The day before, while the Smelly Cat thing was going on, I managed to procure passage on a snorkeling trip with Coconut Reef (http://www.coconutreefsnorkeltours.com/). All we had to do was pay a whole bunch of cash, walk down the road and be at La Sucriere bakery by 9:00 a.m. the next morning. No problem because they have some wonderful pastries there, and I'm all about getting chubby.
Our little snorkeling trip came with complimentary booze and food. Typically, this is a recipe for disaster for me. I recall being hungry a lot as a child, and we didn't have a lot of extras. I've fixed the economic situation as an adult. However, if I get the opportunity for free food and beverage, I revert back and take advantage. Allow me to illustrate:
My opportunity for free booze (or at least what I perceive as "free") typically starts a lot like this:
and ends just like this:
To the surprise of both my wife and children, I kept it together. I must admit, however, that a good buzz might have dulled that kidney pounding I took on the boat. I grew up in a small town in Northern California where we have ready access to two large lakes. That meant I spent a fair amount of time in boats typical to the lake environment. For you non-nautical types, that means the boats are flat bottom. In an ocean environment, you expect the keel to reach a bit further into the briny deep.Nope. No sea-going vessel for us. Ours was a boat of the "get your ass in the lake and get ready to ski" variety. Not to worry, we had good company on the boat, the sun was shining bright, and I only bruised one kidney during the ride. Before I describe the snorkeling, I need to once again break down a cultural misunderstanding. Get out your maps ... and you will quickly notice that California is a huge state. See the below novelty map which, unfortunately, has a lot of truth to it.
I live in the section entitled "Apparently Part of California". I'm quite confident that the rest of California doesn't want us (except for the water), but we didn't like them first. So there. I'm not sure about the educational systems elsewhere in our fine country, but a quick look at this geographically correct map should cause you to observe ....
"Hey, maybe not all Californians live by the beach".
And now I encourage you to dig deep and reach the next logical conclusion ... think ... think ...
"And then ... maybe ... not all Californians surf?"
That is correct! You have it! Now you can understand us better.
I don't live by the ocean, and I don't surf. I live at the foot of a volcano and my part of California is widely known for supplying the world with marijuana. That's right, your Bob Marley inspired good times were brought to you by the emerald triangle of Humboldt, Shasta and Tehama counties. It takes me a three hour drive to get to the ocean. I don't go there. Everyone knows that the ocean off the coast of Humboldt county is just chock full of these:
A couple of observations about this man-eater! First, he or she (God only knows!) is actually smiling at the camera. Probably similar to that look a chubby kid gets on his face just before he devours a brownie. That shark is anticipating something yummy. Also, it's as fat as a shark can get. I hear that wet suits don't digest well and just kind of ball up in the tummy. Last observation ... if this photo was taken by a real human, that person is a total dumb ass.
Back to California. The point of this thumbnail sketch of my homeland is that snorkeling is not my gig. This was my first time. Fully confident that all the man-eating sharks are gorging themselves on stoned surfers (probably a shark version of a pot brownie) off the coast of Humboldt, I dove in.
It was magical. Kind of like being in an aquarium. We found sea turtles and manta rays too! Well worth the $$$, and the Coconut Reef people are top notch. Here are some of the sights from our snorkeling trip:
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But all good things must end, right? On the way back to La Sucriere, we stopped at a place or two for additional beer and snorkeling. The last place where we stopped provided a lesson in cultural anthropology and human anatomy. At this remote beach, we stole upon two men and two women completely and irrevocably buck naked. Don't get me wrong, I've been there. I'm very familiar with the female form. What I am not accustomed to is the male form (other than my own).
Picture if you will two fairly attractive naked ladies laying down on the beach. I know ... weird right? Usually the people that slag around naked aren't the kind of people that you really want to see naked. I suppose there is an exception to every rule. The teen age boy in our boat couldn't take his eyes away, so I'll take this as his vote that these ladies qualify as an exception.
I understand, but focus!
Now, if you dare, also picture the disturbing sight of one guy standing up next to (and practically over) the girls wearing nothing but a baseball cap. I'm not sure how this public nudity thing is supposed to work or whether there is some kind of protocol, but I'm pretty sure standing there with your jingly jangly in someone's face while only wearing a ball cap gets you some kind of nudist douchebag award.
Nonetheless, I've learned from this that if I really want to impress a girl on a beach, I need to go full monty with the exception of the ball cap. It is indeed the ball cap that says
"Hey, I'm casual, but I'm also ready to party!"
Well, we paddled around for a while (not the teenager - he remained on the boat staring at the ladies or perhaps even Mr. Jingles) and then hit the high seas to return to La Sucriere. After loading up on pastries, we slogged back to the hotel. Knowing that this would be the last thing vacationy that I would do on this island, I just kind of soaked it in. Tomorrow would be full of worrying about rental car returns, getting on a plane, not crashing into the ocean in said plane, my first experience in a NYC cab, sleeping on the floor in the airport and so on. I'll leave that for tomorrow.
Right then, I was just kicking rocks on the way back to the hotel and wondering why the multitude of guys with dreadlocks on this island don't let them fly instead of putting them in those nylon-looking black pantyhose sacks that bob precariously on the back of the head. Boys, jut let em fly because that black pantyhose blob growing out of the back of your head is not a good look.
As for me, I'm thinking that the next time I go to the Caribbean, I'm going to try this out:
I mean ... this guy looks happy with his John Lennon sunglasses and fake dreads, right? I'd give myself about five minutes in this thing before I enjoy my first fight. However, I'm willing to speculate that if Mr. Jingle Jangle would have ditched the dead give away that he is American (the ball cap) and instead donned this marvel in Halloween-themed stupidity, he would have scored. Just sayin ...
June 16, 2014:
I'm going to admit that the last day of a vacation sucks. When you leave for a vacation, you are fired up and ready to endure all sorts of misery just so you can get to your destination. Whereas, on the return trip, there is nothing to motivate you. Nothing.. Dammit ... Nothing!
Stand by for a wife explanation moment (these are sometimes necessary):
Dear Wife:
1. I know that we can always look forward to the love and esteem of the five male children awaiting us at home.
2. Yes. I love them very much.
3. Please focus on the point I'm trying to make. It's called exaggeration for a reason!
Now back to the vacation ...
And so I awoke to the first challenge of the day. The pack-up. This is when you discover that half of the crap you brought on vacation didn't even make it out of your bag. Witness the near 15 lbs of sun block lotions that my lovely wife brought. Enough to displace the magma in one of those Icelandic volcanoes (i.e., Eyjafjallajökull) that are always ruining air travel to Europe. Just trying to pronounce the name of that volcano makes me angry. So did the lotion.
For God's sake, why bring that much lotion? You know that I'm too damned stubborn to use the stuff and would rather burn to a crisp (goal accomplished!). And you, dear wife, with your tiny 5 foot nothing of body size, it would take you 2,000 years to use up that stuff.
That's right ... count all the way back to the days Our Lord and Savior walked the verdant hills of Galilee, and that is how long it would take you to exhaust your supply of lotion.
Also, there is the $600 camera I bought for use on our Ireland trip. I'm super happy that it saw duty in Ireland. In a rare case of reverse gender roles, I nagged you to bring it on this trip even though you didn't want to because of the crime issues that were supposed to plague us in Sint Maarten but never materialized. My fault for nagging you, but not my fault that you forgot the card for the camera. That's 15 lbs of metal and glass hauled halfway across the world for no good reason at all.
More importantly, with all that lotion and useless picture taking stuff, where am I going to store all the booze we bought? I must honor the priorities, you know! Fear not, dear reader. Each adult and underage child was able to return with his/her bottle of island cough syrup. Mine remains unopened in the pantry. Some day, I'll drink enough good tasting alcohol to want to have a go at the Guavaberry Liqueur. Some day ...
All the rental car return stuff went off without a hitch. Off to the Princess Juliana International Airport. Princess Julianna, I'm guessing, was some kind of important Dutch chick. I don't know. Cool airport though.
However, I've determined that airports aren't so great when you have arrived three hours early. Approximate check-in time at the good ole Princess Juliana International Airport? 20 minutes. That means 2 1/2 hours at the terminal watching some stupid soccer game between Costa Rica and Ecuador or something like that. Who cares, right?
Once in flight, however, we were on our way to New York City. I'm not well traveled so my time in NYC during the first 46 years of my life is "0 hours and 0 minutes". When we arrived at JFK, we had to burn about 12 hours for the layover. I try to look at such things positively. It simply meant that I'm going to Times Square!
Travel Tip: If you are ever nervous about how to do things when you get to a certain place, just check on the internet. It is always helpful and never wrong! Sarcasm aside, it worked for me. Once again, thank you Google!
I learned that the cost of a cab ride to Manhattan from JFK is a flat fee ($57 if memory serves), which is pretty darn good when you consider that we have four people in the cab. The good people at Google informed me that I can pay by credit card just by sliding that card through the machine located in the back of the cab. I also learned that the typical tip is 15% and you also have to pay for the bridge toll. No biggie, it was still a very convenient option. Lastly, you have to hail a cab in NYC. You cannot call for one to arrive. Apparently, a pre-order of a cab ride is against the law. Not sure why. My point is that all decisions were fully informed and made before I set foot at Terminal 4 at JFK.
We jumped in the cab and told the cabbie that we wanted to go to Times Square. I got a newbie cabbie. He didn't quite seem to know specifically where to go. I can't give him directions! I have no idea where I'm at and vaguely think that JFK is located about 25 minutes drive North of NYC or perhaps somewhere close to Quebec. How the hell do I know! No problem, he drove in the general direction and got us to Manhattan. Mission accomplished. He then asked me where in Times Square I wanted to go.
"How the hell am I supposed to know? I'm the frickin tourist here! Just plop me where they have all the pretty blinking lights and huge screens. That he did. First some pictures and then some observations:
I know these pictures really stink. Iphones can only do so much ya know. The first two photos were taken around 8:00 p.m. The last two were taken between midnight and 1:00 a.m. The first observation about Times Square is that it gets more crowded the later you are there. At midnight there are thousands and thousands of people in Times Square. In the second photo from the bottom, you will notice that the ground level screen is blocked half way up. That is because they have permanent grand stands installed so you can sit there and marvel at the noise and electricity. Sit down and ogle the pretty lights with your mouth all agape.
Is it safe? Yeah. I think so. There are plenty of officers walking around. You can see in the first photo that the NYPD even has a small depot at Times Square. Fair enough ... I think it is safe. Next up ... if you like to people watch, you have definitely come to the right place. Not quite as good as Venice Beach in California but very close.
Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead in a Toys R Us. The one at Times Square is three stories tall, however. Kind of a freak in the kid toy peddling game. That means I have to go in. It has a ferris wheel inside! I saw it from the outside, and nudged the wife saying "We've got to go into that Toys R Us!" Knowing full well how I feel about shopping (particularly in places that closely approach a Chuck E Cheese vibe), she looked at me as though there were lobsters coming out of my ears. I talked her into it. Check it out.
All enthusiasm aside, I burned out after about 20 minutes when we started looking at giant sized candy. The novelty of large packages of candy wore off after about 30 seconds, so I figured I'd gaze out onto the street. I was looking out the window and what to my wandering eyes did appear (Christmas reference intended), but naked people! Yeah. They seem to haunt me on this trip. At least these girls were painted. Apparently, they were done making money as painted ladies and were changing into street clothes right there on the sidewalk. The confusing paradox of seeing this on the sidewalk while being surrounded by hundreds of screaming kids in a Toys R Us kind of epitomizes my NYC experience. Normal and weird all mixed in together without any logic to it whatsoever. I like that.
A note about New Yorkers. You can immediately spot New Yorkers. They will be walking faster than the tourists. They might also have a look of annoyance because the hordes of tourists are in the way. You always hear that New Yorkers are rude. I'm not sure about that and classify this as the NYC equivalent of "All Californians Surf".
I wouldn't say rude. I would say "busy" is the more appropriate adjective. The waiter at the pizza place didn't want to chat. He had no interest in hearing my "thank you" for bringing water. No. That waiter is dropping off four glasses and a pitcher, you pour it yourself and he won't be there to receive your ever so folksy "thank yee".
To be fair, we probably annoyed the hell out of that guy. My children have been taught to say "thank you" and they both work for Starbucks and can appreciate a customer "thank you". In comes the water, and we mouth four "thank yous" not all together. We sound like a damn glee club. If you are polite in this way, you probably do think it rude if the waiter just takes off and doesn't acknowledge your niceties. Nah ... he is just busy and has no time for the country yokel. I get it, but I'm saying thank you anyway. Deal with it.
After six or seven hours of Times Square, we decided that it was time to go back to Terminal 4. I hailed a cab, and off we went. Enter cabbie #2. This guy was also a newbie. When your cabbie asks you which bridge to take to get back to JFK then that is a problem. Thankfully, I paid attention on the way in, gave him what he needed and he zig zagged our way back to the airport. This guy made up for his lack of geographical skill because he didn't recognize speed limits or any of that stuff. I like 80 mph in a 50 mph zone. Not that I'm in a hurry, but it was fun. I'm not getting the ticket!
Having arrived at our destination, the only thing left to do was bed down for two hours of sleep on the floor of Terminal 4. If you've ever slept on the cold ground (i.e., camping, hunting), then this was the exact same body heat sucking thing. We managed to retain a couple of those postage stamp sized red blankets from our Delta flight out, so we used those to the best of our ability. Anyway, you don't get good sleep when the tile floor is cold, the door to the outside is thirty feet away and is constantly opening and shutting, and the custodian on the driving floor waxer can't seem to get his job done and get the hell out of the portion of Terminal 4 which we've claimed as our own. And here is our very own patch of JFK.
When treating JFK as your home for the evening, a trip to the potty will obviously be in order. So, I slide up to a urinal and see a fly. You know I'm going to pee on that fly, right? I have to. I do, and I score. Wet fly!
No, wet decal.
Somebody has figured out the male instinct to pee on stuff and is making a mint selling decals to the airports.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=121310977
It would appear that if you are aiming at something you are less likely to pee on the wall, your hand, your shoes, the floor, the guy at the urinal next to you and so on. Well, if they were trapping stupid males at the bathroom, yours truly would be dangling from the ceiling in a net.
The flight and trip back was rather uneventful. I won't bore you with the details. Thanks for reading about our trip to Sint Maarten. I'm acutely aware that my travel blogging style is far from a recitation of facts, dates and the posting of photos. To me, travel is about the experience and how it relates to the traveler. Every traveler has a unique set of experiences. The enjoyment of travel is simply the relation between ourselves and what we experience. It's different to everyone.
I'm more likely to tell you a story rather than post a picture. It's better that way. It's more like me. And with that, I send you off with some photos of the family while at travel in Sint Maarten. God bless!
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