Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The next year was tough.
My boss quit her job and suddenly I was thrust into the spotlight at work. My stress level
shot into the upper stratosphere and stayed there for nine long months. In mid-February I
decided I couldn't bear it anymore and, as an early birthday present to myself, I quit.
By the middle of April I was happily ensconced in a new job. This time it felt right. And
in May we went back to Vieques.
Our little puddle jumper from San Juan to the island shook like the devil but for reasons
unknown I remained eerily calm—okay, maybe prescription drugs played a minor role but
let's not quibble. I even found myself pitying the man next to me, who was clearly terrified
but trying valiantly to keep a stiff upper lip. Poor bastard.
Felicity, our wizened property manager from the previous year, met us at the airport. If
anything, she looked even more stressed out than before, her fingers more nicotine-stained,
her hair frizzier. But she gave us a warm welcome and bundled us into her car with good
cheer. Soon we were careening along the narrow roads towards our rental.
“There was a little problem with the house you wanted,” she yelled above the din. “The
owners arrived unexpectedly yesterday, so I'm afraid it's not available.”
I closed my eyes, bracing myself for whatever was coming next. This felt like a not-
so-instant replay of the goat debacle from the year before. Only this time the term floating
through my addled brain was
bait and switch
rather than
failure to advertise property as a
cell block
.
“But we've upgraded you to a much nicer house.”
I fidgeted, tempted to protest. Michael, meanwhile, stared straight ahead (again) and
didn't say a word.
In all honesty, I couldn't remember much about the house we'd actually booked, except
that it was a couple of notches above the place we'd rented the year before (in other words,
habitable). It had a pool, I seemed to recall, and faced the Caribbean side.
The road leading up to our replacement house was sensationally bumpy, rutted, and gen-
erally washed out. A novice might have considered this a bad sign, but I saw it as vaguely
hopeful, having learned through the years (after living in a variety of out-of-the-way places
around the world) that sometimes the most inaccessible roads lead to the best houses.
And I was right.
It was a stunner. Situated in a high flat field with spectacular views down to the water,
the brand-new two story house was surrounded by enormous boulders that looked as if the
gods had been shooting marbles across the lawn.
We walked up onto a screened-in veranda. A sparkling lap pool lay below us. Inside,
the raftered great room—furnished with rattan chairs, canvas-covered sofas, and framed
prints—stretched from the front of the house to the back. At each end lay a bedroom suite
complete with outdoor shower.
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