Isle of Mon
Would it be one of the family tropical vacations if nothing went wrong?
Mindful of what happened last year, I started packing for our Jamaica trip early and never let my passport out of my sight for even a second. I was laden with stuff to take and give to my parents: bills, new cards, account statements, and the two Xmas present paintings I made for them over the last week. I left at 4am just in case I needed to return for anything partway through my trip in for a 7:30am flight. Even with the trip taking longer than it usually does in the darkness, and with less than an hour's layover in Atlanta, things went okay. I met Phil and Jill and the kids and we made it to the Montego Bay airport uneventfully. The customs agent had even heard of Ole Miss, and laughed at my comment that the library was filled with cobwebs and freshmen.
It was an hour's bus ride out following the contour of the island, but we arrived at the resort with plenty of daylight left. It's not a Dreams-brand hotel this time but rather a "Riu," which apparently means much the same experience save with a pink stucco exterior and Disneyland-esque towers. We unloaded our stuff, met Mom and Dad and Scott and Sandrine in the lobby. And that's where the usual wrinkle emerged: the hotel claimed they had no record whatsoever of our reservations. Any of them, except for Scott and Sandrine.
Mom has already told the story twice to each member of the party, and it grows bolder with each retelling, with the villainous concierge gradually assuming the malice and power of Sauron. When asked what they should do about the reservation snafu, the concierge said they should pay the hotel's asking price in cash--with the trip already paid for, not a good option by any stretch of the imagination, but perhaps a fat commission for him. When Mom blanched, the concierge accused her of being rude, which is of course like pouring gasoline on a wildfire. After some time, though, Jill was able to put things through. As Phil pointed out, she negotiates with assholes for a living and has the Devil's home phone number. So we were able to make it to our rooms with only a slight delay.
And what of Jamaica, then? Honestly, I'm surprised how much it reminds me of the Dominican Republic: same architectural style, same preference for bold colors, same people hanging out on street corners. Of course the people themselves look rather different, and all the signs are in English, and the cars are on the wrong side of the road. But it seems there is either a distinct aesthetic for poor tropical Caribbean island nations or a serious case of convergent evolution.
The beach by the hotel is quite the stunner; the water is bathtub-warm and the sand is nice and smooth, more of the Punta Cana or gold-standard Phu Quoc consistency rather than the rocky and raked Riviera Maya. We took some time to swim just as the sun set--on the west side of the island we have a great view of the waning sun--and it was truly gorgeous. I've never been in the water at nightfall; now I don't want to miss another one.
Mindful of what happened last year, I started packing for our Jamaica trip early and never let my passport out of my sight for even a second. I was laden with stuff to take and give to my parents: bills, new cards, account statements, and the two Xmas present paintings I made for them over the last week. I left at 4am just in case I needed to return for anything partway through my trip in for a 7:30am flight. Even with the trip taking longer than it usually does in the darkness, and with less than an hour's layover in Atlanta, things went okay. I met Phil and Jill and the kids and we made it to the Montego Bay airport uneventfully. The customs agent had even heard of Ole Miss, and laughed at my comment that the library was filled with cobwebs and freshmen.
It was an hour's bus ride out following the contour of the island, but we arrived at the resort with plenty of daylight left. It's not a Dreams-brand hotel this time but rather a "Riu," which apparently means much the same experience save with a pink stucco exterior and Disneyland-esque towers. We unloaded our stuff, met Mom and Dad and Scott and Sandrine in the lobby. And that's where the usual wrinkle emerged: the hotel claimed they had no record whatsoever of our reservations. Any of them, except for Scott and Sandrine.
Mom has already told the story twice to each member of the party, and it grows bolder with each retelling, with the villainous concierge gradually assuming the malice and power of Sauron. When asked what they should do about the reservation snafu, the concierge said they should pay the hotel's asking price in cash--with the trip already paid for, not a good option by any stretch of the imagination, but perhaps a fat commission for him. When Mom blanched, the concierge accused her of being rude, which is of course like pouring gasoline on a wildfire. After some time, though, Jill was able to put things through. As Phil pointed out, she negotiates with assholes for a living and has the Devil's home phone number. So we were able to make it to our rooms with only a slight delay.
And what of Jamaica, then? Honestly, I'm surprised how much it reminds me of the Dominican Republic: same architectural style, same preference for bold colors, same people hanging out on street corners. Of course the people themselves look rather different, and all the signs are in English, and the cars are on the wrong side of the road. But it seems there is either a distinct aesthetic for poor tropical Caribbean island nations or a serious case of convergent evolution.
The beach by the hotel is quite the stunner; the water is bathtub-warm and the sand is nice and smooth, more of the Punta Cana or gold-standard Phu Quoc consistency rather than the rocky and raked Riviera Maya. We took some time to swim just as the sun set--on the west side of the island we have a great view of the waning sun--and it was truly gorgeous. I've never been in the water at nightfall; now I don't want to miss another one.