by Deborah Thompson
Prologue This trip was taken when I was 25 years old, and had not travelled much at that time. I escorted my senior-citizen mother, an elderly aunt, and a very hard to get along with teenage niece to Bermuda, where my sister had friends who owned a 300-year-old plantation home, which sat empty most of the year. We had gone for a few weeks the previous year, and they had offered it to us again for a month in 1989. We only had to pay the electricity costs during our stay. What a deal! My sister and her husband had gone a few weeks earlier, and were going to overlap our stay by a week or so. Then I would be there alone with "the ladies" and the "terrible teen."
Chapter One: The Departure & Arrival In Paradise
The DepartureOh! The joys of getting "things" ready for a vacation. Minuscule, tiny details suddenly loom larger than life when you realize you are leaving on a plane at 7:00 this morning and won't be returning for 25 days. These minuscule details keep me in a complete state of panic until approximately 2:30 a.m. The last minute additions and deletions to my suitcase (Do I really need eight different bathing suits? Thirty pair of underwear?) take up a ridiculous amount of time. I careen crazily about the house, sticking little Post-it notes everywhere for the house/dog sitter while we are away. There are notes for the alarm system, notes for the furnace, notes for when to put out the garbage, and notes on what pills to give which of my aging dogs and what they are for ...
I check and re-check ... and re-check the whereabouts of airline tickets, travellers cheques, and everybody's birth certificates. Sudden nausea and a feeling of faintness sweep over me as I stop to think that my Mom, my elderly Aunt Dot (a lady very unsteady on her feet and, for all intents and purposes, blind), and a rather vapid teenager are travelling with me, under the impression that I am responsible and know what I am doing at an airport. Hah! They may be in for a surprise or two. The clock says 3:00 a.m. Time for bed.
The shrilling of the alarm, seemingly one minute later, can only be described as absurd. I mutter vague obscenities as I force one red, very prickly eye open and focus on the clock, which glares insistently with bright green eyes, telling me it is 4:30 a.m. The needles behind my eyeballs still pick annoyingly, even after I have thrown the clock in the general direction of the laundry basket and splashed my face several times as I try to figure out if I ever really got into bed at all, or perhaps just blacked out temporarily as I headed in that direction and am suffering nightmares from multiple contusions to my cerebellum and really am in a coma of some sort.
Other sounds of life cause me to realize that it really is 4:30 a.m. on March 8, 1989, and this cozy little group is indeed heading for my beloved Bermuda within the hour. My brother, Gary, will pick us up at 5:15. Spurred into action by images of blue-green ocean waters and sunshine, my reluctant body parts slowly squeak into life, albeit somewhat disjointedly.
Dear brother Gary (Nathalie's dad) drops us at the airport and settles us on a bench in front of the luggage check. Nathalie (the terrible teen) is wonderfully brave, since this will be her first trip away from home. After kisses and hugs, Gary leaves, taking our heavy coats. I feel naked. I feel terrified. Three pairs of eyeballs stare at me from behind mounds of luggage. "Well?" they seem to say, though no one speaks.
Somehow I get all the luggage checked and head us in the right direction. Since Nathalie is taking almost a month off from school, she has been told she must keep up her schoolwork while she is away. Hence my imitation of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I try to shoulder about 400 textbooks through the airline terminal.
I do, however, make one very large error. I mistakenedly assume we don't need a wheelchair for elderly Aunt Dot at Ottawa airport. Such a small airport ... not too far to walk. Big Mistake. Yes, we do make it to the plane, however it is a heart-stopping pilgrimage fraught with terrifying possibilities awaiting as we shuffle a tottering Aunt Dot through the suddenly hostile air terminal. The gleaming, sharp-edged escalator looms in the distance. Who ever would have thought that a simple escalator could become such a nightmarish spectre when dealing with a rather unsteady 75-year-old woman? Especially when you realize one third of the way up, as she teeters precariously on the edge of the steel jaws, that she will take out one third of the other passengers standing behind us on the escalator if she should happen to topple. Nervously, we huddle around her, for all the world looking like three feverish body guards protecting some state official. What if, I gulp hysterically, she doesn't get her foot up at that crucial last step? Haven't I heard somewhere about people being swallowed by these metal monsters? She steps (or do we lift her?) at the right moment, and I breathe a shaky sigh of relief. Now we only have security clearance left and actually getting on the plane to worry about. Now, if only Aunt Dot's cane does not contain anything remotely sword-like, and Nathalie does not ask, "Auntie Deb, what have you got in this suitcase? A bomb?" we will be free and clear.
I am the only one who beeps. A snarling, rabid-looking security officer leers contemptuously at me and orders me to stand, arms out, feet apart. I feel like an actress in a low-budget, B-grade movie, and hope desperately my Lady Speed Stick is working. My gleaming belt buckle is deemed the culprit and she eyeballs it like it's about the jump off my waist and bite her face off. Little does she know, I am severely tempted to do that myself. One last glare and I am a free woman.
We wait impatiently on little popsicle-orange and schoolbus-yellow chairs. Personally, I prefer to call them torture devices. Finally, boarding is called for our flight, and pre-boarding assistance is offered. No fool am I, this time! Dot is in the wheelchair faster than you can sneeze. We are boarded quickly, where we wait, smug and snug in our seats.
The Terrible Teen has never flown before. She sits beside me and asks me to hold her arm. She is so nervous. As I try and lodge about 30 of her 400 textbooks, that found their way into my carry-on, under the seat in front of me, she asks over and over how safe we are. What are our chances? Do I think we'll make it? How long will it be? Shouldn't we chew gum? When shouldn't we chew gum? When should we swallow so our ears will pop? What are the chances of survival if we crash in the ocean? Where are the life vests? ... ? Perspiration beads my brow. Wait a minute here! I'm supposed to be in control. I'm supposed to be reassuring and adult-like! Firmly, I take control. I carefully and deliberately answer every one of her questions. Over and over ... Toronto is simply a blur as we are met by a stern-faced woman airline official (Is there any other kind?) who piles us on a trolley wagon and drives like a madwoman from Hell, barely missing toddling children, and careening wildly around pillars, braking ferociously now and again as certain individuals - especially old ladies - do not leap out of her path. After what seems like hours, we finally arrive at our gate, where we are allowed off the demon chariot. Our subsequent flight to Bermuda is very tame in comparison.
Arrival In Paradise Arrival in Bermuda is uneventful, though clouds are extremely thick around the island today and I am disappointed in the view - or should I say lack of view - from the airliner window. On a clear day, Bermuda is spectacular enough from the air to bring tears to your eyes, appearing like magic from the depths of the deep blue sea; the sparkling turquoise and aqua waters outlining the shimmering white sand beaches of the isle, as though a gentle giant had accidentally dropped a strand of precious gems.
Aunt Dot is helped off the airliner and into a wheelchair. After collecting all our luggage, which amounts to quite a large pile, when taking into account that you have four women here who are away from home for a month, and include Nathalie's 400 hardcover textbooks (all of which she assures me she "has to have"), we stand at the very end of a very long line waiting to go through Bermuda customs. Two very large Bermudan security guards approach us.
"YOU!" he barks at Dot and Mom. "WHERE'S YOUR LUGGAGE!" His voice is as large as he is.
"Omigod!" I scream inwardly. "He thinks they're like the Snoop Sisters gone bad - trying to smuggle dope into the country under the guise of a "sweet little old lady" routine!"
Feebly, I beckon to him, indicating the mountain of suitcases piled at our feet.
"YOU ALL TOGETHER?" he roars. We all nod, then follow his waggling finger as he leads us away. "This is it," I think, mentally envisioning being indelicately probed by people wearing thin plastic gloves. Imagine my immense surprise and relief to be led instead to the outer lobby - without a single question or search of our luggage!
Brother-in-law Gary O., who has stayed in Bermuda long enough and often enough to procure a driver's license, is waiting patiently for us in their friend's car - although we are an hour late. Tourists are not allowed to rent cars in Bermuda. You can rent scooters to get around, though I have heard this can be quite dangerous for tourists who are used to driving on the right hand side of the road. Bermuda uses traffic circles quite liberally also, which can be very confusing to those of us who haven't often been exposed to them. Your only other option is to hire a cab for the day or take the public transportation, which is wonderful. Which is dealt with later in the journal!
To this day, I'll never know just how we fit everything into the tiny car that Gary has at his disposal. Are we crammed or what! Piled to the roof we are, with everyone having a large piece of luggage lodged firmly on their laps, the doors fairly bulging like something from a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
Everything in Bermuda is beautiful. Even more beautiful than I remember from last year. The gorgeous blue-greens of the water, first really striking you as you cross the causeway from the airport.
Bermuda is, in reality, a series of small islands that have been connected via bridges to form one island in the shape of a hook. Each community on the island is called a "Parish." The airport is at the east end of the "hook," in St. David's Parish. The quaint little town of St. George's is in close proximity, and well worth exploring, but we would only be able to go there later in the week. For now, our driver takes us westward, over "The Causeway" (in the distant past known as "Long Bird Bridge"), and towards the Parish where we will be settling - Warwick Parish - one of the Central Parishes in the "middle" of the hook.
I sit with Gary in the front, almost suffering heart failure every time we come to a curve or corner and there are cars coming at us on the "wrong" side of the road. I marvel at Gary's driving skill as he manoeuvres the little bulging "belly" of our car up and down the twisting roads of Bermuda's South Shore.
Vibrant green foliage, loaded with crimsons, magentas, lavenders, and tangerines, sway lazily in the balmy breeze, providing tantalizing glimpses of the azure ocean. Bermudan houses are a veritable feast for the eyes. The lemons, lilacs, salmons, olives, peaches, and plums of the houses form a patchwork quilt of colour nestled into the hills, yet never is there a clashing or jarring of the sensibilities. All is harmonious, serene, and peaceful. Every house in Bermuda has a name, and we notice some of them as we pass: "Wyldewood" ... "Poinciana" ... "Moongate" ... "Whale View" ... The house we will be staying in is called "Westmount." An elegant name for the lovely, old plantation home.
I begin noticing familiar landmarks from last year, and feel my excitement rise. We make a sharp turn off of Spice Hill Road onto Westmount Lane, then an immediate right up the lane way to the house. A few toots of the horn brings my sister running to greet us, but she pauses first to shake her head and grin at the absurdly bulging little red car, which must look like a pregnant red smartie about to give birth to five idiotically grinning tourists.
Chapter Two: We Settle In And Relax
Settling In
My sister, Gloria, looks wonderful, tanned and rested. I wonder if I will ever feel that way again. I feel totally physically and emotionally drained of every iota of energy that ever circulated through my veins. We are all happy to be together though, and I weakly summon enough energy-residue to stumblingly haul our suitcases inside and put them in our respective rooms.
Westmount is a stunning old plantation home. All one one level, it sprawls elegantly over the top of a "mountain"; a very high "hill" in Bermuda! In its day it must have been spectacular, but over the years, with the original owner being in Canada, the house has not been kept up very well. The owner (friend of my sister and her husband), is an elderly man in his 80's who doesn't bother to return to Bermuda at all anymore. He and his first wife lived there up until the 1960's or so, I believe, when she died. She was an artist, and the house is full of her paintings, which are very good. She specialized in portraits of the native island people, and was a very talented lady. After she died, I understand he met his second wife and moved to Canada. (Go figure.)
Everything is clean, thanks to a "maintenance man" who visits every few days to keep the property in shape. But it needs some love, and could use a fresh coat of paint. As everyone who has been to the tropics and stayed in a room that is not air-conditioned will know, the humidity and dampness seep into everything, making the furniture swell so that doors don't shut properly and drawers get stuck, and small patches of wallpaper start to peel. My sister and I dream incessantly while we are at Westmount about how we could fix it up.
As you approach Westmount, its appearance is lovely and cool - all painted an off-white with dark green trim. A huge verandah sweeps the entire front of the house, complete with matching trellises for the morning glories to climb, and charming louvred shutters framing the many windows. Upon entering through the traditional stained glassed, mullioned entranceway, there is an immense foyer for greeting guests. Apparently the owners were quite the socialites, and hosted many a grand soiree in their time! To the immediate left is a large living room, complete with a TV with an arial that gets about three channels if you're lucky. (P.S. Who cares?) To the right is an immense - and I mean immense - dining room. You could easily sit 20 people at the huge mahogany dining table and still not crowd the room. To the right of this room is an "in-law" suite, complete with a lovely bathroom, a smaller bedroom (like a nursery, which is presently full of the artist's unfinished sketches), and a large round bedroom surrounded with windows with shutters that open out to the singing of birds and the sparkling sun.
Back at the entranceway, if you go straight, you will find an extensive library room, full of very old books. They smell wonderful, and make my fingers itch to explore every one of them. To the left of the library is the den/bedroom, and to the left of that again is another bedroom, which also opens back into the living room.
Back in the library. (Stay with me, everyone.) To the right is another large, large bedroom - a haunted bedroom, by the way. You have it on my authority. Back in the library yet again, you descend two steps into a huge, gargantuan kitchen with a fireplace that fills the entire wall. A fireplace large enough to walk straight into and look up. A fireplace with large pots hanging on hooks for boiling water or soup (or sharks!). A real fireplace!! To the right of the kitchen is another kitchen - the real working kitchen, with all the amenities - and more. Which will also be explained. Then at the back is a large bathroom. Whew. Now that's a house!
Back to the tale at hand.
Aunt Dot (and lucky Mom) take the haunted bedroom off the library, where I stayed last year. It is a very large, rather dark room with lots of huge paintings of old relatives on the walls, who seem to peer at you through their beady eyes no matter where you walk about the room. That's why I am not staying in this room this year. It happens to have two twin beds all made up for Dot and Mom. Mom has to stay with Dot because she is prone to forget who and where she is, and takes to wandering at night, and with a grin on her face, will tell you she's just looking for the liquor cabinet! (She's kidding - I think.) Or alternatively, a lonely man with whom to have a "chat."
Nathalie (and lucky me) get to take the smaller bedroom off the living room. I have to stay with the terrible teen because she is utterly convinced that there are ghosts in this rather admittedly creepy though beautiful house. (Surely my ghost stories from the last trip did nothing to influence her?) The sheer size of the house is enough to give you a small case of the goose-flesh. She is not letting me out of her sight. So Nathalie and I take the smaller bedroom off the living room - THE ONE WITH THE ONE TWIN BED.
We all unpack and don our sun gear, our skin embarrassingly white, reminding me of the underbelly of an anemic fish.
Gloria, bless her soul, has a spicy Bloody Caesar waiting for me on the verandah. In an extreme state of exhaustion, I collapse on the nearest chaise. My sister laughs, knowing exactly how I feel. I close my eyes, basking in the warm rays of sunlight which are now permeating my flesh and bones, slowly thawing the meat which had been taken from the deep freeze only hours before. I begin to vegetate, the conversation of the others subsiding to a distant murmur ...
I hear the birds chirping and chattering to each other in their distinctively tropical melodies. I hear the breeze rustling the leaves of the banana trees, and very distantly, I can hear the incredible waves pounding the reefs rhythmically. This is truly heaven, I decide. Mom and Nathalie have taken lawnchairs out onto the front lawn and are baking like Pillsbury turnovers. All is serene.
Suddenly, a piercing scream splits my eardrum. I bolt upright in my chair, all heavenly images hastily receding. My Caesar somersaults in a cascade of crimson. Nathalie has vaulted about 25 feet in terror, her eyeballs bulging in panic as she stutters that something is CLIMBING on Grandma's chair! Mother, though she would never admit it, has hastily scampered (Note: The definition of "scamper" means to move swiftly on foot, so that both feet leave the ground during each stride. Not an easy feat for a senior.), to the relative safety of the verandah - yet tries to appear casually unconcerned. It apparently seems to Nathalie that an errant crocodile or alligator - or perhaps a gila monster? - has floated in from South America and has decided to tiptoe on up to Westmount to snare a tourist or two. (Neither Mother nor Nathalie have quite been convinced that monstrous creatures don't lurk in the subtropical vegetation of Bermuda.)
We investigate and find the offending creature. It is a belligerent piece of wicker that has come undone from the weave of the cane-chair and is flapping boldly in the breeze. Perhaps, from the corner of one's eye, it could, maybe, be mistaken for an alligator. No amount of comforting, however, can induce them back to their sunning spot.
After my heart slows to a normal pace, Mom and I reluctantly agree that the groceries must be tackled. Gary takes us down to White's Groceries, where, in an almost completely comatose state, I push the buggy around as Mother compares prices on everything from potatoes to toothpaste to make sure we get the best value for our American dollars. Right now, I don't care if I pay $12.00 for a loaf of bread; I want to go to sleep. Somehow, my senior citizen mother has a fountain of energy and youth inside her.
By the time we leave, the cashier, a young and pretty black girl, who probably has no conception of the words "cold" or "snow," knows the entire range of climactic temperatures in the Ontario region, and has been given a general overview of Canadian weather, and a synopsis of life in Canada, and how to go tobogganing. Mother is grinning gaily as we leave the store, and the cashier feebly waves an exhausted good-bye. "I love finding out about other people's customs and ways," she explains happily to me. I wearily allow my head to sag in acknowledgement.
My First Night Of Sleep? (The Great White And I) Sweet, sweet bedtime. I can't believe how tired I am or how early I'm going to bed, when there is so much to see and do here. The pillow is a feathery cloud beneath my weary head. The silken sheets caress my aching bones. Ahhhh. The drift into dreamland begins ...
COUGH. AHEM. COUGH. COUGH!! WHIFFLE. SNORT SNORT. HACK HACK HACK HACK ... WAIT A MINUTE! Sleepily propping one red-veined, puffy eyelid open with an equally fatigued finger, I eyeball the innocently sleeping child beside me. Her feathery lashes flutter prettily against her rose petal cheeks, her smattering of freckles just barely visible in the dim light. Slowly the cherub lips open. A sound somewhere between a grunt from a pig with laryngitis and a severely overused blender that is just about to kick the bucket emerges.
It begins ever so gently, then builds to a swelling crescendo. It's quite impressive actually, but not if the other person is trying to get their first moment of sleep in 48 hours - after packing, repacking, walking, carrying, talking, flying, driving, gesticulating, shopping ... and any other action you would care to add is probably applicable, short of sleeping.
I shake her gently. I shake her hard. The blender cuts off in mid-snort. Aah, that's better. Ohh, back to dreamland ...
Suddenly I am attacked by steel jaws closing around my shins. An elbow is flung carelessly in my general direction, with no regard to where it will land. It lands on my face. I am still being attacked by those steel jaws on my legs. It's Freddie from "A Nightmare On Elm Street" -- No Wait! It's JAWS! A Great White Shark has somehow made its way over the coral reefs and found its way into my bed!
I bolt upright in sheer terror, beads of sweat running down my temples. I am thrown against the wall as the Great White flounders again in the sheets, rolling restlessly, a dorsal fin jabbing my torso. Suddenly all is quiet again. The first attack is over for the moment. I pause to catch my breath and re-group my defenses. HACK HACK HACK!!! The Great White coughs. I give up.
I stumble awkwardly, sleepily, and not a little grumpily from my bed, clumsily bumping my way through unfamiliar furniture placements of the guest bedroom, den, library, and finally make it to the bathroom, where we have some cough medicine. (Thank God.) Armed with this and a large glass of orange juice, I return to confront the Great White. Amazing, this transformation from sleeping teenager to Sea Monster! Ripley himself would not believe it. Wisely, I take a sleeping pill. If I have to spend the night with a Great White, I want to sleep through the experience. As I begin to drift off, I debate whether to try curling up in the laundry tub. Too late; I'm gone ...
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