St. Maarten/St. Martin (Day 4) - Where I Buy Racist Booze!

June 14, 2014:

Every vacation has to have one of these days.  The dreaded shopping day.  I recall when I was a kid my mom would drag me around for shopping.  There were many, many days when I would rather just sit in the van while my mom would spend an hour or so in a fabric shop.  That's right, I choose 110 degree heat in a parking lot over shopping.  Perhaps that will provide a bit of perspective.

On this pleasant morning, however, we packed it all up and headed to Phillipsburg.  From our hotel, Phillipsburg is a short drive over the mountain pictured in the photo below.  After wandering around a bit, I found a place to park and we walked into the "tourist" area.

This is where hordes of American tourists decamp from their cruise ships to speak loudly, wave American flags, mistake where they are located, and complain when the food and drink isn't supersized.  There is so much to love about Americans.  And, yes, I was annoyed that they don't give free drink re-fills in this country.  Some people from other countries just don't understand us.  Click on the link and Go America! 

In any event, the beach side touristy area of Phillipsburg is much nicer than the rest of the town.  Here are a couple of pictures of what it looks like in the "non-murdery" part of town:

If you travel one block to the North, you find a slightly more "stabby" street where all of the heavy lifting (i.e., shopping) takes place:

On this street, we slogged up and down for the good part of four hours.  If you have read the Ireland Travel Blog (look to the right and click on anything 2013), you will know that there are certain rules that you must abide by while shopping on vacation.  Because I'm in an Old Testament kind of mood, I state them as follows:

Rule #1: If the Lord thy God did not maketh it at thy place of vacation, thou shalt not purchase it!

Rule #2:  Thou shalt not waste thine tythe by spending thine shekels for the mere sake of spending thine shekels!

Rule #3:  Thine purchases shall be reasonable in price, lest ye make the male thou hast covenanted to adore and serve weep!

On this particular trip, my beloved violated Rule #1 by spending our shekels on one of those fancy charm bracelets from Pandora (http://www.pandora.net/en-us).  I'm happy that she is happy about the purchase, but if you are wondering, she hasn't worn that bracelet since.

To illustrate Rule #1 by means of an internet example, you can easily find Pandora bracelets by searching Google for key words such as "outrageous", "expensive" "charm" "platinum" "rube" and "sucker".  If you prefer to make Google searches with key phrases, try "Why in God's name?" "I'm going to die young from job-related stress, so she could buy that?"

As for me, of course I followed the rules.  I went to this place:

 

 And purchased this bit of local in bottle:

In an age of heightened sensitivity and racial angst, I bring you the most racist bottle of booze I could find.  This liqueur is only made on the 37 square mile island of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  I didn't buy it because it tastes good.  It doesn't (unless you like the taste of cough syrup).  I bought it because it is unique to this part of the world.  That trumps all.  I'd bring home dirt if I had to.

In a nation that is mostly populated by the descendants of slaves, the bottle art doesn't seem to bother the good people of Sint Maarten/St. Martin.  However, if this product were sold in the U.S.A., you can be darned sure that the label would have to go.  I offer proof by means of example.

In our country, the following rogue's gallery has been eliminated from the popular consciousness:

Aunt Jemima:

 

Aunt Jemima, I miss you.  I love, love, love you and your breakfasty goodness.  I'm not sure what is going on with the garish red lip stick, but rest in peace, Aunt Jemima.

 

Next Up: Little Black Sambo.  Sambo's restaurant overlords realized that Sambo was no longer accepted in the U.S.A., and promptly replaced him with Indian Sambo (A slightly less racially insensitive purveyor of pancakes, bacon and eggs?)  

Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo, I miss you so much.  You gave your name and image to my favorite breakfast diner franchise.  I so enjoyed your adventures as they were displayed in the menu and always hoped you would eat that damned tiger made of butter.  Both Sambos, I'm sorry you never ate the butter tiger.  He coveted your pancakes and really deserved to be eaten.  RIP, Little Black Sambo and Indian Sambo.

And, last but not least, Disney's Song of the South:

Okay, Song of the South, I don't really miss you.  That "zippidy doo dah" song really sucked.  Out of principle, I must also despise all video which has actual people appearing alongside animated characters.  There is just something grotesque about it.  In short, this is one casualty of political correctness that I can say I'm happy about.

Before I leave the subject of Phillipsburg and shopping, I have a confession to make.  I engaged in an activity of which I am mostly not proud.  Witness my shame below:

By the way, most of that hair loss was due to a pair of clippers that I deftly employed prior to this vacation.  I swear that be so.  I really do.  I am not lying about this.  No need for deception.  I have nothing to hide.  Are you convinced yet?  Shall I continue?  No.  Moving on then?

Moving on.  We returned to our hotel for more fruity drinks and perhaps a bit of sitting on a beach chair under an umbrella.  I don't know how I did it, but I convinced my lovely wife to get the drinks despite the fact that she was confident that the female bartender hated her.  However, my karma would get the best of me because as I was making my way off the beach to spare my wife from having to deal with the grumpy bartender lady, I was confronted by the Aloe Lady.

What is an Aloe Lady, you ask?  An Aloe Lady is a person who wanders around on the beach with aloe leaves in hand ever-prepared to slap some of that sticky cactus-looking crap all over your sun burned body and massage it in until you are sticky and about to cry.  This one Aloe Lady saw me coming with my sun burn, and I know she was thinking that she is going to make a sale. 

Not so fast, Aloe Lady!  Your super human powers of persuasion will not convince this cheap bastard to spend one dime on your massage.  I say "No" to the offer - this time politely waiting for her to open up the negotiation.  I learned at Orient Beach that if you tell an aloe lady that you don't want a massage in advance of allowing them to ask, they get very, very offended. 

I've learned how to dance now.  I patiently wait and then parlay with a "No, thank you."  My polite retort doesn't shake her confidence it all.  She was expecting it.  According to the link I posted above, Americans are considered annoyingly polite by people from other countries.  I didn't know that, but the Aloe Lady did.  I'm clearly at a disadvantage.

I throw her off with a bit of polite small talk about things not related to cactus based massages.  During this break in the action, I see a small glimmer of pity in her eye.  Her eyes fall to my sun burn, and she offers me a free massage on the burned areas.

This unexpected offer of generosity frightens and confuses me.  The hint of concern is clearly feigned.  I recover quickly.  I'm sure she sees lots of burned white guys.  I know that she knows that if she gets her hands on me with a free bee, I'm going to pay her a little something.  My honor and dignity would require it.  So, Aloe Lady, you have gazed into my very soul and played your trump card. 

Ah, no!!! 

I resist, thank her very much and break off before my ability to resist is worn down. 

I win!  I win ... and I retreat quickly a bit bruised.  Just before I see my bride approaching with two of those fruity drinks in hand, I pray:  "I thank you Lord for granting me the courage and strength to defeat the Aloe Lady.  You have kept me from stickiness and granted reprieve to my wallet.  Amen."

After sucking down a couple of those girly drinks, it was time to head up to the room.  On the way up, we ran into a friend we met a couple of days before.  I introduce you to Smelly Cat.  My kids are like me in some ways, and one of them is a love for pop culture.  This cat was a stray and was probably named "Molly" at one time or something mundane like that.  Not anymore, because Smelly Cat is much better.  She even has her own song.

On the first day of our arrival, Smelly Cat  followed my oldest daughter all the way into the hotel.  Not having seen Smelly Cat for a while, I thought that maybe she ended up as that delicious barbecue smell I mentioned in a previous blog.  Alas, no.  Smelly Cat was there in full ratty, skinny and stinky glory.  However, she paid no attention to my kid.  Because cats are obnoxiously independent, Smelly Cat ignored my kid in favor of some chubby son of a tourist. 

Isn't it the nature of cats to despise what loves them?  I knew some girls in high school like that too.  The way you handle those girls is to feign some interest and walk away entirely unconcerned.  By the way, it doesn't work unless you mean it!  Same goes for Smelly Cat.  I had a date with some Red Stripe ale anyway.  Thank God we were not at home.  Otherwise, I would have found Smelly Cat as an unwelcome guest at my home.

Time to rest up so we can do some snorkeling anyway.  Good Night from the front door of our room.

Sint Maarten/St. Martin (Day 3) - Where I Discuss Bee Wearing & Break Down Cultural Divides

June 13, 2014:

Having acquired my mandatory "White Guy On Vacation" sun burn, I now had to sleep with it.  Usually I have enough sense to burn only the top of my head and face.  I'm concerned that there may be a corrolation between pattern baldness and how many times you have burned your scalp to a crisp.  I've done that more times than I would like to admit, so the future is not looking so good.

Having assured my short, but quick, trip to male pattern baldness, I decided that I would prevent those areas from sun burn but instead direct attention to burning my torso.  The worst sun burn I ever had was induced by my over indulgence in alcohol in Mazatlan.  I regrettably passed out on that griddle of a beach the next morning.  What I should have learned is that drinking and passing out on a beach is bad for you.  It earned me a trip to see the medic on the ship and a near threat to report me to the captain for not being ready to stand watch.  Go Navy! 

No, an an unrepetent sense, I'm going to state that isn't what I should have learned.  What I learned is that drinking is fun, and passing out is an unfortunate by-product of fun.  What I should have learned is that the equatorial sun is brighter, hotter and has a lot more of that UV ray roasting power.  I didn't learn this lesson, so I earned another trip on the "You Should Learn From This" buggy ride on this vacation.

Burning my chest and stomache was like putting on a shirt made of wasps.  Kind of like this ...

Oh wait ... sorry about that.  That is a shirt with the crappy metal band "Wasp" on it.  One of the first bands to lie that they are Satanists so kids would buy their bad records.  Ah me, I never bit on that one.  There are much easier ways to shock and offend your parents.  Why kill your dignity in the process?  I've done that in several other ways, many of which my family can attest.  If you ever had so much to drink that your five year old son asks your wife if "Daddy is going to die" then you have also learned a lesson in bad parenting and humility all at the same time.

Moment of self-realization:  I've made myself sound like a drunk in this blog.  A point of clarification ... I'm only an occasional drunk?

As for the shirt made of wasps, I had something more like this this in mind.

Let me get myself together here ... pause .... pause ... ok, I felt a bit like this girl looks except every one of those bees was stinging the sh*t out of me.  Welcome, bees, to my bed so that every time I roll over you may sting me!

And now we pause for a moment for a segment I like to call "When Art Meets Stupid".

Let's just start this segment by agreeing that this picture is stupid.  The girl in the picture is likewise stupid and let's throw in the photographer and "artistic" director as well.  I'm guessing the artistic director of this shot felt that what was really lacking in the art world was a proper understanding of "bee wearing".  I must admit I've never understood it. 

"Look at me!  I'm wearing bees!"

Maybe this bad photo will focus my obvious lack of artistic comprehension.  I'm going to make an unsuccessful attempt at understanding, and will put myself inside the head of the artistic director.  I need to get a grasp of this earth shaking development in the art world.

1st Principle:  Proper bee wearing requires a nude female model. 

Most things are improved with a little bit of nudity.  I'll illustrate by example.  Let's say I've known you for years, and we are hanging out together eating some bowls of cereal.  Well, the cereal is good but it is pretty boring listening to you slurp while cereal falls from your open mouth to the table.  I take a spoonful and stare at you.  Slurp, slurp.  You take a spoonful and stare at me.  Slurp, slurp.  Not much there, really.

However, if you were to eat those Cheerios buck naked, now you have my interest.  By the introduction of a bit of nudity, we've now turned the mundane into something interesting if not a bit creepy.  By the way, if you are male you are not invited to eat Cheerios at my house.  Everyone should eat their cereal in the privacy of their own home.

By this one small example I've managed to convince myself that art demands that, if we are truly trying to bring an artistic flourish to bee wearing, the bee wearing model should ... nay ... must ... be naked.  Moving on ...

OK, so the nudity suggestively covered by a billion bees captures my interest, but what does it all mean?  Art should convey some sense of meaning.  Otherwise, its just stuff.  If I'm the artistic director, I'm basically going to tell you something artsy, fartsy like:

"The nakedness of the model evokes feelings of isolation.  In her nakedness ... she's alone ... even when surrounded by thousands of our bee friends.  She sits upon a chair that resembles a torture device in an unapportioned room while rays of sun create a halo effect to high light her isolation.  The (pardon the pun) naked austerity of the photo shows how alone and isolated in society we are.  I'm so lonely ... help me."

Stepping outside the mind of the artistic director (because I can't stand it), I'll be me again:

"Or ... it could mean that bees aren't people so naturally she feels alone.  Bees aren't good company.  Have you ever had a conversation with a bee?  Discussed politics, religion?  No.  You haven't.  I suppose we enjoy the social construct of eating with bees if you count their efforts to pile on to your steak while you are trying to eat it.  If I stood on your steak and threatened to slap you if you got near it, you would not think me good company.  You may feel alone and isolated because you take pictures of naked girls wearing bees!  You, sir, are strange, and you owe that poor dumb girl an apology."

I'm going to move on from the the "When Art Meets Stupid" segment.  I feel like I've done my bit to reconcile art with the bee wearing community.  Besides, I spent my whole childhood having conversations with myself.  I should not indulge that any further as an adult. Back to the vacation.

On this fine morning, we went to Loterie Farm (http://loteriefarm.com) which is nestled near the summit of Pic Paradis, the highest point on St. Martin.  The "Flight Zone" is the part of the Loterie Farm experience where you go to the top of Pic Paradis and then zip line (is that a verb?) all the way down.  If you are actually reading this because you think I might pass on something useful to a potential traveler to Sint Maarten/St. Martin, then here it is.  Go to Loterie Farm.  Nuff said.

And now for a segment I call "Weird Signs I Saw While Traveling", here is one from the grounds at Loterie Farm:

The sign is in French, naturally, and it requires that "Le ramassage des fruits est interdit."  Now, I'm not sure why people go around massaging fruit in St. Martin.  Is that French thing?  If so, keep them away from bananas.  That is just unnatural.  I wonder why it is only the re-massage of fruit that is forbidden ... um.. interdit.  Can I massage your fruit once, but not twice?  I know the French are an odd group, but massaging fruit once (acceptable) is perfectly normal for them.  Go for a second fruit massage, and they land you in jail.  Is it possible I've misinterpreted the language?  I don't care.

At the start of the zip line experience, one of the guides convinced a guy from New Jersey in our group that you had to pass a strength test to zip line.  Made him military press a weighted bar bell four times over his addled head.  I guess nice guys from New Jersey are totally clueless because that dude went to work right away.  Idiot!

Think of the money, man!  They wouldn't be able to make much money if you had to qualify by pressing 150 lbs over your head four times.  Duh.  Ana Cortez couldn't do it.  She was too cool to try.  Likewise, I ran the economics of it and acted cool with the guide.  Nothing like two bros looking at some other schlep getting suckered and thinking to one another ...

"That guy is a total dumb ass." 

I'm not sure why men enjoy witnessing the humiliation of other men ... we just do.  I don't share culture or skin color with the guide, but we both knew that was funny.  And there you have it, my cure for racism and cultural mistrust.  Just find some clueless dude to humiliate.  Let the boundaries fall and the male bonding begin.

The drive in the pick-up bed up to the top is worth the price if you are into paying to be scared.  Every time the driver pulled the clutch to catch a lower gear, I was pretty sure we were just going to stall out and commence the screaming and dying all the way to the bottom.  Always having a contingency plan in mind, I was just going to bail out of the pick-up to the side of the road if it did that.  Probably should have shared that plan with the wife and kids.  Ah, maybe next time.

In any event, after a quick five minute speech about "if you do this, you die, if you do that you die" we were off and zip lining.  I went first followed by the ever lovely and dangerous Ana Cortez.  Our guide, Robert, let us go so he could handle the screaming group of girls above us.  Pretty much we had the run of the place all the way to the bottom.  I must admit that flying 100 feet above the rain forest while gazing to the bottom of the island and the azure ocean below is very charming.  Here's a picture I took from the top of the zip line:

After this adventure, we returned to the hotel to enjoy some of that "swim up to the bar" stuff.  By the way, no one tells you that to swim up to the bar you have to flog hordes of children splashing, screaming and near drowning in the pool.  That does not appear in the pictures.

One thing I must convey about our hotel area.  The air along the whole street is permeated with the smell of grilled meat.  Vegetarians, you would vomit in disgust.  For me, I was thinking that for heaven to be proper (and it must be, right?), it must have the smell of grilled meat. I'm a proper Catholic, so I get to go to Catholic heaven which is just downstairs from protestant heaven.  If I were a buddhist and were to reincarnate, I suppose the ever present smell of grilled meat would make me look more like this:

And, yes, due to my bad karma, I'm sure I would reincarnate into something like this hideous, drooling Komodo Dragon.  Maybe I should stop making fun of people in this blog, so I can avoid this near certain fait as a reptile?  Nah.

In any event, sometimes the smell of grilled meat is just a stumbling block for the unwary.  I ate some jerk baby back ribs that night (I will not post a picture!), and I think it sucked what remaining moisture I had in my body right out of me.  Must ... replenish ... with ... beer.  Recover, rest, and prepare for the next day of shopping.  You didn't think I would avoid that, did you?

Sint Maarten/St. Martin (Days 1-2) - The Advent of Ana Cortez & White Boys Should Wear Shirts At Beaches

In the realm of adventure, travel to a beach is not high on my list.  Nonetheless, my wife (aka Fighten Fitzgerald of Ireland Fame) and our two female progeny (Boo & Ana Cortez) really liked the idea of a beach vacation.  In my mind, a beach vacation conjures up images of watching the others play in the surf while I while away my time under a beach umbrella bored as hell.  I imagine that I share dull, sappy looks with the guy under the umbrella next to mine. 

Bro's can communicate without speaking.  We don't talk, but our imagined silent conversation is something like:

ME: I'm bored. as f*ck (edit made for my wife's sake - she will obviously still not be satisfied). 

ME:  What's the quickest thing I can get to drink that will make me pass out?

DUDE:  Uh, why are you looking at me like that?

ME:  I'm asking you a question.  What'cha drinkin?

DUDE:  Are you hitting on me?

ME:  How can you possibly mistake a look of complete and utter tedium with sexual interest? 

ME (giving him the pistol shooting motion and winking):  Oh wait, we do that all the time don't we?

DUDE turns to his wife and has an furtive "eye conversation" with her.

DUDE:  Honey, check out the freak with the shaved legs next to us.  I think he's hitting on me. 

WIFE:  Probably one of those Tour de France guys.  Ignore him.

DUDE:  He's too fat to be a Tour de France guy.

WIFE (sits up to look at me and says to DUDE):  Leave me alone.

Well, that never happened, but it was how I imagined it was going to be.  Fortunately for me, the Isle of Sint Maarten (if you are on the Dutch side) or St. Martin (if you are on the French side) was not dull at all.  A beach vacation was survived, and I think we all had a lot of fun.  That being said, our vacation started with a crime and then a delay.

June 11, 2014:

First the crime ... I have a friend at work who just retired, and he managed to get his hands on a Cuban cigar which he assured me was rolled personally by the baby-soft, cherub-like hands of communist dictator Fidel Castro.  Here's Fidel when he realized that one of his precious macanudos escaped the communist "utopia" of Cuba into my own hands:

He's really mad, right?  No big deal.  I never liked that guy anyway.  What I did like was burning up that small, precious part of Cuba, inhaling it into my lungs and letting it escape past my teeth into the Caribbean atmosphere.  Fidel, that's what you get for scaring a whole generation of Americans with your damned Soviet nuclear missiles.  I really miss the Cold War.  Living without the threat of imminent nuclear annihilation is so dull.

In packing, I managed to remove every single thing that TSA might find objectionable.  However, Fidel's cigar, Fidelito, stowed away in my backpack.  Just before going through TSA, I discovered Fidelito and made the decision that it would be an offense to Anglo-Cuban relations if I just threw him out.  The decision having been made, I threw out the small wooden humidor that kept Fidelito in its oaken embrace and pushed Fidelito into my Homer Simpson themed boxers.  These were then returned to my suitcase.  Very clever ... I know.  They search carry-ons, but nobody would think to search a bag that I've checked!  Losers ... I pulled it off.

In a case of reverse import crime I smuggled contraband from a country where these little Fidelitos are illegal to a place where they are not.  Not sure who I tricked, but it didn't matter.  I'm contrary, and that makes me happy in some infantile way.  In your face, someone?  Obama maybe?  I don't know.

Having checked Fidelito, the good folks at Delta Airlines (www.delta.com) decided that our airplane was far too small, and they needed a bigger airplane.  I'm not sure how these matters are "discovered" at the last moment rather than planned well in advance based on tickets sold.  We wait at SFO for a couple more attendants to arrive.  That made us a half-hour late.  That's a big deal when your layover at JFK in New York City is only an hour.

During the wait, I explain to the lady at the gate that Delta is laying a great dane sized turd on my vacation.  She promptly fixes the situation by moving us to the very front of ... coach.  For a minute, I thought I was going to have the satisfaction of telling Fighten Fitzgerald, Boo, and Ana Cortez all about how I used my charm and chiseled Germanic-inspired good looks to get us moved up to first class free of charge.  Alas, no.

In any event, my wife determines that the boarding passes are satisfactory (although still in coach), but that one of our children has been renamed by Delta Airlines as Ana Cortez.  I personally like that name, and she is deserving of an alter ego real or imagined.  Despite the fact that the Delta lady told the gate agent to just let us on the plane without scanning Ana's ticket, the gate agent scanned it anyway and my child officially boarded as Ana Cortez.  So our vacation crime spree continues, and I've gained a Hispanic child.  Boarding an international flight as someone else has to be a felony of some kind, right?  Ah, once again I am satisfied, and our crime spree continues.

Upon arrival at JFK, we have twenty minutes to board a shuttle, get across the airport, run all the way to the gate at the end of Delta's international terminal, and then board the plane.  Kind of reminds me of this old commercial from 1978:

 
It was very similar, except none of us is OJ Simpson ... thank God.  We made it on the plane just in time, pulled away from the gate and then waited for two hours.  That meant that they had two hours to get our luggage on that plane, right?  Alas, no.  Here is a travel tip.  If the plane has pulled away from the gate, not a chance in hell they are doing anything other than having you sit there.  My travel experience is limited, but I definitely learned that lesson.

Our flight down to Princess Juliana International Airport (SXM) in Sint Maarten was uneventful.  Nothing exciting happened like spilled pretzels, peanuts or Delta cookies.  Nope, not a thing happened.  The cool thing about landing at SXM is that the appearance is that you are going to belly flop on the ocean, but then you hit the tarmac.  Probably because from the ground at Maho Beach, it looks like this:

Pretty cool, huh.  Here's a travel tip to dealing with rental car guys at airports ... give the appearance (yeah, right) of being pathetic and they might just give you a bigger car.  We had reserved the smallest car available from Avis.  Something between a Fred Flintstone car and a tricycle.

When the rental car guy looked at the four of us with our bags, he said something like, "Hey, dumbass, how do you think you are getting all of those people and bags to your hotel in this tiny shrimp boat?"  Knowing this was part of the game where he gets me to pay for a SUV or something, I just replied that it was fine, and that "I've got it handled."  Seeing that it isn't fine and I am truly a dumbass of the cheapo variety, he upgraded the size of our car for free.  Ah yes, the law of unintended consequences for once did not bite me in the ass.  That rental car still looked like it spent some time on the streets of Baghdad but it was larger than the shrimp boat.  Mission accomplished.

Avis handed me a really basic, almost pictorial map of Sint Maarten/St. Martin and off I went to find our hotel.  As with Ireland, we basically just pointed ourselves in the right direction and started driving.  One plus is that you don't have to drive on the left-hand side of the road. 

PRUDISH AMERICANS PLEASE AVERT YOUR EYES!!!

That map would prove useful in getting from area to area, but it didn't help you at all if you get into towns like Marigot (French side) or Phillipsburg (Dutch side).  Nonetheless, I was surprised to discover a rather attractive and topless blond model in the upper left corner of the map.  She was helping all of us weary onlookers to "Pay to be Alive".  How might you pay to be alive?  You pay to attend a spa, of course.  Here's the advertisement without the text. 

Hey, look, she's alive!  Must be because she paid for that spa day.  Otherwise, she would have remained as dead as you and me.  I never went to the spa.  I still feel dead.

What shocks me about this picture is not the attractive blond. I know that what flies in other countries with regard to nudity does not fly in the Home of the Brave. In that regard, this is a minor curiousity to my American eyes. What does surprise me is that I could find the advertisement through a Google search of "pay to be alive" and "sint maarten".  Let this be a lesson.  In the land of the internet, nothing is ever erased or forgotten - not even crass advertising slogans.

Moving on.  We stayed at the Royal Palm Beach Resort, and it was very nice.  If you go to Sint Maarten, I highly recommend you stay.  These are time shares, so that means that we had a kitchen and two bedrooms with a balcony.  If you want an idea of exactly what our room looked like, just click on the link: https://www.diamondresorts.com/Rentals/royal-palm-beach-resort  What you see there is exactly what we got right down to the view out of the master bedroom and balcony.  You are also conveniently located across the street from some excellent restaurants and down the street from a grocery store.  We gobbled up some Johnny Cakes at Johnny B's and then I bought a whole bunch of Red Stripe and Heineken at the local store. 

Travel Tip:  American dollars are the currency for Sint Maarten.  In St. Martin (the French side), they take dollars or euro's.  Prices are quoted in euro's but they will give you the same price in dollars.  That means you should pay cash for everything in St. Martin in dollars if you can.  It will save you some $$$. 

June 12, 2014:

After not being provided any assurances at SXM that our luggage would actually arrive, I awoke to notice that my teeth had slipped on fuzzy slippers.  I figured it wouldn't bother me to skip a night of tooth brushing, but it did.  Not to worry, our luggage made a 9:00 a.m. appearance, and all was well.

After herding my fellow family vacationers out the door, we took off for Marigot.  I'd read that they have the best pastries and outdoor market.  The pastry notion was dead on.  Adjacent to the market (meh) was a little slice of heaven call Sarafina's.  On TripAdvisor it was made known to me that "Food amazing - don't use the bathroom."  Um ... I suspect that bathroom isn't too far from the kitchen, right?  Well, let's just check that out shall we?

WARNING!!!!  DOUCHEBAGGERY ABOUT TO OCCUR!!!!!!!

In an Unexceptional Travel Blog first, I've just posted a picture of what I ate on vacation.  Who really cares, right?  I find that generally when people post a picture of what they ate on a social media site, they want you to envy them. 

DOUCHEBAG:  Look at me, I have food! 

ME:  A first for you?  Congratulations, I guess???

Nobody cares that you ate something that looks like it is a kale flavored booger.  Let's reason this through.  Ask yourself whether you have ever had a conversation in which you discussed the food depicted on a photo which was posted by a friend on a social media site. 

No.  You haven't.  But you have had a conversation about what a douchebag that person is for having enough hubris to think we actually give a damn what he/she ate Friday night and would subsequently feed to the dog on Saturday morning. 

Yeah!  You have food!  You did it!

Have you also noticed that 99.9% of these photos show "healthy" food.  This smacks of elitism.  The poor eat fast food and you don't see a lot of "Proud Papa" pictures of Big Macs do you.  Adding something which indicates you have been suckered into the latest fad diet (hint ... paleo) just adds to the douchebaggery.  I lovingly ask you to stop for your good and ours.  However, every rule must have an exception or two.

By the photo above, you must think me a hypocrite.  Not so. I already know I'm a douchebag and so do you if you: 1) know me; or 2) have read any other entry on the Unexceptional Travel Blog.  Therefore, I know that there is nothing that can be done to impress you.  I also have no deep-seated emotional need to surprise you with a picture that causes you to question,

"Gee, that's odd.  A picture of food. I never would have known he was a douchebag". 

Nope.  You know it.  Also, this is not healthy food.  In fact, this sh*t will kill you, but you WILL die happy.  To that end, if you already know that you are a douchebag OR if you are posting a picture of something that you can consume but will slowly kill you (i.e., beer, whiskey, pastries), I offer you no malice.  Carry on in the joy of your short life.

Perhaps you have noticed that if I don't have much to say about a place I visited that I fill time with a rant.  True.  The outdoor market and adjacent areas of Marigot are very nice.  Otherwise, skip it.  Nothing else to see there except maybe the fort that overlooks the market.  Besides, that rant put me in the mood to tell you a sun burn story. 

Orient Beach looks like this:

Orient Beach is famous for the beach and the "clothing optional" Club Orient (www.cluborient.com).  I've been exposed to these feral nudist types on occasion.  It had been a year since I was exposed to the skinny, water bathing and dope smoking hippies at Lake Siskiyou.  I had read about Club Orient prior to arrival and figured that I had to drive in their driveway to hit the public side of the beach.  Well, I did that and when I made the turnaround in the parking lot, it was dong village all over the beach.  That is not something you want to see ... old, beer bellied dudes letting it all hang out.  People pay to belong to that club.  Is it really that much fun getting sand in your nether regions?  The answer is "Yes" if you get to do it with other fat dudes?

Anyway, we parked and made our way to the public part of the beach through one of several of the outdoor bars, past a "big bosomed lady with a dutch accent" and onto the beach.  If you noticed the Rod Stewart lyric from "You're In My Heart" you get a shiny, clothing optional star for your speedo!  And yes, she was big bosomed and looked dutch ... probably was considering where we were in the world.  Anyhow, I just couldn't help but work the lyric into the blog.

The ladies promptly threw all of their stuff down and got in the water.  I occupied an umbrella and started wondering what I was going to do for the next five hours.  I was going to get drunk if possible.  Anyway, Nicolas (pronounced "Nico - lah") quickly arrived and gave me a menu.  I think my wife was thinking about leaving me for Nico - lah with the French accent, but she left with me.  Not sure why. 

I know that it is now popular to take a photo of my feet resting on the lounge with the azure ocean behind said feet.  This is intended to announce to the world my state of relaxation.  I didn't take that picture because I'm a man.  That is cliche.  Instead, I put the beach goer potty cycle into effect.  Drink beer, get up, pee in ocean, return for beer and so on.  Don't judge me ... we've all done it. 

In any event, I ordered up a bucket of Carib beer and started on the drinking.  I put on the buzz early, so I can let the buzz wear off early.  The whole time I was thinking that if my buddy, Scott, was there, we'd surely tear that place up and make a mess of the thing.  Oh well, not to be.  The girls returned, drank some of my beer and ordered food.  Day pretty much over.

During this process I took off my shirt and commenced to get a raging sun burn along the left hand side of my body.  I'm not much of a shirt taker-offer since I no longer have the flat abs that are so ridiculously in style now.  In fact, mine were so "washboard" as a kid that my belly button stuck out.  I spent my whole childhood wanting to add muscle and now skinny with very little muscle is in.  I now have muscle (and some chub), but oh well.  My point is that this portion of my body has not been exposed to sun since I was probably 23 years old.  I got cooked.  Nothing screams "Tourist!" like a big ole sunburn.  Last vacation, I took my sun burn to Ireland.  I earned this on while on vacation.  Either way, its now my thing to be on vacation while sun burned.  Stupid.

In any event, the World Cup started on this day and everyone on the French side was excited to cheer for Brazil.  I know there is a proximity, but that's like me cheering for Canada for anything ... It just doesn't make sense.  On our way off the beach, we made our way through the bar and some of the local French guys told me to pull up a seat for the game.  I had to decline, but on the way out we could hear the collective lamentation of the fans over the noise of our car when Croatia scored first.  Having some hindsight now, it would have been a real treat to have been present when Germany drubbed Brazil 7-1 in the semi-final.  I would have liked to have witnessed some of this first hand:

And may be a little more of this:

Folks, this is what happens when your whole identity as a country is wrapped up in the ability of eleven of your citizens to play a game.  I guarantee you if the Germans lost, they wouldn't be crying about it.  They can fall back on their ability to make awesome cars and start world wars on a whim.  Every country has its thing I suppose.

Back to the hotel to smoke Fidelito and drink Red Stripe.