January 31, 2007
Here are the problems of the day: newly purchased sarong is not the same shade of peach as existing bikini; every single NBA cash machine is out of service; killer sunset but Oliver's with the best view is closed on Mondays.
Other than that I have no complaints. I write this from the computer at a bar with the second best view of the sunset on the island. Island life is a beautiful thing on the east end — east end of Anguilla that is.
Raves of the numerous white sand beaches with azure blue waters and some of the best cuisine in the world are not exaggerated whether it is the chicken roti at Smokey's beach shack or the crayfish curry at cliff top Hibernia.
Local islanders hardly seem in need of the Optimist Club as they all are quite personable and friendly to rum punch drunk tourists. Each day they are happy to direct us to the little French bakery Au Bon Pain in Little Harbor or guide us down the back roads to the sexy secluded Captain's Bay (although actually everything seems a back road here). I've even been referred to an exuberant yoga teacher named Santi who conducts classes at the Maliouhana Spa where your downward dog is accompanied by ocean breezes where the sun doesn't usually shine and upside down palm trees.
I see the ease of addiction to this life and the urge to stay as one massage therapist did who visited for a week eight years ago and never left. I debate my options — I could move Kiss & Tell to the Daily Anguillan although with the slow pace down here it's probably the Monthly Unless It's Carnival Anguillan. With a strong Christian Coalition influence, however, it might be a bit too racy. Perhaps it should be the Kiss & Don't Tell Whatever You Do column.
But into every paradise a little rain must fall . . . or swim. It was one of those perfect moments I savored watching my guy dive through the waves with the ease of a dolphin. I had passed, feeling still full from the crab guacamole and basil ice cream at Straw Hat the night before, issuing the statement that I felt, "big as a house." I saw the yacht first, then the head of a man who was swimming to shore. He seemed to be headed towards my guy and I thought perhaps was getting winded from the long swim. Oh, I noticed, it's actually a she. I stood up and moved closer to the water and her lyrical French accent floated to me on the balmy breeze.
Did she notice my tall, dark and handsome man on the beach and jump overboard in an attempt to snare him in a tete a tete? It was at this moment that I was pleased I had the forethought before we traveled to Paris last year to teach my guy how to say, "Greetings, you are quite lovely," which actually translated into French as "Vamouse you toad." Unfortunately her English was quite good and he seemed engaged in the interaction.
As they both moved to shore (it just gets better and better) I see she is beautiful — and topless. Clearly this is not a woman who has described herself recently in any language as "big as a house." I rapidly approached and she explained she'd been on her yacht in St. Barths, forgetting as she swam to shore to stop at a beach bar that Anguilla was far more conservative a country in terms of acceptable beach bar attire. Thinking quickly to find the least form-fitting bit of clothing to lend, I threw her my guy's towel. If she was inventive, she could have crafted a far sexier garment out of cocktail napkins.
As she trotted down the beach I told my guy I was not aware he was the patron saint of topless sailing nymphs with a thirst for rum punch and invited him to share my towel, or at least what my grande maison was not covering. I couldn't complain really because I was willing to trade anything to the chef at Hibernia earlier in the week including sexual favors to discover his secret lavender ice cream recipe, convinced I would make my state side fortune with it.
The French woman did come back to return the towel and I sat up and sucked in my stomach as her pertness stood at attention my guy took it back, and with a big smile, tried out my French lesson, telling her to "Vamouse." Ah, another problem of island life solved.
In honor of this parable I will share with you my favorite island cocktail recipe for a drink called, "Don't Let Your Man Go."
2 oz passion fruit puree
2 oz mango puree
1 whole ripe banana
4 oz pineapple juice
as much rum as it takes for him to think you're beautiful
Put in a blender with crushed ice and serve with a French accent.
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