At our hotel in Puerto Rico, there were two big attractions: the ten huge iguanas that live on the grounds and the three hundred retired NFL players who were there for a convention.
Actually, the iguanas were the bigger attraction.
Actually, the iguanas scaring the crap out of the NFL players was the biggest attraction. You can't believe how fast a three hundred plus pound guy can move when startled by a twenty pound, five foot long reptile.
Wednesday afternoon, the pool was jammed, and pretty much every chair was taken. Until the first iguana showed up.
Tim and I spotted him sitting on top of one of the statues poolside. At first, he just sort of blended in and most people didn't realize he was even there.
Then, apparently he got hot and needed to take a quick dip in the pool to cool off. That is when people noticed him. He went in one side and everyone else at that end of the pool went out the other. It was kind of like a scene from Jaws: water churning, legs flying, arms flailing, rafts overturning. All that was missing was the theme music and the harpoon.
By the time he got out and was nonchalantly sitting in a planter happily munching on the flowers, the panic had subsided, testosterone once again reigned supreme and the post-game commentary had begun.
"Did you see the size of that thing?!" "I didn't know they got that big." "They don't bother me." (yeah, right, and that is why you jumped up on your chair) "They're plant-eaters, right?" (until they decide you look tasty) "Man, he was huge!" (yes, I believe we covered that) "He can't hurt you, can he?"
On Thursday, the second guy (even bigger) made an appearance. As a group of us stood on the sidewalk watching him watching us, a woman came barrelling through totally oblivious to the fact that these big, hulking guys were not huddling behind a garbage can to discuss the next play. I don't think I've ever seen anyone jump that high without a trampoline.
The best reaction we ever saw though was the guy in the pool. As his wife reclined on a raft in the near empty pool, he gazed lovingly into her eyes and murmured endearments as he gently propelled her around. Life was beautiful and true love was in the air...
Until the iguana swan between his legs from behind and bobbed up on the opposite side of the raft. Then it was every man for himself. He abandoned that raft like it was the Titanic and he had just gotten the last seat on the lifeboat. Had he been on land, I'm pretty sure he would have set a new record for rushing.
I'm also pretty sure he ended up in divorce court. All because of a cute little iguana who just wanted to frolic in the water.
Showing posts with label beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beach. Show all posts
Friday, June 6, 2008
Friday, August 31, 2007
Red Light, Green Light
Well, we made it through vacation hurricane free. The island was beautiful, the resort amazing, the beach pristine, the food delicious, and the room (suite actually, bigger than our first apartment) fabulous. When we could actually get into it, that is.
Days one, two and three were no problem. Day four was where our trouble started.
We rolled up from the beach late in the afternoon, put my key into the lock, and , uh oh, red light. Once again, except more slowly. Red light. More quickly. Red light. Tim tried his key. Red light. Slow. Fast. Jiggle handle. Kick door. Red light. Red light. Red light. Frayed nerve. Oh, and full bladder.
Luckily, the concierge happened by at that moment. Shaking his head (mentally at least, I'm sure) at the technologically challenged tourists, he tried both our keys and got...a red light. Chagrined, he offered to go to the office and reprogram our keys. Since the office was four flights down in an airless elevaator that moved with all the speed of a constipated trutle and one building away, we let him.
By the time he returned, Tim really had to use the bathroom and was bouncing around the hallway like a Dancing With The Stars reject. Fortunately, the new keys worked and disaster was averted. Oh well, these things happen. Everyday apparently.
The next morning after breakfast, I ran back to the room and, once again, I got the red light. With no concierge to rescue me, I made the long trek to the office where they reprogrammed my key (again) and had the nerve to actually be cheerful about it. Obviously, they liked to live on the edge.
Later that day, it was Tim's key that needed to be reprogrammed. We were starting to see red lights in our sleep!
The next day, they added to the degree of difficulty. The elevator was being used to transport bags of topsoil and palm trees to the rooftop garden, so now I had to walk up four flights of an outdoor stairwell in ninety-five degrees....twice.
Enough was enough. This time, I wanted a manager(or at least his head) and not some chipper concierge who didn't seem to understand why not being able to get into our room was a bad thing. After I recounted our saga in colorful detail that made those Bridezilla contestants look like Mary Poppins, he offered to give me new keys since reprogramming the old ones didn't seem to be working (ya think?????) .
Success at last! Green light!!! Our last two days, we had unlimited access to our room. It was enough to make us giddy with happiness(but really cut down on our exercise program). Of course, that was before the air conditioning broke down on our last day there......
Days one, two and three were no problem. Day four was where our trouble started.
We rolled up from the beach late in the afternoon, put my key into the lock, and , uh oh, red light. Once again, except more slowly. Red light. More quickly. Red light. Tim tried his key. Red light. Slow. Fast. Jiggle handle. Kick door. Red light. Red light. Red light. Frayed nerve. Oh, and full bladder.
Luckily, the concierge happened by at that moment. Shaking his head (mentally at least, I'm sure) at the technologically challenged tourists, he tried both our keys and got...a red light. Chagrined, he offered to go to the office and reprogram our keys. Since the office was four flights down in an airless elevaator that moved with all the speed of a constipated trutle and one building away, we let him.
By the time he returned, Tim really had to use the bathroom and was bouncing around the hallway like a Dancing With The Stars reject. Fortunately, the new keys worked and disaster was averted. Oh well, these things happen. Everyday apparently.
The next morning after breakfast, I ran back to the room and, once again, I got the red light. With no concierge to rescue me, I made the long trek to the office where they reprogrammed my key (again) and had the nerve to actually be cheerful about it. Obviously, they liked to live on the edge.
Later that day, it was Tim's key that needed to be reprogrammed. We were starting to see red lights in our sleep!
The next day, they added to the degree of difficulty. The elevator was being used to transport bags of topsoil and palm trees to the rooftop garden, so now I had to walk up four flights of an outdoor stairwell in ninety-five degrees....twice.
Enough was enough. This time, I wanted a manager(or at least his head) and not some chipper concierge who didn't seem to understand why not being able to get into our room was a bad thing. After I recounted our saga in colorful detail that made those Bridezilla contestants look like Mary Poppins, he offered to give me new keys since reprogramming the old ones didn't seem to be working (ya think?????) .
Success at last! Green light!!! Our last two days, we had unlimited access to our room. It was enough to make us giddy with happiness(but really cut down on our exercise program). Of course, that was before the air conditioning broke down on our last day there......
Monday, August 20, 2007
Vacation, Round Two
Clearly, God does not want us to go to the beach again this summer.
Here we were, sorting through bathing suits, buying trashy novels and stockpiling sunblock fifty when it happened...Hurricane Dennis.
Now we had thought of hurricanes in the Carribbian when we planned this vacation. After all, we have gotten blown out twice before (Once apparently was not enough, but hey, we eventually got the point. It's not like we need a house to fall on us or anything, just a few palm trees). So we very carefully chose our destination. A place that was so unlikely to be affected by the hurricanes that just the mere thought sent our travel agent into gales of laughter...Grand Cayman.
We asked around, we got recommendations for restaurants, we surfed the net, we even got a book on the island. We received our travel documents, gathered up our passports, left an itinerary for our families...and then Mother Nature had a bad hair day.
We watched, with disbelieving eyes, as the hurricane headed straight for our dream vacation spot, the one we had spent so much time planning for (all right, the one our travel agent spent so much time planning for, but we spent a lot of time complaining and vetoing his ideas, so why split hairs?).
Fortunately, we had purchased insurance, so we were able to cancel without a penalty, but that left us right back at square one...wanting a vacation, but not sure where we wanted to go, just knowing we didn't want to go...there.
After we talked our agent down from the ledge (Since it was only a three story building, and he probably would have survived the fall, he surrendered fairly quickly. He was probably afraid we would follow him into the intensive care unit and there would be no possible chance for escape then), he began checking out possibilities.
Beach reservations the second week in August for the third week in August. Oh, yeah, and we'd like to borrow the crown jewels too to take with us.
As luck would have it (it was either luck, or our agent did something really bad that I don't want to know about...that way I can't be called upon to testify in court), we got the last room at a really great place(he says) on Turks and Caicos. Of course, he had to explain exactly where that is, since we were both absent the day that was taught in geography class (my grandmother never did trust that Jesuit education).
Anyway, we picked up our new tickets (our agent was trying to hide at a branch office, but we found him anyway) and take off first thing tomorrow morning for someplace we've never heard of, in a place we only recently found on a map for two weeks. I am not bringing my computer with me, so I will have to blog about it when I get back.
Anyone want to take bets on whether the hurricane doubles back and heads straight for us?
Here we were, sorting through bathing suits, buying trashy novels and stockpiling sunblock fifty when it happened...Hurricane Dennis.
Now we had thought of hurricanes in the Carribbian when we planned this vacation. After all, we have gotten blown out twice before (Once apparently was not enough, but hey, we eventually got the point. It's not like we need a house to fall on us or anything, just a few palm trees). So we very carefully chose our destination. A place that was so unlikely to be affected by the hurricanes that just the mere thought sent our travel agent into gales of laughter...Grand Cayman.
We asked around, we got recommendations for restaurants, we surfed the net, we even got a book on the island. We received our travel documents, gathered up our passports, left an itinerary for our families...and then Mother Nature had a bad hair day.
We watched, with disbelieving eyes, as the hurricane headed straight for our dream vacation spot, the one we had spent so much time planning for (all right, the one our travel agent spent so much time planning for, but we spent a lot of time complaining and vetoing his ideas, so why split hairs?).
Fortunately, we had purchased insurance, so we were able to cancel without a penalty, but that left us right back at square one...wanting a vacation, but not sure where we wanted to go, just knowing we didn't want to go...there.
After we talked our agent down from the ledge (Since it was only a three story building, and he probably would have survived the fall, he surrendered fairly quickly. He was probably afraid we would follow him into the intensive care unit and there would be no possible chance for escape then), he began checking out possibilities.
Beach reservations the second week in August for the third week in August. Oh, yeah, and we'd like to borrow the crown jewels too to take with us.
As luck would have it (it was either luck, or our agent did something really bad that I don't want to know about...that way I can't be called upon to testify in court), we got the last room at a really great place(he says) on Turks and Caicos. Of course, he had to explain exactly where that is, since we were both absent the day that was taught in geography class (my grandmother never did trust that Jesuit education).
Anyway, we picked up our new tickets (our agent was trying to hide at a branch office, but we found him anyway) and take off first thing tomorrow morning for someplace we've never heard of, in a place we only recently found on a map for two weeks. I am not bringing my computer with me, so I will have to blog about it when I get back.
Anyone want to take bets on whether the hurricane doubles back and heads straight for us?
Friday, July 20, 2007
Surf and Turf...and eyeballs
A beach vacation for us means three things: surf, sand and surf and turf.
We begin our day by applying the first layer of sunblock fifty, the primer coat, before we head out to the beach (Hey, we're Irish. Our skin color choices are white or red!).
Once we have our chairs, towels and the largest beach umbrella we can find, we hit the water, coming out only long enough to eat lunch and apply coats two through twenty of the sunblck.
After a full day of paddling and floating (no water sports or hugging sea mammals for us; that would require actual effort), we head out to dinner where we try to eat our body weight in rich food.
Fortunately, after our first soggy day in the Bahamas, the weather decided to cooperate with our plan.
Since this was our anniversary celebration, Tim asked the concierge at our hotel for some dinner recommendations. He had three stipulations: 1. great food, 2. romantic atmosphere, and 3. no more than fifteen minutes away by cab.
Day one was perfect. A mansion built by a pirate in the 1700's complete with snowy white tableclothes, soft candlilight and a piano playing softly in the background.
Day two was a little less than perfect: Fish in a Bucket, or The Poop Deck. Whatever. Yes, it was close, but picnic tables, family style service and people dressed up as Shamu didn't really scream romance, at least not for us. I can't answer for the concierge, but to each his own. Needless to say, we opted out of this one.
Her alternate recommendation (why were we still listening to this woman?) was a place called Provence. It boasted a veranda with water views and fresh fish. We should have stuck with the Poop Deck.
You know you're in trouble when the cab driver hasn't even heard of the place (our first clue that we should have just ordered up a movie and raided the mini-bar).
However, based on directions from the doorman, we headed out. To Miami. I'm pretty sure that's where this restaurant was, because half an hour and three bridges later, we still werent't there (three lousy stipulations! How hard should it be to at least hit two of them!).
The time went by quickly though as our chatty driver regaled us with the gory details of Bahamian fish specialties. Personally, I stopped listening after the description of deep fried eyeballs, but I'm pretty sure it got worse judging by the shade of green Tim was turning (the mini-bar even had Famous Amos cookies!).
At last, we arrived at Provence. We were actually around the back of the building, but the waiter assured us that it was simply through the archway behind him. Weak from hunger and slightly nauseaus from the conversation (and we were going to a fish place?!), we followed him around front to...Villa d'el something-or-other.
Villa...Provence. Yeah. They sound exactly alike. How bad was this place that the waiters had to waylay unsuspecting tourists?
Luckily (for the waiter), we managed to catch our driver, who was still circling the lot trying to get out, and insisted he take us to the correct restaurant (or back to the hotel, whichever came first).
This time, he wisely kept silent. Of course, that could have had something to do with Tim muttering about things like disembowelment and drawing and quartering.
We eventually did arrive at Provence and, while it wasn't really worth the journey, at least there were no eyeballs, fried of otherwise in the food. At least I hope not.
We begin our day by applying the first layer of sunblock fifty, the primer coat, before we head out to the beach (Hey, we're Irish. Our skin color choices are white or red!).
Once we have our chairs, towels and the largest beach umbrella we can find, we hit the water, coming out only long enough to eat lunch and apply coats two through twenty of the sunblck.
After a full day of paddling and floating (no water sports or hugging sea mammals for us; that would require actual effort), we head out to dinner where we try to eat our body weight in rich food.
Fortunately, after our first soggy day in the Bahamas, the weather decided to cooperate with our plan.
Since this was our anniversary celebration, Tim asked the concierge at our hotel for some dinner recommendations. He had three stipulations: 1. great food, 2. romantic atmosphere, and 3. no more than fifteen minutes away by cab.
Day one was perfect. A mansion built by a pirate in the 1700's complete with snowy white tableclothes, soft candlilight and a piano playing softly in the background.
Day two was a little less than perfect: Fish in a Bucket, or The Poop Deck. Whatever. Yes, it was close, but picnic tables, family style service and people dressed up as Shamu didn't really scream romance, at least not for us. I can't answer for the concierge, but to each his own. Needless to say, we opted out of this one.
Her alternate recommendation (why were we still listening to this woman?) was a place called Provence. It boasted a veranda with water views and fresh fish. We should have stuck with the Poop Deck.
You know you're in trouble when the cab driver hasn't even heard of the place (our first clue that we should have just ordered up a movie and raided the mini-bar).
However, based on directions from the doorman, we headed out. To Miami. I'm pretty sure that's where this restaurant was, because half an hour and three bridges later, we still werent't there (three lousy stipulations! How hard should it be to at least hit two of them!).
The time went by quickly though as our chatty driver regaled us with the gory details of Bahamian fish specialties. Personally, I stopped listening after the description of deep fried eyeballs, but I'm pretty sure it got worse judging by the shade of green Tim was turning (the mini-bar even had Famous Amos cookies!).
At last, we arrived at Provence. We were actually around the back of the building, but the waiter assured us that it was simply through the archway behind him. Weak from hunger and slightly nauseaus from the conversation (and we were going to a fish place?!), we followed him around front to...Villa d'el something-or-other.
Villa...Provence. Yeah. They sound exactly alike. How bad was this place that the waiters had to waylay unsuspecting tourists?
Luckily (for the waiter), we managed to catch our driver, who was still circling the lot trying to get out, and insisted he take us to the correct restaurant (or back to the hotel, whichever came first).
This time, he wisely kept silent. Of course, that could have had something to do with Tim muttering about things like disembowelment and drawing and quartering.
We eventually did arrive at Provence and, while it wasn't really worth the journey, at least there were no eyeballs, fried of otherwise in the food. At least I hope not.
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