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It’s easy to get used to a five-star breakfast buffet and endless time to enjoy it. I spend the next morning at my usual table—overlooking the ocean—with a plate of fresh fruit, eggs, and bacon.
It’s not a hardship.
The real suffering will be returning to the five-minute granola bar routine in my car before arriving at the school for my first lesson. I look around the restaurant at the other guests enjoying their meals and feel grateful to be able to experience this kind of luxury, even if it's just for a short time.
I open my notepad and writeGame Planat the top. If I’m serious about this story, the one I’m inspired to write more than any other in previous years, I need to do my research. The Winter Resort website will give me inspirational images, of course, but there’s no accounting for personal experience.
And authors are supposed toexperiencethings.
Some of the great authors have gone to war, traveled, or drunk their way from one country to another. My sojourn into the lives of the rich isn’tquiteso harrowing, perhaps, but it’s immersion nonetheless.
I tuck the notepad, complete with the rough character sketches I’ve drawn up in the last two days, into my bag and walk around the resort. The lobby. The gardens. The outdoor pool. A lot of it is familiar, but there are areas I haven’t seen. The hotel gym, the spa, the concierge desk.
I save the best for last. The bungalow section.
Even from the outside, they look luxurious and private, offering guests a taste of secluded exclusivity. The path between the buildings is paved in wide, sand-colored stone, and is just large enough for a golf cart to get around. I’d seen a few of these vehicles parked by the lobby earlier. They must be for transporting bags and guests to their private accommodations. The path is fringed by low hedges, and a gate blocks off the entrance to every unit.
The bungalows have names, too, etched on the wooden plaques by each entrance. One bungalow is calledThe Sandpiper.From reading my guidebook, I know it’s a bird. A very tiny one with a long beak, often found flittering around the shoreline. I walk byThe Green Monkey, The Leatherback, The Bullfinch,andThe Whistling Frog.
The bungalow labeledThe Hawksbillcatches my attention. That’s the name of one of the turtle species mentioned when I booked my snorkeling tour set for later this afternoon. This bungalow looks no different from any of the others. Dark wood stairs up to a large door and the perfectly landscaped plants in pots on either side.
It’s beautiful. I walk around it to where a stone path cuts betweenThe Hawskbilland its neighbor before leading down to the sea. The water is a glittering turquoise band, edged by the white sand, to which the bungalow guests have near-private access. It’s so beautiful, it tears at my heart a little.
I could live here forever.
There’s not a single cell in my body that longs for the cold winter in Washington.
I stand between two bungalows that blend beautifully into the landscape. I snap a few shots of the area for my inspiration before heading to the beach.
That’s when I hear a voice coming beyond the hedge to the right. “Shit,” a person’s saying. “Okay. How did you get in there?”
There’s no reply. Curiosity gets the better of me and I rise on my toes, peering over the shrubbery.
The bungalows have private patios. I catch the back of a man’s head and then a pair of shoulders before he bends over.
It looks like Phillip.
He straightens again. And yup, that’s a button-down shirt and dark hair.
He’s holding an empty five-gallon water jug. Each bungalow must get its own, not like in the main hotel building where the watercoolers are evenly spaced in the hallways. I catch a glimpse of something tiny, green, and moving frantically about inside the container.
A lizard? Or a frog?
“I’ll set you free in this hedge here…” The words are barely audible, speaking to himself as he is, but I catch them all the same.
I duck out of sight and continue down to the beach, my smile stretching even wider.
Seems like this place brings out the best in everyone.
I have another hour until my snorkeling trip. I spend it on the beach, sitting with my feet in the sand, and send a few quick pictures to my parents and to Becky.
By 3 p.m., I’m waiting outside the hotel lobby. My long hair is securely braided down my back, my cap is on tight, and I have the underwater camera Becky gave me in my bag. Emailing the trip organizer to change my booking for the snorkeling cruise from two people to one hadn’t hurtquiteso much when I’d searched for images of it afterward.
Turquoise waters. Underwater shots of sea turtles. The sunset is seen off the bow of a boat. Being heartbroken on a boat on the Caribbean Sea is infinitely more preferable to crying in between my kindergarten lessons in Pinecrest.
The minivan picks me up from the hotel lobby, and I cram in next to a pair of Dutch tourists. It takes us twenty minutes to drive to the marina in Bridgetown. I pull my cap lower on my head to shield my eyes from the intense sun and look at the boats waiting for us.
And all the tourists.
