Bringing Home Van Gogh

Today's post is composed under palm shade on a freshly raked, Grand Cayman Island beach.

My weeks goal is to not blister, wear a bra, or comb my hair.

We arrived on a Sunday.  Everything, including liquor stores, is closed on Sunday. Luckily we brought two bottles of our favorite chardonnay, which emptied way too quickly.

I stressed for months over this vacation.  The thought of wearing a bathing suit was overwhelming.  I vowed to lose 20 lbs but ended up gaining 5.

While going through the security check point, I was pulled over and assigned a "pat down."  The female  officer was instructed to check my "mid section."  ...Yep, nothing but fat.

An inspection of my carry on bag, turned up a shiny, slender, pink object which was cause for alarm.  A dusting and dismantlement was carried out by the lead supervisor and his team of rookies, despite the fact that I did my best to quietly assure everyone it was only a vibrator. 

The day before we left, my husband turned his beard into a goatee and long, side burns.  He now looks like a pirate.  A 20 lbs thinner pirate.

Our rental car is the same size as my office desk.  The speedometer registers in kilometers and the speed limit is miles per hour.  We are driving on the left side of the road while doing math in our heads.

We are staying in a remote part of the island which is known for its snorkeling.  Neither of us snorkels. My husband, a Pisces, is uncomfortable in the water.

Our condo is so big that I feel guilty we didn't bring more people.

A patio off the living room spills directly onto the beach. There is a sign taped to the door that warns us not to leave the condo unless it is "locked down."

The patio door can only be secured from the inside so, to get to the beach, we must exit through the front door, cross the parking lot, go around the corner, down the center corridor, up the steps, cross the pool, and walk back down the steps to the beach.

Less than 8 feet from our condo lives a friendly, local island family with a shipwrecked row boat, pit bull and a collection of free roaming roosters. The pit bull is tied to a "coop" and barks constantly.  He's got a lot to say, my best guess is that he wants me to know that "life is good"  "life is good on the beach"  "I like the beach" and "you look great in your bathing suit."

When we first arrived the beach was littered with debris that I'm told washed up from Cuba.

Litter drives me insane.  Thanks to the roosters, I woke at 6:00 am this morning and hit the beach with a a hand full of garbage bag.  Half way through my second bag, an islander told me I was doing his job.  Apparently, he doesn't work on Sundays and his workday starts at 11:00 am.  He was worried he'd been fired.  I assured him I was a guest but he's still not convinced. 

We attempted to swim in the water, which is a warm, turquoise blue but covered in turtle grass and coral.  We were advised not to step on the coral and to stay out of the grass (or was it the other way around).  The current is strong but playful.  So much so that I walked out not knowing my left boob was fully exposed. 

Last night, in an effort to score more wine, husband and I "accidentally" opened a door off the main lobby that I naturally assumed would be locked and discovered a private wine cellar.  It was the most exciting thing either of us had ever seen.

We both let out a long gasp, followed by a giggle and then, fearful we had stumbled upon Pandora's box, I quickly closed the door.  ME...the thirsty clepto, closed the door!!!

All I can tell you is it felt like a trap or some sort of test.  Turned out I was right, a few moments later the "keepers" arrived.  I don't remember much after that, other than the captain, his two buddy's and his wife, all French Canadians, agreed to grant us immunity if we agreed to take home a stray puppy they had found, and named Van Gogh.

He's adorable, in a puppy sort of way.

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy

photo's courtesy of Google Image