Travel Reference
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All things considered—including the recession—rentals that next season were a lot better
than we expected.
In fact, business was so good we had to turn down several potential bookings to carve
out a free week for ourselves. Eventually we blocked out a delicious ten-day visit in late
February.
We couldn't wait.
January was tough to get through—unusually cold and dark, with lots of rain. In fact, we
were just about ready to climb into a lukewarm tub, chug down a bottle of
Stoli
and slit our
wrists. However, the day of our departure to Vieques finally arrived.
Precious release.
The morning after our arrival found Michael jumping on his bike for a punishing tour of
the island while I positioned myself strategically on our balcony for a brisk workout doing
absolutely nothing.
The occasion, already golden, was made all the more delectable by the fact that it was
Monday
. Yes, Monday—and guess what? I didn't have to go to work; I didn't have to sit
through an interminable staff meeting; I didn't have to loiter in my small, obsessively neat
office at the non-profit where I worked and stare out the window and wish I were in Vieques.
Instead, I could simply lie on my sun-drenched terrace and empty my mind of all re-
motely negative thoughts. I accomplished this cleansing process through a variety of means,
depending on the occasion.
Sometimes I pictured my mind as a kitchen sink full of murky water, then mentally
pulled the plug and watched the crud swirl down the drain to oblivion. That was a good one.
Other times I focused on a particularly
positive
image—a bank vault crammed full of
thousand dollar bills (yes, I'm aware that bills in denominations larger than one hundred no
longer exist; please bear in mind that this is a fantasy), or a languorous afternoon spent with
the Royal Family at Windsor Castle during which the Queen remarks, oh-so-casually, “Since
you're here anyway, I might as well knight you. Kneel down, my pet.”
Yes, yes, I also realize that it's unlikely the Queen has ever called anyone “my pet” in
her whole life unless it was to address one of her corgis or perhaps Prince Philip on their
wedding night.
Do get hold of yourself and remember that this is a mental exercise, not a fact-checking
jamboree. In the meantime, you may address me as
Sir
Patrick.
But that day, as I lay on our balcony soaking up the noonday sun, I didn't even need to
dig into my bag of happy tricks to feel good about Life in General.
A gentle breeze (compliments of the trade winds) tousled my hair. The sun warmed my
bones without making me sweat. And although it was barely eleven in the morning, I was
gently nursing a Bloody Mary. Okay, my second.
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