I have Bob Marley on Pandora.
I've been tabbing through VRBO looking at vacation rentals through out the Caribbean.
Kayak has been busy trying to find me a good deal.
This is the time of winter when I get stir-crazy. I am not a winter chick. I love the beauty of new-fallen snow or the crystalline shine of hoarfrost. A White Christmas is the only kind of Christmas. But the novelty wears off and pretty soon winter seems to have no end and spring is so far off it's almost next year. I've reached that point.
(An aside, rather than continuing to call my husband my husband, I am going to henceforth refer to him as HB. That's my nickname for him. Honey Bunny. Or Honey Bunny Bun. But HB will suffice.)
HB and I both love to travel. He's had the opportunity to live in South Africa and has travelled through Africa, Asia and Europe. I've travelled through the US, Canada, Caribbean, Mexico and Costa Rica. Together, we've travelled to Antigua, St. Kitts, Provo (Turks and Caicos), Grand Cayman, St. Lucia, Isla Mujeres, and several areas of the US.
We have a tentative trip planned for early summer with some friends. But right now I need a beach, a frosty cold adult beverage and blue sea as far as the eye can see. Fresh bbq, plantains, lots of local flavors, some reggae or house music wafting over the waves and all the snorkeling I can manage.
One of my favorite Caribbean vacations was in very early 1989 with my high school bff CK. CK and I booked a two week winter break vacation to Antigua and Montserrat. We spent 3 days in Antigua, flew over to Montserrat and spent 6 days there and then flew back to Antigua and wrapped up with another 5 days there. We stayed at the same hotel in Antigua, The Admiral's Inn in Nelson's Dockyard.
Montserrat was the most beautiful island. This was back before Hurricane Hugo ripped much of it apart in the fall of 1989 and Soufriere volcano became active. The island was incredibly lush and green, given the nickname The Emerald Isle of the Caribbean. Plymouth was the quintessential West Indian city, small, colorful, a little dusty. There was no deep-water cruise harbor with sweaty tourists racing around to see the sights. We were staying at the Vue Point Hotel which was about the only large hotel on the island. There was a pool, restaurant and bar and little cottages scattered across the bluff overlooking a black sand beach. Our room was an A-framed room with a partially separated bathroom that was so small that you could sit on the toilet, rinse your feet in the shower and wash your hands in the sink all at the same time. There was no tv and the radio picked up the Caribbean BBC. Someday I'll regale you with tales of our insect and amphibian adventures. I still have a deep and abiding fear of spiders of unusual size in bathrooms of extraordinary smallness.
While we were there, we went to Air Studio. Air Studio was owned by George Martin, onetime manager of the Beatles. The walls were lined with gold and platinum records and the air redolent with the lingering pot and cigarette smoke of the previous evening's recording session. It was surprisingly small and the actual studio was much less posh and fancy as I'd imagined and much more like the sound room of my high school's theatre department!
A famous rock band was on-island at the time, recording what would become a best-selling album. They were also staying at the only big hotel on the island, The Vue Point. CK and I had the great fortune of watching the Super Bowl game in the hotel's conference room with this band, drinking, hanging out. It was really cool.
Sadly, Plymouth is gone, as is most of the greenery on the south end of the island. After we visited, Hurricane Hugo came through and destroying much of the island, including Air Studios. Then Soufriere erupted and hasn't stopped. Many of the island's residents left and went to England. Those that stayed had to move to the north end of the island where much has been rebuilt. I still have my emerald green "Air Studios" tee shirt. I bet that thing is worth some money!
Our time in Antigua was a ridiculous amount of fun. As I mentioned, we were staying at The Admiral's Inn in Nelson's Dockyard. In the winter, it's home to Nocholson Charter Yachts where sailors from all over the world converge to crew various luxury yachts. We were in the heart of sailor-land and the boys were friendly, gorgeous, drunk and lonely. Maybe not in that order. Start with drunk and work your way to friendly, drunk and gorgeous. We were invited onto one yacht and enjoyed the company of some scoundrel who gave us copious amounts of 151 over proof Cuban rum. It was tasty. And highly flammable. We hung out with some Finnish guys and some English guys and I was determined to find a job on a boat just so I wouldn't have to leave. I'm lucky I didn't, my liver would have petrified years ago!
After one long day of hanging out at the beach, napping and drinking, we cleaned up and headed out for dinner. As in Europe, the party doesn't start til about midnight. CK and I were looking fine (we were 27 at the time. Who doesn't look fine at 27??) tan, slim, blond and ready for adventure. We had dinner and then headed up to Shirley Heights Lookout, which is a hillside that overlooks English Harbor. There's a party up there on Sunday nights, which included music, bbq, lots of beer and a lot of people hanging out. We met up with some of our boys and the party started. I remember at one point we went to a bar and I ended up sitting ON the bar....and another point (it gets blurry) out on a boat in the harbor. I think CK and I were determining the merits of 3am snorkeling. We decided the merits were 1) drowning 2) being eaten by unseen water creatures 3) drowning. We asked our boys to get us back to shore, where we stumbled up the dock. I had enough and found a park bench and that was it. I passed out. CK had no choice but to leave me there. She toddled on off to the Ad's and crashed.
Morning finally came, I woke up and felt like baby rhinos had languished and died on me. Holy hell, I still remember how lousy I felt. Off in the distance, I hear CK calling my name...."Kathy??!!" I got up and called back and she finally found me. She'd gone to bed and figured I'd find my way back at some point, but alas, my state of unconsciousness lasted well into morning. She woke up and realized I'd never come back to our room and dashed out in hopes of not finding my dead body floating in the harbor. I felt like a dead body floating in the harbor.
The best part of the story was that it was Monday morning. We still had a few days of vacation left but no money and there was no bank at that end of Antigua, so we had to catch a bus into St. John's at the other end of the island. We had to get to St. John's before 3:00 when the banks closed. So we cleaned up, found our bus and crawled aboard. This was an old beat up mini-van with hard seats, no air conditioning, no springs, no shocks and the loudest boom box playing the loudest reggae music ever played in the creation of the universe. Did I mention that Antigua, back then, had terrible roads full of pot holes? Have I also mentioned that fish mongers liked to also ride the bus with buckets overflowing with their morning's catch? Did I also mention that goats and chickens got to ride on the bus? I'm sure I haven't mentioned that.
The bus careened off, bouncing crazily down the road. Antiguan bus drivers pretend they are doing the Dakkar Rally, blazing along at 90 mph, down the middle of the road and stopping! whenever someone raises a hand or flings a goat in their direction. The only part of these buses in good repair are the brakes and can stop on a dime.
So here we are, hunkered down in the back of this hot bouncing braking noisy stinking bus for nearly an hour and I had the hangover to end all hangovers. My hangover made the movie The Hangover look like a Muppet movie. I thought I was going to die. I know CK wasn't in better shape, but she seemed to hold up without wilting as hard as I did. How I survived, I'll never know. It was literally the longest hour of my life. Seriously. But we made it to St. John's and at the first opportunity, refueled with Cokes. We hit the bank and then headed to find someplace for lunch. I don't remember what we had, but I'm pretty sure it was deep fried and incredibly greasy. Fortunately, we were both revived somewhat for the return trip back to Nelson's Dockyard. Just in time to turn around and do it all again that evening.
HB gives me with a funny look when I tell him I really don't like to drink any more. This trip is one of those reasons. I don't mind the drinking, but it's the poisonous hangovers I can't deal with. You know it's bad when it's memorable nearly 25 years later! I still love the beach, but my days of party-hardy are long gone!
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