Jules Nolan

Long about laundry load number sixteen of the pre-trip piper-paying, I wonder. “Is this going to be worth it?” How much fun will this trip have to be to justify the weeks of sock matching and grocery hauling, necessary to leave 3 children for 8 nights. “A lot” I think. “One hell of a holy lot”.

But the moment I round the corner of the MN-5 exit and the Lindberg terminal bursts into view, I am in love. Yes, the obnoxious long lines, the crabby, clueless travelers, the slow, confused, elderly man in front of me in the security line, who stinks of mothballs, garlic and Efferdent, and has to be prompted to remove every single personal item, “And your belt please sir…and your jacket please sir…and your hat please sir…and your phone please sir…and your shoes please sir…” I love them all. Ditto the self-important business man talking into the collar of his expensive shirt, sporting a star trek, blue tooth, headset, and shoving me with his $1400 alligator briefcase as he cuts ahead of me…okay, maybe him I don’t love.

But I do adore the delicious anticipation as the seatbelt glides across my lap and I hear that satisfying click. And I always, oddly, feel a trifle gratified if I need to cinch it in just a tad – that means I am thinner than the last occupant. I poke the earbuds in my ears and Springsteen wails “Baby We Were Born to Run”.

“Yes Bruce. Yes we were.”

The plane starts its jerky rumblings down the runway. It relaxes me so much that I often fall asleep just then. While nervous flyers are white-knuckling their armrests and jamming their heels into the floor all around me, I am off in dreamland, head lolling, probably drooling, pleased with my good fortune. But this time, awake, I turn and catch my reflection in the window, and I am changed. I am a woman on a trip. That’s what travel does for me.

And this trip was to be better than most. My husband and I were off on a second honeymoon of sorts (though I contend that 3 nights of watching my husband fish in northern Wisconsin does not qualify as a first honeymoon). We were off to St. Lucia – an island deep in the Caribbean West Indies. This island is said to be for lovers – very popular with the honeymoon set. I had heard it offered lots of adventure, diving, sailing, jungle treks and great food. They were right on all accounts.

St. Lucia has a romantic, if violent history. It is called “The Helen of the Caribbean” for its great beauty and desirability. In fact, it is so beautiful that the powerful rulers of France and England each saw fit to allow their soldiers to die in battle over her, not once but seven times. But it was a battle of a different sort in which I found myself embroiled. It was a battle of intuition and trust.

On a dive boat we met Stuart, a Canadian man traveling alone. He seemed a rather nice guy – and the fact that he said “a boot” when he meant “about” made me giggle. Perfect traveling companion. He was also interested in finding a private charter sail around the island.

“But” I asked “Aren’t there catamarans that do group sails much cheaper?”

“Oh sure” he answered. “They have those eh? - 150 sweaty drunks, jammed elbow to knee on top of each other trying to get to the buffet first. And speakers the size of refrigerators that blast rap music and scare the dolphins halfway to Cuba. Here comes one now. Look at that tall bloke peeing off the starboard. Isn’t that charming? And what’s it called? The S.S. Hepatitis?”

But that meant we had to find someone who would do a private charter. To travel like this you need to be either astoundingly rich, or willing to trust people you don’t know. I am not rich and so I must trust. “See that fellow over there with the blue toque? (Toque=stocking cap in Canadian) That’s Robert. He’s supposed to be the one to hook us up”. I saw that he was referring to a very shaggy looking island boy, whose dreads were gathered up in a blue stocking cap. “Oh dear” said mid-western sensibilities.

Robert met us on the beach under a palm tree. “You like-a my office mon?” He smiled gesturing toward the sand. “Friends are callin’ me Doctor Feel-Good.” Now either he was a licensed Doctor of mind-body holistic medicine, practicing on the beach for the connection it offers to the earth, or he was a drug dealer. Everyone knew Robert, greeted him by name, and he assured us that he would be able to hook us up with anything we wanted.

“Well Robert, we want a sailboat, a nice one. And a captain, also nice, to sail around the island tomorrow. What would that cost?” Stuart asked.

“You are my friends, and for you - good deal” Robert replied. We agreed on a price and made plans to meet the next morning.

That night I awoke with worrying dreams. What did I really know about this guy? Sure he had water-taxied Stuart around for a few nights – had looked after him at the local festival, but what was I doing? Was I being naïve, irresponsible? Or was this feeling of uncertainty a racist response to a person who looked different than me? In the creaky, rusty hours of the night, my paranoid fantasies had me believing horrible things about this young man, and alternately about myself.

The next day was cloudy and rainy – an ominous sign if you believe in such things. Robert and his pal Frederic arrived right on time to pick us up in the water taxi. Robert assured us that the weather at the south end of the island would be better. I looked at him with uncertainty on my face as he held out his hand to help me into the boat. “Do you trust me?” He asked. And at that moment, for better or worse, I did.

This story ends well, with a beautiful day of sailing, another glimpse of the S.S. Hepatitis as it passed to our port side, with too much noise and too many people, confirming the wisdom of our decision .But it also ends with a lesson in trust. A lesson for both Dr. Feel Good and me.

We had just started our sail – beautiful weather, beautiful boat, when I realized that my formerly predictable feminine cycle was betraying me, and arriving a full two weeks early. I had nothing in the way of feminine products. NOTHING. There was nothing on the boat, and we had sailed out of the only populated area for miles We were hours from anything but a tiny village with no stores. But I could see women there on the beach and I know where there were women there are feminine products.

I had my husband ask the captain to find a mooring here, and ferry us into the beach for a little while. The captain said that while we could moor here there was no reason to go to the beach. “There is nothing here to do. No snorkeling, no restaurant, no stores. I have a much better place up ahead in one or two hours.”

But my husband insisted. Suspiciously the captain moored the boat and ferried us in the dingy. We walked the beach for awhile trying not to look so conspicuous. I went from one group of women to another asking for a “favor”. Finally a very bohemian-looking young woman nodded. She had the “stuff” I needed, and we ducked behind a palm tree to make the exchange. She didn’t want to take money, but I insisted knowing that supplies like these, in places like this are neither inexpensive nor easy to come by. She had saved me!

My husband told the captain that we were ready to go back to the boat. I noticed a distinct chill coming from both Robert and the Captain. I wondered if they were embarrassed to have to deal so blatantly with a woman’s issue and I began to get indignant. I was ready to show these men a little American Feminism. I asked, “Is there some problem?”

“Yes” Robert said. “That stuff is not legal here on the island and is not legal on the boat. The captain is afraid he will have big trouble from this and be fired from his job.”

“What is not legal?” I asked incredulous.

“What you bought from that girl” Robert said.

“You mean these?” I replied and opened my hand to reveal half a dozen tampons.

Robert’s eyes grew wide. He covered his face with both hands and doubled over with laughter and embarrassment “No,” he said “No, not that.”

In the end both Robert and I learned a little something about trust, about making assumptions, and about what all women really want at one time or another. Who knows, maybe Dr. Feel-Good carries them himself now.

Another Christmas season is here and I can’t help but feel that I should be somewhere else. What is it about the holidays that set me to fantasizing about an island? This year my hubby tried to talk his sister into moving the family Christmas to an island. Her reply was a sharp-tongued “I hate islands”

“Come again?” I replied. “You hate islands? Really. And how do you feel about peninsulas? Might you detest a sound? Abhor a Strait? Loathe a bight? Well that’s it! It’ll have to be an isthmus – an isthmus for Christmas!”
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She was not amused – but mostly because I don’t know what an isthmus actually is, and she didn’t think that I should be using words of which I don’t know the meaning. I assured her that would eliminate most of my vocabulary and that so long as it’s funny, I don’t really have to understand a word I say, thank you very kindly.

All of this got me thinking about islands in general and Australia in particular, because it is both an island and continent. So maybe she wouldn’t be able to hate Australia. And, if she did, Australia could hate her right back, but everyone would be so polite about it she would never even notice.

You see, Australians are seriously polite people. I spent a month traveling around with my family, and in all of my conversations with Aussies, I was never able to get anyone to assert that they hated anything. Really. Not even Americans.

My perception was that Australians were a loud and boastful people who couldn’t wait to voice their opinion about any topic. In fact, I was a little afraid that I would spend much of the month defending Americans and discussing our country’s foreign policy. I envisioned café conversations where I would have to explain that, not being a close personal friend of our president, I don’t have much in the way of influence over him, other than to cast my vote every 4 years, which they seem to ignore anyway.

But I found the Aussies to be quite the opposite of that crass, rough stereo-type. They were witty and refined. In fact, I never heard a naughty word – not even in a bar! Granted their naughty words are different from ours, but I even found that to be rather charming. Bugger? Bloody? Please. I’ll take those any day over most pop music lyrics in the US. Don’t get me wrong, they were not particularly demure, but they gave their opinions in an amiable, if somewhat confusing way.

“Yanks? Quite lovely aren’t they?”
“Yes, rather a bright bunch really ”
“Indeed! Friendly, charming.”
“They’ll be the end of us all then – won’t they?”

What? This was BRILLIANT! They took you off-guard with the complimentary dialogue, got you nodding along in pleasant agreement, and then WHAM! That last line – what they really thought – and you smiling, nodding like a complete dolt. I loved it!


Then I got to thinking. What if they were just doing this for me? What if this was some careful way they had of handling Americans – or any foreigners for that matter. So, I began to listen more closely. I overheard lunch conversations at nearby tables.

“Well wasn’t that a gorgeous steak?”
“Yes, just brilliant”
“Really very well done and nicely trimmed”
“Yes enjoyably prepared wasn’t it?”
“Bit rancid really.”

I eavesdropped on dinner conversations.

“Did you notice the waitress?
“Yes just lovely wasn’t she?”
“Indeed! So thoughtful and attentive...”
“Quite brilliant, a spot-on charmer...”
“Dressed a bit of a tramp”

And I listened in on friendly neighborhood chats.

“The new neighborhood is quite charming isn’t it?”
“Too right – it’s a beaut.”
“Splendidly close to the harbor.”
“Yes, quite convenient.”
“Bit chockers with thugs and rapists really”

And WHAM! Just like that. I fell in love. I fell in love with Australians and their country, their charming phrases and koalas and platypus’. I fell in love with this island continent and I was determined that miss “I hate islands” sister-in-law would love it as well.

Truly though, I’m being too hard on her. She is a very bright woman…well accomplished… speaks 3 languages…lives quite an exciting life in Switzerland.

Bit of a loon really.