BERMUDA SHORTS

How Did I Get here?
Last month, I found myself on the beautiful and touristy island of Bermuda, with my still willing twelve year old child. How I landed on what was for me, an obvious unlikely vacation choice, can only be explained in the context of a year filled with stressful events, too busy a work schedule and a major move into a new home still covered in plaster dust and missing a working kitchen. One week before my scheduled vacation--yes, seriously, this is true-- I found myself without destination.  I was seduced by the hard to believe fares to Bermuda. Unfortunately, my search was less than thorough, or I would have realized that the cost of a Bermudian vacation actually starts, after landing. The cost of living, in Bermuda easily doubles that of NYC, reason why, I quickly realized, there are no hippies on this island. There are no hikers, no backpackers, no alternative travelers, at all. Basically, I was a tribe of one--well, two. This is a tiny but confident first world country. There is no visible poverty here, no haggling over services. What you see, is what you get, and this time around, that was OK with me. We arrive with our usual carry-ons--one for clothing, one for books to last us two weeks. That was, afterall the unusual goal of this year's vacation-- not exploration, but rest.

Room At The Inn
Inspite of my relentless failed quests for available, let alone, affordable beachside resorts, my good travel karma won out in the end. A few days before our flight, I was able to secure a lovely room in an independently run B&B in the wonderfully quiet town of St. George's. St. George's was settled by the British in the 1600's, remaining most memorable predominantly for its timelessly gorgeous architecture, which has secured the town its place on the list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites. The cotton candy colored cottages and narrow, winding streets, make St. George's a perfect town for those who prefer walking to driving, or riding on pink & blue buses, to taking cabs. Our B&B turns out to be a beautiful 360 year old cottage tucked away on an almost forgotten backstreet, a two minute walk from the center of town. There are two guest rooms, but except for the  occasional one night stay, we are the only guests. We have the whole place to ourselves. A simple continental style breakfast, snacks, water and an occasional glass of wine and ice cream cone, are provided. There are two live 'free range' guinea pigs roaming in the backyard. They feast on the garden greens and mow the grass in neatly even patches. 

Our hostess is a spunky middle aged Canadian living alone with her precocious nine year old daughter. She's running this B&B in an effort to earn her livelihood and maintain this oversized cottage after the passing of her late Bermudian husband, who suddenly died less than a year ago at age 50 from a rare form of cancer.  In the face of disaster, some just grow stronger. Shelley and Avery are the kind who ask if there's anything that they can do for you, and actually mean it. They accomodate our usual pursuit to stay off the beaten path, by driving us to their favorite secret beach. It turns out to be the one and only beach we will return to more than once. It consists of a lone cove, followed by long stretches of private paradise, housed in national park lands.  It is perfection. These are people I'd be friends with, if they were my neighbors. 

Made In Bermuda
The island of Bermuda is actually a number of tiny islands strung together by long, narrow bridges. The entire length of this small island archipelago runs just under 20 miles. This makes the exploration of the entire island, in two weeks' time, an easy task, even while spending the bulk of our days swimming and playing in the turquoise waters & (sometimes pink) sandy beaches. It is a fallacy that Bermuda beaches are pink. I remember my disappointment at discovering this fact. It wasn't until we'd been there a few days, that someone pointed out that we must go South to find the famed pink sands. So, South we head. We visit a different beach everyday. We collect samples of the sands, to bring home. It beats buying small vials of the pinkstuff at the souvernir shops for $2.  I find the concept of paying for sand, even more absurd than that of paying for water, absurdity to which I have grown accustomed. My 12 year old daughter is disappointed that this place is "something like Pennsylvania"--She means, I think,  that it does not feel indigenous or adventurous. It is indeed a very clean and tidy place, a stretch from that of our usual vacations. She does agree that the beaches are heavenly. Bermuda is, in the end, all about the beaches. We take a ferry to the city. The city is Hamilton, where cruise ships the size of twin football fields dock each day. The streets are full of shops. There is nothing I need or want from these places. The many forts of Bermuda bore me, their underground galleries are frightening, their cannons, stale and dead, anger me. I do not like forts or instruments of war. They are skeletal reminders of death and destruction. I don't understand what people find of interest in these places. 

I am omitting any discussion concerning the british legacy in Bermuda, as it concerns slavery, as racial matters tend to be much too complicated to contain in a venue this informal. The Spanish moss tree in the garden is fabulous, though. It was worth the trip here just to see it. We have 30 minutes before catching our ferry back, and it's starting to rain. We duck into The Irish Linen Shop. I swear I've seen those same tea towels in Chinatown for a quarter of the price. I spot a rack of blouses on sale, which upon closer inspection, indeed bear the label "Made in Shanghai". They are coyly advertised as "Hand Embroidered".  Of course, they are.  The one thing that is definitely a Bermudian original, is the Bermuda shorts. They are sported by all, including postal workers, police, waitstaff, businessmen, and are always worn in accompaniment of black knee highs and black dress shoes. 

A mother, a daughter, and twelve beaches

After our days of swimming, our evenings are simple ones. We have our evening meal, return to our cottage, and read. I read The Old Man And The Sea, one of my late father's favorite novellas-- in addition to its inherent literary value, I'm sure that one of its most alluring features, for my dad, was the fact that Hemingway wrote it while he was living in Cuba and that it is the story of a Cuban fisherman no doubt much like those who filled my father's childhood memories. The story is about struggle for survival, compassion and perseverance. The old man's character is so much like my father's was. Reading it made me feel that he was close by-- on the island, with us. I read it for him, for both of us.  I also read Wicked--The Life and Times of The Wicked Witch of the West. This I do at the suggestion and insistence of my 12 year old daughter, who introduced her recommendation with the phrase "it's SO you".  This is the third time we've gone on a mom/daughter vacation alone together, and books have always been one of our most natural sources of  bonding.  I have yet to figure out which part she meant, but I did enjoy the book. Inquiries into the nature of good and evil are always good, regardless of whether or not I agree with their final verdict. The meat is in the questioning. Inspite of the annoyance it sometimes causes the parent in me, I feel truly grateful that this budding young woman understands the value of questioning. I think that it is a good recipe for the forming of character, as well as for fostering sound judgement in adolescence--since personal responsibility must directly follow the road of the choices made. Writing is another passion we share. It is a vehicle for questioning, thinking, figuring life out, exploring the intricate ways in which everything is built of multiple layers-- nothing is obvious, or simply deciphered, but for lack of questioning.  The means by which we reach the end, is always, in the end, more important than the end itself.  So, on our little Bermudian adventure, we also write together. I write the better part of this entry with purple ink on real live white sheets of paper--the visceral quality of script flowing from my felt tip pen feels at the edge of becoming something else,  ephemeral and soft, yet powerfully physical and concrete-- like the blooming of childhood into womanhood.  I don't recall the last time I wrote this way.  This part I do just for me.

Oh, and about the shorts...well, they just look, utterly ridiculous.