don’t know what he did differently, but this was by far the best fish we had eaten. And instead of just beans and rice, grilled vegetables were available. We ate at a picnic table near the grill. In the warm evening we enjoyed some liquored up ice cream drinks for dessert. Around 8 o’clock the chef and the wait staff began cleaning up the grill and the serving table. Some of the customers left as well. Just few people sat inside. We moved to one of the swings that faced the water and swung for several minutes too busy slurping our drinks to speak. A guitar strum broke the silence.

“Good evening, everyone,” someone behind us said through a microphone. “My name is Steve.” Then he began to sing.

Don’t worry…about a ting…every little ting…gonna be all right. Baby don’t worry…about a ting…every little ting…gonna be all right…

On cue, all of us in the bar all joined in.

Rise up this morning…smiled with the rising sun…three little birds…pitch by my doorstep…singing sweet songs…of melodies pure and true…singing this is my message to you, ou, ou….baby don’t worry…

The next day I woke up early and sneaked out to the beach. It was daylight, but the sun had yet to clear the hill behind the bay. Three young men were raking the beach in front of Rhymer’s. After raking leaves, removing the debris and dusting off beach chairs, they moved to the front of Elm’s and raked that section of beach. They continued this all the way down to the cemetery. I followed them taking some photos, trying not to look like a stalker. Then they walked around the cemetery and to the school building across the street. I returned to Rhymer’s.

Rhymer’s restaurant was open for breakfast. I was so happy to see the breakfast menu; French toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, oatmeal even. After three days of grilled fish, I was desperate for some “ordinary” food. I ordered the French toast with a side of bacon and glass of OJ. Cost for this simple meal was $9 ($3.75 was just for the OJ!), but I didn’t care. I missed the food I normally ate back home. The French toast may have been Wonderbread, but the sugar cinnamon made it sweet, the bacon was not as crispy as I prefer and the OJ was pulpy, but it was the best money I spent on Tortola.

Later that morning, Christian found me lounging on one of Rhymer’s signature blue beach chairs enjoying a rum punch. Considering we still had rum and Coke back in the room, I had wasted money ordering a rum drink, but I was too lazy to get up. Saying it looked good, Christian ordered himself one. I told Christian about my fish revolt at breakfast and he decided we should do the same for lunch. Conveniently the café next door had a pizza special. We were so happy to not be eating fish that we didn’t care how fattening the cheese and pepperoni pizza was.

As we wiped the grease off our hands, a young couple took the chairs next to Christian and waved hello to us. We asked them if they just arrived and they said they had early that morning. He introduced himself as Ed and his girlfriend Kelly. They had also come after spending a few days on St. John and were going to spend the rest of the week on Tortola. Ed said they had been camping on St. John and that after a week of sleeping on cots and taking cold showers, Rhymer’s was a palace. We told them about our St. John “Scooter of Death” and how the roads were so bad in Tortola that we decided to just spend our time here and hoped we weren’t missing anything. Ed said they had arrived by ferry in the island’s main port of Road Town (we had arrived in West End) and spent the morning walking around town looking for a place to eat. However, they were not impressed - old buildings, crowded streets and pestering sales people. Ed said the reason he started talking to us was jealousy over our pizza. Unfortunately they had already eaten in Road Town, burnt fish and sticky rice. Happy to oblige a fellow traveler we pointed to the café next door.

This quiet day was our last on Tortola. I spent it looking at the bay, listening to the sounds around me and writing notes in my journal in between naps. Every now and then I could hear the shouts of the retirees playing dominoes at Elm’s. We had some afternoon entertainment in the form of a coconut vendor. “Cooooooo-conuts,” he yelled in a deep baritone. He pushed a wheel barrel with one hand and wielded a machete with the other. Intimidating enough that no one would approach him. Then a local boy ran up and the man opened a coconut for him. Watching him whack away with his machete at the coconut with the precision of a surgeon, a crowd of people quickly gathered. He would spin the coconut around in one hand while hacking the machete with the other. After a few spins, he put a straw in the hole he made at the top and handed it over to people for which they gladly gave him $5. After serving everyone in the crowd, he continue down the beach yelling, “Coooooooooo-conuts!” Soon the sun was in front of us announcing the approaching happy hour.

We could hear the patrons singing before we could see Myett’s bar sign. Cap’ Eye was entertaining again. We got our Presidentes from the bar and took our seats behind Cap Eye, the same seats we had on our first day. The retirees were living it up dancing and singing and hugging each other. Before Cap’ Eye ended with his signature song, Brown Eyed Girl, he asked for volunteers to play some percussion instruments. Tucked safety behind Cap’ Eye we were not worried at all about having to join in. That was until a woman wearing a black and white swimsuit cover up dress grabbed some maracas and stumbled over to us.

“Here,” she said handing me a maraca. Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me over to Cap’ Eye. Then a guy with a Jimmy Buffett Tunes in the Dunes t-shirt grabbed a couple of tambourines and went and grabbed Christian. Along with two other guys, one with a cabasa and another with a cow bell (I need more cowbell!), we shook and banged with the beat, not at all embarrassed in any way. After Cap’ Eye’s set was done, all of us percussionists posed for a group photo for the tipsy woman who started it all.

After the happy hour, we returned to our bar stools overlooking the water to watch the sun set. We still had one more Presidente to drink. Hurray two-fer-one! With each sip we reflected on what we had discovered the last few days. We discovered you get what you pay for and that can be a good thing; that the party doesn’t end with retirement; that no mattered how well it’s prepared we can only eat so much fish; that we can go with the flow…if we have to. Most importantly we discovered that being a traveler didn’t mean turning over every single rock on the island. Cane Garden Bay had everything we needed. Jimmy B was right; it does get better.

Please don’t say Manana if you don’t mean it;
I have heard those words for so very long,
Don’t try to describe the ocean if you’ve never seen it;
Don’t forget that you just may wind up being wrong. – Jimmy B


Useful Links:
Rhymer's Beach Hotel
Myett's Garden and Grill
Elm's Beach Suites

This Week: Tortola, British Virgin Islands

It gets better – Part One


Cane Garden Bay is mentioned in a Jimmy Buffet song: “I hear it gets better, that’s what they say, as soon as we sail into Cane Garden Bay.” – Manana He was right.

It was time for our biennial visit to St. John in the US Virgin Islands and we tacked on a few extra days to visit another island while we were there. Remembering the song, I looked up Cane Garden Bay on the Internet. CGB is part of the largest British Virgin Island of Tortola and because it’s British, we needed our passports to stay. But it would only be a short ferry ride from St. John and all the Virgin Islands, both US and British took US currency. The bright pink building in a website photo caught my eye. What reeled me in was the $80/night price tag. With tax it was around $100/night. You just don’t find those kinds of rates on a Caribbean island so I booked a few days.

We didn’t know what to expect when we arrived on Tortola. After a week on St. John in the very cushy Westin resort, we were a tad nervous about what $100/night would get us. The first thing we noticed about the island was how bad the roads were. We had rented a single scooter on St. John for the week and managed to tool around without killing ourselves (we had nicknamed the red UM the “Scooter of Death”). We had talked about renting a scooter, perhaps for the day, to explore Tortola, but the taxi ride from the ferry terminal revealed not only steeper and more narrow roads than St. John, but hairpin turns, pots holes, and giant ruts, which put an immediate end to our scooter idea. Without transportation we were stuck in the bay. Would there be food? Would we be bored? Would we drive each other crazy?

Our questions were answered as the taxi dropped us off at Rhymer’s Beach Hotel. The pink building stood out from all the tropical greenery surrounding it. In the small parking lot we saw the entrance to a convenience store and farther down was a sign for the hotel’s restaurant. Relived to know food and supplies were near, we entered. After checking in the desk attended led us to our room. We walked up a flight of stairs and down a long hall. A doorway at the end of the hall glowed in sunlight. Just like in that ghost movie we kept walking closer and closer to the light. The woman stopped at the last door in the hallway.

She opened the door for us with the room key. It was an actual key, bronze with a large plastic tag that had our room number on it. After using electronic card keys for a week this was quite a throwback. We entered the room. It was…underwhelming. The biggest shock was seeing two twin beds. My husband, Christian, was thrilled. “Woo hoo! I get my own bed!”

There was a small TV with cable on a dresser. There was a small kitchen nook with a sink, stove, cupboards and a mini-refrigerator. Next to that was the bathroom. Small also described the bathroom, but it was clean. No tub, just a shower. The shower had a window at the top that let light in from the outside. From it I could also hear the sounds of the bay. It wasn’t much, but it would do. We dropped our bags on the beds and walked out through the light that had blinded us earlier. Our jaws dropped.

We stood on a rooftop deck filled with all kinds of lounge chairs, tables and upright chairs all bright white plastic. Two giant palm trees shaded the south side. Before us was the beach that made up CGB and beyond that the bay itself. Jost van Dyke was so close I could swim to it. In the distance was the faint outline of St. Thomas. The brown sugar sand beach stretched for over a mile. Below us people relaxed in blue lounge chairs. We could hear reggae music coming from somewhere. Our tiny hotel room was next to this? Sweet!

We spent the afternoon wandering the beach, getting to know our new home. The three buildings to the south of us were all restaurants, some with mini-suites attached. After that were some souvenir shops. After that some private homes painted bright blues, yellows and greens. After the last house was a bit of a gap that led to a graveyard, creepy yet cool, and after that was a small lodge with a series of cabins. Our hotel was a long way away at this point, but we kept walking. Toward the end of the bay was another restaurant perched above the rocks with a wooden staircase that led to it. The sign said “Gone Fishin’.” Hungry we decided to stop. We saw no customers, but it was two in the afternoon, a bit late for lunch, too early for dinner. A tanned young man told us to sit anywhere we liked. We chose a place in the shade, but facing the water. The young man said that they still had some of the fish remaining that the owner had caught that morning if we wanted a sandwich.

“He catches his own fish?” my husband asked.

“Yes, almost everyday, depending on the weather. He doesn’t always catch anything, but today was a good day.” We couldn’t resist fresh caught fish. It was perfectly grilled, just a little crispy, with only some lettuce and mayo added to the bun. With all those Caribbean spices, it didn’t need anything else. Some potato salad finished off our hunger.

The long walk back to the hotel helped us burn off lunch. We chose to walk on the road so we could see what else CGB had to offer. After walking past the graveyard we were rewarded – with a grocery store! We were so excited to find a store we bought a week’s worth of food for a four day stay. We bought some melons and bananas, potato chips, some bagels and jam and, most importantly, two six-packs of Coke and a bottle of rum.

Just before sunset we again ventured along the beach wondering what to do for dinner. We could hear an electric guitar and people applauding ahead of us. The music was coming from a place called Myett’s that we had walked by earlier. Upon entering we were treated to the musical stylings of local Cap’ Eye. Cap’ Eye was an old white guy in a t-shirt and Khaki shorts strumming a guitar. He also had a keyboard/drum machine keeping the beat. We were surrounded by people as we walked up the steps and toward the bar. Christian ordered two bottles of beer and the waitress asked if we wanted Presidentes? He yelled over the music, “Why?”

“Because it’s happy hour and Presidente’s are two for one!” she answered. Well, that was a no-brainer. We managed to find two bar stools on the far end of the room. This was behind Cap' Eye’s make-shift stage, which was really just a small section of floor. No one else was behind him, but as soon we found some seats, a few other people followed us.

“Havin’ a good time?” a gentleman with white hair and beard asked us.
“Yes!” we shouted and tipped our bottles to his. For his finale, Cap' Eye broke into Brown Eyed Girl and the entire bar, including us, were shouting, “la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, tee da!” I was out of breath by the end of the song. Then happy hour was over.

“Cap' Eye is great!” the gentleman told us after he finished his set. “He sings here every Saturday, Tuesday and Thursday” He then introduced us to his wife (of 30-some years) and asked if we had been on Tortola before. When we told him no, he went into a whirlwind of words telling us how wonderful the island was.

“We’ve been coming here for 19 years,” he said. He knew most of the crowd at Myett’s and introduced us to more people than I can remember. Most were retired or semi-retired people from the East Coast, from Maine to Florida, who saved just enough money to spend two to three months of the year in Cane Garden Bay. None were especially wealthy. They were brick layers, accountants, sales people, teachers, mail carriers and the occasional lawyer. They stayed in the mini-suites of Myett’s and Elm’s and the various other small hotels in CGB priced not much more than the Rhymer’s. They had potluck meals once a week and spent their days reading books, playing dominoes and singing at happy hour.

“You have to come back here for dinner in a few hours, about 8 o’clock,” he said. He told us that they had a fish grill every Saturday and that for $35 each we’d get our choice of fresh caught fish, plus steak or chicken and two sides and it was the best on the island.

“The host will give you a tour of the grill and you pick your meat and fish before you even sit down.”

Later that night when hungry for dinner, we wandered back down to Myett’s, but checked out all the other restaurants we had seen earlier in the day. Oddly, none were open. The fish and steak were everything the gentleman had said they would be and served with beans and rice. We enjoyed a steel drum player tapping out island tunes in the corner. After all the beer we drank earlier, we were fine with couple of cokes. The evening breeze gently blew through the restaurant and the waves could barely be heard above the music, a great end to the first day.

We spent the next morning snorkeling the coral reef that ran under CGB. The best access was the far west end of the beach, near the rocks. I was amazed to find such a large and beautiful reef full of fish in such a busy bay, another pleasant surprise. After a morning of swimming, we returned to Rhymer’s to lounge on the beach for the rest of the day. The only mentally challenging thing we had to do was find dinner.

On this particular evening, only Stanley’s next to Rhymer’s was open. Stanley’s was serving a fish and chicken buffet. Delicious, but it was our third straight meal of fish with a side of rice and beans. We asked our server why they were the only place open and he let us in on a secret. Each restaurant had its own special buffet night. Myett’s was Saturday. Stanley’s was tonight. That way each restaurant in the bay was guaranteed a full house at least once a week. Our server said that tomorrow night would be Elm’s turn.

We were looking for something to do the rest of the evening, but being a Sunday, there wasn’t much. We ventured over to Quito’s Gazebo because we could hear music. Quito Rymer was Tortola’s most famous reggae musician and the Gazebo was his nightclub. As we approached people spilled out of the doors onto the beach and crowded the second floor balcony. Reggae music blared from inside. Excited to see such a happening place, we approached expecting to do a little dancing. Unfortunately we neglected to notice how dressed up the patrons were; men in suits and ties and women in dresses and high heels. Turned out we had just missed a local island wedding. The floral wedding canopy was still in the sand in front of the building, ribbons blowing in the wind. Some gentlemen at the door turned us away saying the entire building was rented out for the reception. Disappointed we returned to Rhymer’s and drank rum and cokes on the balcony. Although we never made it in, we could still hear the music from Quito’s while we watched the stars.


End of Part 1

Useful Links:
Myett's Garden & Grill
Rhymer's Beach Hotel
Quito's Gazebo
Tortola, BVI

This week: Las Vegas, Nevada (and a few other places)

What if I told you….?


Morning was sunny in Las Vegas, but chilly as it was December. I was headed to the CVS next door before the rest of my group was up for the day. I was hoping to get a morning walk on the Strip before the crowds of afternoon appeared and while my husband and the rest of my traveling group were still sleeping off last night’s vodka and Red Bulls. I took only three steps from my hotel door when I heard someone call my name from behind. It was our friend Jim, the organizer of this little weekend excursion, a gift to his wife and our dear friend, Ellen, for her birthday. He wanted to know where I was going. When I told him, he asked to join me. Ellen had forgotten her toothbrush. I had forgotten my contact cleanser so a trip to the store was definitely in order. I also said I wanted to walk around the hotel and check out the pool. He thought that was a good idea and followed me down the hall.

We were staying at the Aria, just one of several swanky new hotels in the City Center district of the Las Vegas Strip. We checked in yesterday, but didn’t have time to really visit the place as we had tickets for a show at another hotel that night. It was about 8:45 a.m. as we headed down the elevator to “The Promenade” where the pool was located. We followed the signs and the obnoxiously strong scent of Jasmine to the glass doors that led to the pool. At least that scent wasn’t as strong as the vanilla scent in the lobby or we might have needed air masks. Upon entering the pool area, we were greeted by an older gentleman with slicked back gray hair and wearing one of the burnt orange bowling shirts that signified he worked for the hotel. He asked us how we were doing. We said we were fine and seeing as how we were wearing street clothes stated that we just wanted to see the pool area. He said that was not possible because the pool didn’t open until 9 a.m. But it’s only 5 minutes before 9, we pleaded. This did not sway him. He said there was too much cleaning equipment that needed to be put away before we could enter. Expressing our disappointment he made us an offer.

“Why don’t joo go back to yer room, put on yer bathin’ zuits and when joo get back da pool will be open,” he said in his finest Brooklyn accent.

We said we were on our way to the store and didn’t have time.

“Wha-di-fy toad joo…dat da pool…iz eighty-one dah-grees?” he asked, leaning over his pool desk like he was letting us in a secret. That’s great, we replied.

“Wha-di-fy toad joo dat da hot tub…iz a ‘undred an’ four dah-grees?” Fantastic.

“Wha-di-fy I toad joo dat da temperature iz goin’ ta be sixty-eight dah-grees taday?” he said with a nod of his head. Ok, we were sold. However, we said we’d come back later.

“Joo look like a nice couple. Nutten more romantic dan sittin’ in a hot tub, eh?” he asked. We mentioned that we had other significant others and were not attached to each other.

“Well, joo know wad dey say, whad‘appens in Vegas stays in Vegas…” Yeah, we’ll pass, but thanks.

With that we were on our way out of the hotel laughing our asses off all the way to the CVS. A few minutes later while sitting in Jim and Ellen’s hotel room deciding where to go for lunch, Jim and I replayed the whole conversation to the others in our group. Jim had the whole room rolling with laughter with his authentic New York accent. We spent the rest of the weekend enjoying our new catch phase:

“Wha-di-fy toad joo deys runnin’ a maratawn on da Strip?”

“Wha-di-fy toad joo dat beers and hot dogs are a dolla fiddy all day?”

“Wha-di-fy toad joo dat Cabo Wabo iz at Planet ‘ollywood?”

“Wha-di-fy toad joo dat da Venetian iz no Palazzo?”

These are the kinds of stories that make travel interesting for me – the small, intimate and often hilarious encounters with people from the places I visit. While most travelers pass these incidental contacts off preferring to impress people with the museums they saw, the wonders of the world they photographed and the exotic food they ate, I prefer experiences of the ordinary kind, mundane even. Sometimes these incidents were uncomfortable in the moment, but with each retelling, become more memorable and, in my opinion, downright funny.

Like the time I was in Sydney, Australia:

After having spent the previous four hours of my Saturday morning conquering the Sydney Harbour Bridge Climb, I stopped in a nearby pub to have lunch. It was the pub talked about by our bridge guide because of its historical significance to the city of Sydney and the bridge, the Harbourview Hotel. (Although it was actually a pub, the Harbourview was called a hotel because of a law back in the day that only allowed hotels to serve alcohol so pubs back then had a few rooms for rent, but were really just pubs.) I was feeling pretty proud of myself for accomplishing the climb and felt I deserved a hearty lunch. What better place than the pub where all the workers on the bridge spent their free time and wages. When the waitress approached I was ready to order.

“I’ll have the fish fi-LAY and chips,” I said. The waitress cocked her head to one side and put her hand on her hip.

“You mean fish fi-LET?” She asked loud enough for the patrons at the bar to hear because they all turned to look at us. Of course, she wasn’t really asking me, she was telling me.

“Um, sure,” I said and then hid my head behind the menu. Wow, she must really hate the French.

Then there was this encounter in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico:

In an effort to get some comped excursions from our hotel, we agreed to attend the hotel’s timeshare presentation one morning. This would include breakfast and two tickets for a Jeep tour to a zip line in the mountains. When we arrived at our scheduled time, Hector greeted us and took us to the breakfast buffet.

After spending an hour at breakfast where Hector told us his life story - humble beginnings on a farm with many siblings before moving to the seaside to raise a family and make a lot of money - we then went to the “selling” area, a large, well decorated room with lots of round tables filled with people just like us haggling over timeshares.

After another hour of Hector asking us questions about our finances, our jobs and our vacation habits he then proceeded to complement us on how we dressed, especially impressed by my husband Christian’s shoes. We also impressed him with how well we took care of our money and that we chose Mexico for our vacation. We were the smartest, best looking people he’d ever met.

“Yeah, but how much does it cost?” we asked. He then spent another half hour telling us how wonderful this part of Mexico was and what it had to offer, the mountains, the ocean, the restaurants…followed by the amenities of the resort.

“Great, how much does it cost?” He then told us how many other units he had sold in the last month and how he was the best salesman the resort had.

“Super, how much does it cost?” He then told us about his family and how he had three mouths to feed.

After several more requests he finally gave us a five-figure number. Then he said the price wasn’t to purchase the timeshare. It was actually a lease good for only 20 years. That meant that we would have to repurchase the lease if we wanted to keep the timeshare. Had something to do with Mexican law about foreigners owning land, he told us.

Since we didn’t think repurchasing a lease at the same time we would be retiring was a good idea, we told him thanks, but no thanks and got up to leave. (Of course, we hadn’t planned on buying anything anyway, but this was a good out for us.) Hector then proceeded to curse loudly, telling us how stupid we were to turn down this fabulous offer. How quickly we had fallen from favor. At least we had a good breakfast. We missed the Jeep excursion, though, too many tequila shots the previous night.

Although we were pissed at Hector’s little temper tantrum at the time, now whenever we encounter an overzealous sales person, we smirk and say, no thanks Hector!

And finally some anecdotes from Marco Island, Florida:

I tagged along with my husband on a business trip. The trip was a convention/seminar at the Marriott Resort on Marco Island. The Marriott was gorgeous: Gigantic hotel room with king-size bed and a balcony. The bathroom was as big as our house at the time - all paid for by the company. It had four restaurants and a world-class spa on the property - not paid for by the company. The best part was having the widest beach I’d ever seen at my disposal.

After spending two hours of the morning getting a seaweed wrap and massage in the spa (a birthday gift to myself that I paid for), I then went to spend the afternoon lounging on a pool chaise with a book. A woman with two small children put their towels and bags in some chairs nearby. The kids, a boy and a girl, jumped and splashed around the pool laughing. They appeared to be having a great time. The woman sat with a magazine in the shade of an umbrella. About noon, a man in dress slacks and dress shirt approached the woman and began talking. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I sure heard what SHE said,

“What do you mean we can’t come to lunch with you?? You dragged us all the way down here and we haven’t had a single meal together. You should be spending this time with your kids!!!!! So when will I see you? What do you mean we can’t have dinner with you??? Why are we even here????” Her voice rose in pitch with each question.

Really? You know, your husband didn’t have to bring you and the kids to the Gulf Coast of Florida…with its silly sunshine and unbearable 80 degree weather. Oh, how awful that must have been.

Later that same afternoon, I met up with the wife of one of my husband’s coworkers, Robin. We sat at the bar of the beach café, called Quinn’s on the Beach, drinking ice tea and debating whether to get the Cuban or the Crab Cake Po Boy, when the bartender, a stocky woman with a little gray in her brown hair, came over and asked us where we were from. When we told her Colorado, she said she’d heard it was pretty, but had never been there.

“Maybe Marriott should send me there next,” she mused. We agreed, but said we thought that Florida was a pretty good gig.

“You’re telling me,” she said. “I’m originally from Boston.” She pointed to her name tag. Marriott name tags had the employee’s hometown as well as their name on them.

“I worked at the Boston Marriott for almost 20 years. Then when my son went off to college and I thought, I should go someplace warm, so I filed for a transfer and Marriott sent me here.”

We asked how long ago that was. “Almost three years ago,” she said. Then told us she was having doubts about Florida after the hurricane. Hurricane Wilma had whipped across Marco Island the month before. The Marriott was still cleaning up some areas of the resort and trees were down all over the island.

“We got lucky,” the bartender told us. “It was only a Category 3.” She said she was contemplating a move before another, stronger, hurricane came through. “I bet Colorado is great, but I don’t want to live where it’s cold.”

Robin and I let her in on a little secret…in Denver, it didn’t really get that cold. The mountains, yes, but the city, not so much. Sure it snows every now and then, but the next day the sun comes out and melts everything away.

“Mmmmm, I’ll have to think about that,” the bartender said while washing a glass and smiling. Satisfied we had another convert, Robin and I skipped the sandwiches and went straight for the cheesecake. Nummy.

For more colorful conversations and people, check out these previous blog posts:
Thomas – St. John
Richard – Ambergris Caye, Belize
Hitchhiking – St. John
Awesome Adventures – Key West, Florida
Tarantula – St. John
Antique Car Rally – Bundaberg, Australia
Late Night with Conan O’Brien – New York City

This Week: Treasure Island, Florida

Treasure Island

It was another cloudy afternoon in Orlando. Not cold, but cool and no sun to be seen. The morning had the promise of sun, but then it disappeared and took the fun out of sunbathing by the pool. With the threat of rain showers in the forecast I said to my husband, “I don’t wanna sit in this condo watching Sports Center all day!” After all, we had a convertible rental car and he did like to drive. I grabbed the Florida map and out we went. We made our way to I-4 heading west toward Tampa. Traffic was heavy, but as soon as we hit the town of Lakewood, the clouds disappeared and out came the sun.

An hour and a half later my husband said, “OK we’re in Tampa, now what?”

“We’re driving until we find water,” I said. As I scouted the map, I noticed dark bold letters on the gulf that said “Treasure Island.” That sounded promising, but I could only envision two things: Treasure Island, the book and Treasure Island, the Las Vegas hotel. What would we find on Treasure Island, Florida?

“Keep going on I-4 over the Tampa Bay Bridge,” I told him. Traffic was getting worse. It wasn’t even rush hour yet and a Tuesday afternoon no less, but we were only at a crawl. My husband had to use all his aggressive driving skills to get us out from behind an overloaded truck trailer belching exhaust into our convertible. Finally as we drove over the Tampa Bay Bridge the traffic seemed to break free as we headed down I-275 into St. Petersburg. Trying to figure out how to get to this mystical Treasure Island, I looked for a simple way on the map, but couldn’t really find one. Suddenly the exit for Alt 19 came up and I made my husband cut through three lanes of traffic to get off the interstate. There was no direct route to Treasure Island and the Gulf of Mexico. Right after we exited the interstate, however, we saw a sign that said, “Treasure Island, 7 miles.” We followed the signs, first heading west, then south, then west and finally north. As we crossed a small bridge another sign greeted us, “Welcome to Treasure Island.”

As we continued heading north following the coastline, we could see boat slips and resorts on both sides of the road. Treasure Island isn’t that wide so the gulf is on one side and various coves of Tampa Bay are on the other. Again my husband’s keen driving skills came into play when he found a public parking lot. It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon and the vacationers that came to spend the day at the beach were leaving so we had plenty of choices. With the top safely up on the convertible and my camera around my neck, we were ready. We crossed a long wooden bridge that was built to keep people from walking through the protected grassy marshes along the beach. On the other side was the beach itself, unbelievably wide. I took off my sandals to feel the sand between my toes. We walked along the waterline and every few steps were piles of tiny shells. My husband said that was because of the pulling of the tides and the direction of the winds, the Gulf was pulled and pushed in two directions, forcing the shells to be deposited in piles rather than evenly dispersed on the beach. Eventually I had to put my sandals back on because the shells were just too hard on my feet.

As we walked, we noticed there weren’t any high rises along the beach, no huge hotels with neon signs or sky-high glassy apartment condos. I couldn’t believe there was this much water front property and the tallest building we could see was the Bilmar Resort at only eight stories. With its bright yellow paint and blue letters, the Bilmar was straight out of the fifties. From the water we could see people walking next to the hotel on some sort of path and decided we would take the same way back.

We must have walked up the beach for a half hour and we were getting hungry. As we headed inland we saw an icon I’d been searching for, a volleyball net. It was part of a small group of condos and had two tiki huts next to it. We walked around the condos to another wooden bridge that brought us to the “boardwalk.” It wasn’t a real boardwalk since it was cement, but a path none the less. The walk was wide and smooth and perfect for a couple to hold hands. As we walked along we came upon one art deco hotel after another. All were only two stories high; most had a U shape surrounding a courtyard with a small pool. Each hotel pool was filled with children while parents and grandparents sat near by and every hotel had a shuffle board. All were painted pink or white or yellow or all three. These tiny hotels had names like The Tahitian, The Windjammer and The Fargo. They seemed an era away from the modern high-rise resorts of Orlando.

We continued walking and saw another tiki hut built on the edge of a hotel only this one was a full bar. A small group of adults had gathered around, which reminded us it was 5 o’clock in Florida. Slowly, the eight-story Bilmar loomed again in front of us. Jutting off the back of the hotel we saw the deck of a restaurant filled with people and decided to stop. As we approached the steps to the deck we saw a blue and white mini-menu that said Sloppy Joes. Could it be related to that famous bar in Key West where Hemmingway used to hang out? It was! We walked up the steps and came upon a two-tiered deck with small groups of people sipping cocktails.

The hostess sat us at a table in the corner under a Corona umbrella with a perfect view of the water and the approaching sunset. Since Sloppy Joe’s was synonymous with Hemmingway, the menus contained a timeline of Hemmingway’s life on each page. I spent so much time reading about the famous author instead of studying the menu, I wasn’t ready to order when the waitress returned. In a rush I ordered the first thing that caught my eye; fish tacos I imagined that that fish tacos from the gulf would be fantastic. They didn’t disappoint. My husband added an appetizer of chicken quesadillas which were good, but the fish tacos were to die for. Made with gulf grouper, they were light and flaky and barely spiced with salsa and lime.

Unfortunately, we ordered too much food and stuffed ourselves. With one taco still left, we couldn’t eat another bite and instead settled back in our seats to watch the sunset show. The sun had been sinking since we arrived, but as it approached the horizon it had grown to gigantic proportions and commanded our attention. I got out my camera. With few clouds in the sky, there wasn’t much in the way of color, but the size and oblong shape of the sun made it interesting. As we watched, a blimp flew by. Why it was there and where it was going we didn’t know, but it made an interesting silhouette in the sky.
After the sun descended below the horizon, I clapped my appreciation. Time to go back to Orlando, the “happiest place on earth” and yet I was disappointed. The simplicity and retro-ness of Treasure Island stayed with me. I hope to go back someday and spend more than just three hours.

This Week: Chicago, Illinois

Second City Spring

Spring in Chicago. Pigeons begin to fill the streets, women start wearing their skirts a little shorter and heat starts to radiate from the sidewalk. Wonderful. Another sign of spring…Lake Shore Boardwalk is packed with runners, walkers, bikers, roller bladers and baby strollers from dawn until dusk. Since we were staying at the swanky Raffaello Hotel one block from Lake Shore Drive, I would get to join the droves of people getting in shape for summer.

Chicago is that rare combination of major metropolis located next to a huge body of water. Miami, Sydney and Rio de Janeiro come to mind so Chicago is in exclusive company. Aptly named is Lake Shore Drive and following it for miles and miles and miles is the boardwalk. Everyone uses the boardwalk, rich and poor, young and old, singles, couples and whole families. For the next hour or so, I would get to experience it like a native.

I stepped off the elevator and into the lobby or our swanky hotel. As I approached the front doors, one of the doormen opened the door for me.

“Have a good day, Mrs. Dow,” he said after I thanked him for holding the door. It blew me away they knew my name and this was only our second day here. I checked my cell phone for the time and put it in my pocket also checking to make sure my cardkey for the room was still there. Then I put in my earbuds and tuned my Sirius radio to Radio Margaritaville and took off down the street. One block to the east and around the corner and I was at the Drake Hotel, the place where Oprah’s guests get to stay. From here all of Lake Shore Drive was in front of me and Lake Michigan on my right took up everything to the horizon. The sidewalk was packed and the street next to it was just as busy. I was slowly leaving the skyscrapers of downtown Chicago behind me, but I couldn’t escape the traffic on my left. They would follow me all the way.

The weather couldn’t have been better with a light breeze blowing from the water and just a few wisps of clouds in the sky. The air warmed up as I put space between myself the tall buildings because the sun was now shining on me. Best of all, I was at sea level. No longer a mile high in Denver and trudging up and careening down steep inclines; gravity couldn’t effect me on this level plane. My plan was to run for an hour; a ½ hour heading north and then turn around and run back. With a little Jimmy Buffett playing on the earbuds, I was on my way.

It wasn’t Memorial weekend yet, but the lifeguards in their white shirts with red letters, life buoy slung ‘round their shoulders, were out standing on the sidewalk where the water meets the cement with a six foot drop. They were male and female and it was hard to tell if they were actually paying attention because of the dark sunglasses they wore. As I passed North Beach, the sidewalk continued next to Lake Shore Drive while the beach splayed out on my right. The life guards continued to stand near the water, but it was too early for beach goers yet, mostly people throwing tennis balls for their dogs to retrieve. Made me miss my dog.

I have stated before and will do so again, I am not much of a runner. Never have been. Ask my high school track coach and she’ll tell you how I quit the team. I am only 5’ 4” tall. Cut that roughly in half and you will discover that that my legs are barely two and a half feet long. I have the stride of a rabbit without the speed. Sad, no wait, pathetic. However, nothing gets you outside like running does. Treadmill? I feel like a hamster on a wheel. I need things to look at when I’m running, sounds to hear and scents to sniff. Nothing comes close to the feeling of running outside on a sunny day, breeze in my face, scent of exhaust in the air and some selected music in my ears. Time slows, the mind clears. Things that didn’t make sense yesterday suddenly seem simple while in the middle of a run. Though I may not go fast, by Jah, can I go far. I had the whole day to myself today and I was going to spend the morning running this glorious path.

For the most part, the run was uneventful, except for occasionally getting clipped by a roller blader. The sidewalk started to meander following Lake Michigan’s coastline, curving like a snake along and between sections of beach, grass park and cement roadways. The only constant was the buzz of the cars of Lake Shore Drive on my left. I could just barely hear it under the music. As I ran, the buildings on my left changed from giant skyscrapers, to high rise apartments, to brownstones and finally open space as I neared the Lincoln Park exit.

Just then a strikingly tall grandpa in black bike shorts and bright yellow sleeveless shirt crosses the entire path only to stop in front of me as he put in his ear buds. Seriously? He had the entire boardwalk, not to mention the grassy section next to it to so do his Ipod adjusting, but nooooo he had to stop in front of me. I felt like running into him just to let him know I was there, but in my good mood and better judgment, I jogged around him. As I passed he began to walk. Don’t know why he needed such an aerodynamic outfit to walk in, but to each his own. I was again on my way and enjoying my music and the warm spring air. I had gone about a block or so, when a shadow from behind started to cross my shadow in front of me. Suddenly, grandpa was just over my left shoulder, still walking. In my defense, he was at least 6’6” with his hips starting at my rib cage. But still, I had enough pride to not let this goliath pass me just walking. I sped up, striding out as far as my little legs would take me. Grandpa’s shadow began to fall back. As my lungs breathed faster, I took a quick glance over my shoulder. Grandpa was behind me, but not that far. I was approaching the Theatre on the Lake building. It was a place where the trail split, one direction following the water and the other following Lake Shore Drive. Please, please, please let grandpa take the scenic route. As I passed the theatre building, I took another quick glance and saw a bright yellow jersey heading toward the water. The path by the water was the longer of the two routes around the building so I had some room to relax my stride.

As I continued along the path, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time. I had ten minutes before turning around. Even though I was no longer downtown, there were still many people on the trail. A biker went past in a hurry while another biker was riding no-handed while talking on a cell phone, mothers jogging while pushing baby strollers and young people with backpacks. I wondered who was actually working out, who had class and who was merely on their way somewhere or perhaps nowhere. It was almost 9:30 in the morning.

I was approaching some tennis courts and decided that would be a good place to turn around. The crowd around me had thinned a bit. Little did I know the surprise sneaking up behind me. As I ran around a light pole, Grandpa was about 20 feet behind me. How embarrassing. I could feel my face turn red as I passed him.

With Grandpa now behind me for good, I could focus on the vista in front of me. The northern skyscrapers of downtown Chicago were right there. There! The John Hancock building, the Water Tower Place building, the Drake Hotel, Lake Point Tower off to the side…amazing. At this point, I started planning the rest of my day. After cleaning up by using that fabulous hotel shower, I would stroll Michigan Avenue and the Magnificent Mile checking out all the stores filled with things I couldn’t afford to buy. I didn’t care. I was just happy to be here. Then maybe find a little café with some tables on the sidewalk. Drink some herbal tea and people watch. I wondered if the people running toward me noticed I was smiling?

The return seemed much faster than the finish. It wasn’t long before I was back at North Beach, this time with small groups of young people sitting in the sand, talking, reading, texting. The buildings on the westside of Lake Shore Drive started to get taller and taller. I snatched quick peaks at the condo windows wondering if the inside of those spaces were as beautiful as the outside. Who lived there? Yuppies, retirees, families, business moguls, fashion models, sports stars?

It wasn’t long before I was approaching the park across from the Drake. The air was cooler in the shade as the buildings now blocked me from the sun. After crossing the street I ran around the Drake Hotel the long way just so I could stay near the water. I probably could have stopped running at this point, but continue until I reached the my hotel’s block.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Dow,” said the Raffaello doorman as he held the door for me. The day was already good and it wasn't even noon yet.



Hotel Raffaello

Jog Chicago Lake Shore

This week: St. John, USVI

Dipping our toes into the forbidden pond of hitchhiking

As we pulled out of the beach parking lot, we noticed an older couple standing on the side of the road. They had floppy hats, gray hair and wore t-shirts and khaki shorts with tennis shoes. They looked like someone’s grandma and grandpa. They didn’t hold out their thumbs, but yet seemed to eye our vehicle expectantly. I told my husband to stop the car and see if they wanted a ride. As he pulled over to the opposite side of the road, they walked over.

“You folks need a ride?” he asked.

“Yes, please!” they responded.

They got in the back seat of our 4-door Jeep Liberty and said hello. When asked where they were headed, they said they were going to have lunch at Caneel Bay Resort. Since Caneel Bay was on the way to Cruz Bay, we had no problem dropping them off. The couple said they were from Maine and were on the island to run in the 8 Tuff Miles Road Race on Saturday. I told them I was running it too, but it was my first time. For the next ten minutes, they told us how they had been coming to St. John for the last 10 years and the husband had run the 8 Tuff Miles the last few years. It was encouraging to meet someone who had done it before. Then the wife mentioned that Caneel Bay Resort had the best lunch buffet on the island and it wasn’t crazy expensive either. She said it was tradition for them to have at least one lunch at Caneel, sitting outside sipping wine watching sailboats pass as they dined. She advised us to try it sometime. We pulled into the Caneel Bay parking lot and they thanked us as they got out. We waved goodbye and continued our trip into town. That was our first set of St. John hitchhikers.

We often saw hitchhikers standing along the roads in St. John. This was our first trip with a rental car and, due to a strange coincidence, we had a car much larger than we needed. It made sense to offer rides. So after dropping off the older couple we decided to continue the practice. The idea was to create a Karma bucket and each person we offered a ride would add to our good fortune. We needed it because for the second half of our vacation, we wouldn’t have the rental car and might need the kindness of strangers ourselves. Did our plan work? Please continue…

The next day we were returning to our resort after a morning of snorkeling on the east end of the island. Having a car was wonderful because it meant we could get away from the crowds on the northshore beaches. As we approached the top of a hill near Colorful Corner, we notice two young men with backpacks sitting by the side of the road. I tapped my husband on the shoulder and he pulled over. We all said hello as they got into the back seat. They said they were going to Cruz Bay, but we were going to the Westin, which is before town. Because it was close we offered to take them to the Westin with us, but they instead decided that the Route 104 turn off would be OK and they would get another ride from there. We asked where they were from. Both were recently graduated college students from North Carolina. The taller of the two was taking the year off before joining the “real world.” He had been on St. Thomas for the last three months, but this was his first trip to St. John. His frat buddy had come to visit him for two weeks. My husband, a college football fanatic, asked him about his alma mater and what their football games were like. It wasn’t long before the two of them were comparing football tailgating experiences. If I hadn’t pointed out the turn, my husband would have missed it. We dropped them off and waved goodbye. We were two for two.

We discovered there were two types of island hitchhikers: Locals and tourists. There was one strict rule between the two: Locals picked up locals and tourists picked up tourists. We observed this near the bus stop/trash dump on Centerline Road just outside of town. Every time we passed people were always standing there. Then one would wave and start talking to a car as it passed. The car would stop and the person would get in while another person got out. You also saw this around the island’s main town, Cruz Bay. Locals were easy to spot. They wore jeans, tennis shoes or work boots and long sleeves shirts. They often had several plastic grocery bags in one hand. And if the person was female, they usually had one or more children clinging to their legs. If we slowed down for locals, they would wave us on. They wanted a ride from someone they knew, understandably. Tourists were also easy to spot. They wore flip flops and shorts and carried backpacks or tote bags. They were also colored bright red because their skin had been fried to a crisp after a day spent on the beach. However, there were occasions when it was difficult to tell the difference between locals and tourists. Read on…

The last night we had the vehicle, we decided to visit Coral Bay on the eastern side of the island for dinner. Once we turned in the car, we wouldn’t be able to travel to this side of the island anymore. As we wound our way on the descent into town, a man in faded blue jeans and dusty denim shirt stood on the side of the road at the end of a driveway. My husband pulled over and he got in. We said we were going to Shipwreck Landing and we would take him if he were headed that way too. He said he was actually going to Love City Convenience Store, but that we could drop him off at the fork in the road near the town’s trash dumpster. As we drove down the hill, my husband asked him where he was from. He told us he was from Cincinnati, but he had been living on St. John for the last several years. He worked construction and had a brother that came to visit him a few times a year. He then began telling us about his ex-wife who left him because she didn’t like living on St. John. It was too hot, the grocery store ran out of milk every other week, the house was too small. But that was OK with him. He was laid back guy and those things didn’t bother him because he knew how to go with the flow. Then he asked us where we were from. When we said Colorado, he began to tell us about a visit he made to the Rocky Mountains when he was a teenager and what a great time he had and how much dope he smoked and how beautiful it was there and that he would live there if it didn’t snow all the flippin’ time.

Approaching the trash dumpster, my husband pulled over. As the guy opened the door, he began telling us about all the great things he found at the dumpster, things he couldn’t believe people threw away, such as the electric fan, the lawn chair, an umbrella and some work shirts. He got out of the car still talking. As we pulled away he was telling us about the lawn mower engine he found and how it worked just fine after he got it home. We could see his lips still moving in the rearview mirror as we drove away. The next day we turned in the rental car.

Only one thing separated the Westin St. John Resort from Cruz Bay town. We called it “The Hill.” In linear distance, it was less than a half mile. In altitude, it was off the charts. Locals called it Southside Road. Anywhere else on earth and it would have been a 20 minute walk to Woody’s Seafood Saloon from our villa. “The Hill” turned that little stroll into a 45-minute, sweat-inducing, heart-pounding, Stairmaster work out. We have walked “The Hill” at least once on each visit, however, it wasn’t something we wanted to do on a daily basis.

The Westin had special taxis that took people into town with “negotiated” rates, but it was still 10 bucks for two people. Didn’t matter where you were dropped off, whether it was at the park a ½ mile away or Mongoose Junction on the other side of town, it was still $10. A non-Westin taxi was $20. When we first stayed at the resort back in 2005, the cost was only $3 per couple. That didn’t include the tip. Did it make us cheapskates to not want to pay $10 for a trip that was less than a half mile? A more intriguing question: Would hitchhiking solve this problem? It was time to see if Karma would reward us for the kindness we showed others when we had a car. Please continue…

We stood at the main entrance to the Westin lobby along Southside Road. People leaving the Westin had to stop right next to us. They tried not to look at us as we smiled and waved. Work trucks came up and down the hill and continued past us without so much as a glance in our direction. Didn’t we look like safe, trustworthy people? Just then a Jeep Wrangle came down the Westin driveway. We could tell from the car’s shiny exterior it was a rental. We waved at the car as they stopped. The mustached driver rolled down his window and asked where we were headed. Woody’s for happy hour, we answered. The couple in the car started laughing because they were headed there too. We offered to buy them a round for their generosity. As we went up and over “The Hill” we all introduced ourselves. They were Sandal and Barry from Ohio and they had been vacationing in St. John for over 16 years, since Sandal’s boys were little, and they always stayed at the Westin. They had been coming for so long they were friends with Woody’s owners. Sandal and Barry were huge Ohio State football fans, even had season tickets. We spent the bar’s happy hour comparing tailgating stories and discussing which bowl games we had been to. After happy hour, they took us to their favorite taco stand where we talked about our various experiences vacationing in the Virgin Islands. Because we were taking a snorkel cruise early the next morning we asked Barry and Sandal if we could call it a night and they were kind enough to drive us back to our villa, right to our front door. We made plans to meet at Woody’s for happy hour the next day.

After our snorkeling day-trip to Virgin Gorda, we had showered and ready ourselves for Woody’s happy hour. We tried calling Barry and Sandal’s hotel room, but there was no answer. Thinking we looked respectable enough, we waited by the Westin entrance on Southside Road. Didn’t matter if it was a shiny new rental Jeep or a beat up old Buick, every driver avoided our waves as they went by. The sun was beating down on us and sweat was beginning to drip down the back of my neck. Just then a small tan pick up with fertilizer bags and shovels in the back pulled over. We piled into the truck’s cab with Jacques, a Belgian who lived in Cruz Bay. He was on his way home after his workday at a lawn service company. He was picking up his kids from their after-school tennis lessons at the town’s park and asked us if that was far enough. It was just a few blocks from Woody’s, so it was no problem. In the short amount of time we were in Jacques’s car we learned he and his family had been living on St. John for only a few years, but he loved it. He felt his kids were getting a great education. He said he couldn’t afford tennis lessons back in Europe, but here he could and his eldest son was turning into a bit of a prodigy. Won every tournament he played in. He was hoping his son would get a tennis scholarship someday. He also house sat for a local homeowner who split his time between St. John and the Eastern US. Whenever the owner was out of town, Jacques could use his car, which was much nicer than the work truck he was currently driving, he told us, almost apologizing for not having a nicer car to give two strangers a ride. We told him we were happy to have the ride, no matter the vehicle. The homeowner was arriving in a few weeks for his three month stay so Jacques was disappointed in losing the car. Jacques didn’t have a car himself, didn’t need one between the work truck and the homeowner’s vehicle. At the town park, Jacques pulled into the small parking lot and we could see a group of children standing around with rackets. We told Jacques if he made it to Woody’s that evening, we’d buy him a beer. He never showed, but Sandal and Barry were already there and had Presidente’s waiting for us.

Our last day of the trip and our last shot at hitchhiking. We tried getting a hold of Sandal and Barry in their hotel room, but again they weren’t around. It was early, but we were hungry and Woody’s Seafood Saloon was calling us again. We stood in our spot at the Westin entrance and watched car after car pass, ignoring us. Then a gold-colored and very old American-built sedan stopped for us. A young man with messy blonde hair asked where we going. We told him Woody’s. He said he was on his way there, but he had to stop at the Lumberyard and pay his rent first. If we didn’t mind the wait, we could ride with him. The Lumberyard once upon a time used to be an actual lumberyard. Now it was a large mall filled with Cruz Bay businesses, including a scooter rental place, t-shirt shop and bakery. One of the shop owners was the young man’s land lord. When we arrived, his two roommates were standing in the parking lot waiting for him. After paying his rent we all walked over to Woody’s. Sandal and Barry were already there along with some other new friends we met the evening before. For a buck a beer, we bought all three young men some Presidente’s, but they weren’t too interested in hanging out with us old married people, especially when there were pretty waitresses to flirt with. We spent the rest of the evening with our new friends from Ohio and Georgia, enjoying our beers and a short rain shower. Unfortunately we had a 6 a.m. ferry to catch the next morning. Sandal and Barry were kind enough to give us a ride back to our villa. After exchanging email addresses, we said good night and wished them well on the rest of their island vacation.

Hitchhiking on St. John was interesting to say the least, but we met some good people while doing it and plan on hitchhiking again when we return.


Hospitality Car Rental 340-693-9160 (Ask for Thomas!!!)
Woody's Seafood Saloon
The Westin St. John
If you go to Woody's website, click on Pics in Paradise, then under Archives, click on March 7. C_Dog and her new friends can be found in one of those photos.

This week: Ambergris Caye, Belize

They were everywhere. You couldn’t always see them, but their sounds filled the air and their movements shook the trees. They were elusive, but their calls woke us up in the morning and while we tried to find them, they were already looking at us. No need to fear, it was just the birds of Ambergris Caye, Belize.

When it came to bird watching on Ambergris Caye, the de facto authority was Elbert Greer, Tennessee expat and 20-plus-year Ambergris resident. He came by this title not because of education or degree, but because he spent his free time looking and listening. He became so good at bird watching, he wrote a “Bird of the Week” column for the San Pedro Sun from 1991-2003. However, Greer didn’t become this noted bird authority by himself. He had the help of his faithful black Labrador, Bubba. In 2001, he and Bubba put these columns together into a book called, Birdwatching with Bubba (Xlibris) with Bubba taking most of the credit. Greer recently updated the book, now called Birdwatching with Bubba, 2.5, complete with color photos and note pages in the back to keep track of your own bird finds.

When Greer moved to Ambergris Caye back in 1986, he planned to live the good life in the tropics, far away from civilization. He cleared his own land, built his own house and business, and became a master SCUBA instructor. In those early years, Greer did without electricity, phones, and cable TV. For entertainment, he and Bubba simply sat outside, but he noticed they had company, lots of company. Greer saw Spotted Sandpipers on the beach that Bubba liked to chase, the nocturnal Nightjars that ate mosquitoes making life on the island more pleasant and the yellow-breasted Kiskadees that adeptly pilfered Bubba’s kibbles right from his bowl.

Greer could be found at the Journey’s End Resort where he had his dive shop, White Sands, about four miles north of the island’s only town, San Pedro. He recently moved the shop from another location, which made work even more hectic. Although diving was his passion, work was still work after all, which led to his other pursuits. Why bird watching?

“I didn’t have to get wet to do it and all my idle time was spent in the bar,” Greer said chuckling.

During that former “idle time,” Greer and Bubba would head into town to play a game of “Barstool Birdwatching” with the local bartenders. On more than one occasion, as he bragged in his book, Bubba came out ahead. Acknowledging his finds with a simple “woof,” Bubba spotted osprey, seagulls, and the island’s own Cinnamon Hummingbirds.

Although Greer gave up this game, he welcomed teaching us as we sat at the Smiling Toucan Bar and Grill at Journey’s End Resort. The rules were simple: First, find an outdoor bar in the Caribbean, next make friends with the bartender and imbibe with a local cocktail, then watch carefully. Each species of bird counts as one sighting and keep a tally. Whoever has the most sightings at the end of the afternoon wins. What? Don’t have time to find a bar in the Caribbean? No problem. Just substitute your own backyard patio, front steps or the neighborhood park. Substitute some friends for the bartender and the cocktails are optional. You will be a barstool birder in no time.


When Bubba was a pup, Greer told him he was a bird dog, but Bubba completely misunderstood and began a life-long mission to study birds. Through this study, he developed a style of bird watching he called “Bubba Style,” which Greer explained in his book. It’s a relaxed, live-in-the-moment type of bird watching rather than the find-the-bird-now-cross-it-off-the-list-move-on-to-the-next that most bird watchers use. Bubba wrote you should take time and be patient with the surroundings hoping for a “Wow, did you see that?” moment.

Bubba, the original, passed away in 1998 after a deadly encounter with a Tommygoff, a poisonous Belizean snake. Although he lived on in Greer’s book, there have been three Bubbas since, all of them black labs. Bubba #4 was tall and lean with a friendly disposition. With a shout of “Run like the wind,” Greer let Bubba loose and he ran through the shallow waters of Ambergris Caye. Slowly he trotted back, original Bubba Style.



After spending the afternoon with Greer and Bubba, we applied these newly learned bird watching techniques on our walk back to town. We saw hummingbirds feasting from a feeder on the deck of a private home. We had a three-for-one spotting of a Brown Pelican, a Laughing Gull, and a Great Blue Heron all resting of the posts of an abandoned dock. Then right before reaching our resort we spied a Great American Egret walking slowly in the water. That was quite a list for one afternoon. Bubba Style certainly worked.

To learn more about Belizean birds, Greer offers two birding tours. “The Early Morning Bird Tour” is to Cayo Pajaros and Cayo Rosario. It starts at 5:30 a.m., hence the name, and offers a three-hour trip complete with coffee and rolls in the boat. Cost is $60 US per person with a four person minimum. He also offers a mainland tour called “Lamanai for the Birds” which leaves San Pedro at 7:30 a.m. and is a full-day trip including lunch and a walking tour of Mayan ruins. Cost is $125 US per person. These tours can be arranged by contacting Elbert Greer by email at elbertgreer@yahoo.com or by phone 501-226-2405. You can find out more about Birdwatching with Bubba 2.5 at www.bubbasbirdblog.blogspot.com/ or White Sands Dive Shop.