Hotel Mount Vernon

The white people are late – now, almost an hour and a half past due. Was it a flight delay or car rental problem? Do I have their arrival date and time correct? My voice mail isn’t working. Damn! I don’t even know their name. Larry just said to have the condo ready for American guests and I worked my usual magic. They’ll enter a sparkling clean, lovingly decorated air-conditioned sand-free studio, with striped bath towels neatly folded, beach chairs ready for transport, and a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge. My full island welcome – Nobody will ever badmouth me on Air B&B!

I rise slowly from a straw chair, head to the door, and swiftly lock it behind me. Perhaps there was a miscommunication? The Americans could be waiting up the hill, at the abandoned hotel entrance. Maybe nobody told them which condo? Ugh. I hope they aren’t angry…

I see the middle-aged woman first, stretched out on a wooden bench, wearing huge sunglasses. She’s the epitome of shabby chic – perhaps more shabby than chic. We suddenly lock eyes and she straightens to attention, relieved that a vacation will indeed happen. How pale she is! Yes, she’s the one I have been waiting for. I drag myself forward and circle closer, assessing the present, evaluating a possible future – she’s definitely been ill for a while. Perhaps here for a last holiday? At least this one still has her hair – no jeweled turban or folded headscarf or plaid cloth or baseball cap in sight. I close my eyes and extend brown fingers into the light wind floating up from the bay. It may be better than I first thought: She’s got time to do what she intends to do and set matters right.

Turns out, the American couple had arrived on time and were never told which condo unit they were renting. Sloppy, greedy Larry strikes again… Amends are made. Nobody can resist my hospitality. The husband shakes my hand and points me towards their rental car.

“Andrina, thanks for figuring this out and hunting us down. I took a short walk in the general direction of where Larry told me the condo was, but I didn’t see anyone. We were starting to consider ourselves victims of an internet vacation scam!”

We drive down a winding, pot-hole infused road, past tennis courts and flowering bougainvillea and pull into the parking lot. The couple refuses to allow me to help with their baggage and insist upon giving me bottled water. As we walk towards the condo, the wife asks an unexpected question:

“Are the feral cats still here?

“Yes, but most of them have been spayed.”

“It will be great to see them again. They are such a delight.”

I’m amused and touched by her concern for the animals. One would think that spoiled Americans would be repulsed at the presence of these creatures. Today, my Americans are unpredictable, not ugly. It is good they have returned to my French island instead of staying in a fancy hotel on the Dutch side. Bienvenue!

Back inside the condo, I reveal computer codes for WIFI, point out contents of a full pantry, and initiate them into the security mechanics of the patio doors. Yes, you must install the wooden pole properly in place each night and draw down the metal awning. When it comes to safety, Larry doesn’t believe in taking chances. I open a storage closet and indicate recreational contents for their use.

“There are tennis racquets, if you play.”

The woman smiles at me. Too bad I won’t remember her name.

“I do! I mean, I did. Maybe I will again. Did you follow the Australian Open?”

“Yes. How great it was that Serena won!”

“There’s nobody like the Williams sisters. I’m so happy she’s finally engaged.”

She grins at me, her taut face softens and there’s pink in her cheeks. I reconsider my dire prediction of death at first sight. Maybe this will be “second honeymoon” after all? Or, has a newfound fondness for her clouded my judgment? Yes, we do like one another – but this discovery is part of a brief transactional transition – nothing more. We will never play tennis together. The gap is too great – Black and White, Hometown Girl versus Vacationing Tourist, Third versus First World, health and wealth. This woman is exhausted, she’s carrying mysterious burdens, perhaps rest, tropical breezes, and spousal kisses will do her good – maybe even save her life. I check my phone – the afternoon has slipped away and there’s a family dinner to prepare. I must make my exit.

“Don’t forget to make a reservation as soon as possible. You’ve arrived on Valentine’s Day. Have a wonderful visit. Please make sure to get some rest.”

“Andrina,” my husband asks, “Do you want to take home some bottled water, a beer, the champagne?”

“No, that’s our gift to you. Take good care.”

With a swirl of her brightly colored dress, “Our Lady of the Island” vanishes. I flop onto the queen size bed. Does Andrina know my future? Is it racist of me to assign magical powers to a Caribbean woman? What can she know that I can’t? How has she acquired the gift of seeing further? The P.C. police offer a mixed verdict upon my musings. I will reflect upon my offensiveness later. Today, I’m too tired for building revolutionary coalitions or for remembering Valentine’s Day. I’m just a weary wife whose husband had presence of mind enough to purchase and transport a card in the tradition of courtly love. We are simultaneously well and ill-suited. I forget, he remembers, but there’s no gift of chocolate or jewelry. That would be…Too much.

I’m grateful to my husband for organizing this last minute trip to Mount Vernon. Last time, we stayed in a much nicer condo with a better view, but I’m thankful for an escape from winter. Not much has changed in two years – the private road leading to our hurricane damaged idyll is yet to be fully repaired. If the car rental company knew the pitted, cratered moonscape we would be driving on – they would have charged us even more money! The only section of the road in perfect condition lies in front of a guest house serving foreign exemplars of the one percent.

What has changed? Legendary Villa Pizzeria has preserved their extraordinary (best pureed carrots in the universe) and affordable menu, while replacing their plaid table cloths. The “S” supermarket has gone out of business and we’re forced to forage at Leader Prix. Another top-rated and expensive restaurant opened in Cul-de-Sac, serving French-Jamaican food. Poolside lounge chairs have been upgraded. No more blue and white striped mildew adorned cushions to put away at sunset. So be it.

The next morning, my husband whips seasoned egg whites and asks me if I’m feeling better. We eat breakfast on the terrace. While undulating waves are missed, mountain views provide a sense of spaciousness. We watch helicopters flying through the valley from a nearby airport. I turn to my husband:

“My father always detested ‘M.A.S.H.’ He thought it represented the normalization of war.”

My husband replies: “Why are you thinking of ‘M.A.S.H.?’ Was it because Piers Morgan was on “Bill Maher” last night making the neoliberals, who do not know they are neoliberals, uncomfortable about their complicity in the Iraq War?”

I’m thrilled by his comprehensive, insightful, and accurate commentary. There’s hope for my marriage after all.

“Honey, why don’t these helicopters remind you about ‘Suicide Is Painless’ and the opening of ‘M.A.S.H?’ ”

My husband sips his café au lait and spreads butter on a fresh croissant. “When I see the helicopters, I’m thinking of Fantasy Island and Tattoo calling out ‘Da Plane’ – because I’m here, finally, with you!”