Travel Reference
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such tragic event occurred, and when my martini was placed before me it was a thing of
beauty—enormous, icy cold, and anchored by two of the plumpest olives in captivity.
Our table faced the ocean. There was a warm, teasing breeze. Jazz snaked in from the
tiki-hut-style bar.
“I'm sorry you got sick,” Michael said, sipping a glass of Shiraz. What a rock he was,
spending his vacation caring for a whimpering semi-invalid and never uttering a word of
complaint.
“Me too,” I said and swizzled the olives around in my drink. “I was thinking as I got
dressed tonight—if I enjoyed Vieques this much feeling this lousy, imagine how much I'll
like it next time.”
He sat up straight in his chair.
“You mean you'd come back?”
I took a long sip of my drink and looked out across the dark, beckoning water.
“In a heartbeat.”
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