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.
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