I find that a lot of people are way more interesting than they might appear at first. On one recent flight I spent almost the entire three hours in a conversation with a guy in his 60s seated across the aisle. At first all I knew about him was that he was flying a day later than he was originally ticketed, and that he had been quite upset about it the day before after being bumped repeatedly while forced to go stand-by.

But as I listened to his story it turned out he was a fascinating guy. A collector of rare vintage photographs, he and his daughter were on their way to Arizona to see the first screenig of a documentary film in which he appeared discussing the life and career of one of his favorite photographers. That photographer's work was, in turn, documentary in nature, and he had spent years with Frank Loyd Wright, so the guy on the plane was something of an expert on Frank Loyd Wright's life and career as well. All based on his interest in collecting photographs. He also was a historical architecture buff and was involved in historic preservation efforts and owned a farm in Lancaster County, PA, and knew a lot of Amish workers and craftsmen. You don't meet people like this every day.

I ended up giving him my home phone in case he wanted to visit Chicago and go see some of the Wright homes in the Chicago area.

I do this a lot on trips, and some of my favorite people to talk to are motorcyclists. They are almost always interesting, gentle, and easy to get to know, no matter how tough they might look. One guy, travelling alone across Nevada on US 50 (nickname: The Loneliest Road in America, they even give out bumper stickers) had stopped for coffee in the morning at a gas station. He was sucking down bad gas station coffee like it was from the best cafe in the state, so I asked him about the road. He had biked across the entire U.S. several times in his life. He looked a little "roady" that morning but he was friendly and talkative, so we chatted long enough for beautiful spouse to get impatient.

She doesn't always share my enthusiasm for meeting strangers, but I think you can meet some pretty interesting types. Plus I can always use the excuse that I want to be a writer. So I NEED to do research. Right?

When I see someone who looks interesting I usually just make eye contact, and then follow up by asking them something about where they are headed, or how far they are going, anything that's not too personal but gives then a chance to talk about themselves. Most people love talking about themselves. I'll do this at concerts and sporting events too. You have to be a little more careful if someone's been drinking, because sometimes you'll get somebody who talks your ear off, or is just plastered beyond belief.

Generally, I'm willing to take that chance. When the Bears play the Packers there's always a festive crowd. Last New Year's Eve I found myself next to a young couple that seemed the fun-loving sort. Face paint. Lots of cheering. Said Hi, asked them if they go to a lot of games. They were so blasted out of their minds that I'm not sure they knew the game had started. And they each had three extra plastic cups of that good Soldier Field brew under their seats in case anyone decided to cut them off early.

I don't think I gave them my home number.

Sometimes it's someone else who has to pay the price, though. In the Caribbean last month we were just finishing a very good meal at a tiny (8 tables) Creole style bistro. The crowd at the next table were just leaving, and I leaned back and asked where they were from. Boston. On hearing this reply someone at the next table over asked for what neighborhood. They turned out to have grown up within five or six blocks of one another and they spent the next half hour sharing stories.

After about five minutes I caught his wife's eye, said, "Sorry" and she said, "It's OK, it's like this whereever we go."

I'm glad I'm not that bad.

He got an Esquire magazine assignment. To interview Halle Berry. For a cover article. (It's the May 2007 issue currently on newsstands. She is looking extremely thought-provoking. In a black and white shot.)

The cover-tease blurb announces that he had a conundrum, two days with Halle Berry. That would be a tough one, very, very tough. He got through it OK. Even went grocery shopping with her. Even got her to write the article for him. All he had to do was annotate.

The article itself is funny, insightful, creative, . . .

Why do they do this to me??

Extra note: I just threw a link for a Chiarella book in my Links (at left). Apparently he has written one of the most-used how-to books on writing effective dialogue.

.

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

.

(i who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth

day of life and love and wings:and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

.

how should tasting touching hearing seeing

breathing any--lifted from the no

of all nothing--human merely being

doubt unimaginable You?

.

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

.

by ee cummings

Now I am going to describe my treadmill routine. You probably knew I would get to that eventually, didn't you? It' s almost impossible to avoid describing it, because I am practically living at my workout place on Sunday afternoons. A lot of people suspect that I work there. That is because it takes a while for my treadmill routine. If I was getting paid it would be more worth it.

First I change in the changing room. Women, I notice, do not change in their changing room, at least not most of them. Most of them arrive dressed to work out and only hang things up. When they're done they don't shower, they go home to shower. The guys shower. Before going home. Because why would I want to go all the way home and make my shower messy when I can shower here and leave the clean at home?) And the reason that's important is because most of the people who work giving out locker keys are women, and THEY DON'T GET IT THAT A GUY NEEDS A LITTLE SPACE BECAUSE HE IS GOING TO STAND IN FRONT OF HIS LOCKER CHANGING AND TOWELING AND EVERYTHING, SO WHY PUT ANOTHER GUY ONE LOCKER AWAY WHEN THERE ARE FOUR THOUSAND EMPTY LOCKERS LEFT??

Sorry.

I put on bike shorts with running shorts over them. If I am running more than five miles, I smear some messy lube around down there. (Because I don't like bleeding, OK?) I tie shoes, (Adidas Supernova) then find an open treadmill.

I warm up with a quarter to half mile walking. Excessive warm-up you say?

Then I'll bet you are under 40 years old. Because I used to warm up more quickly as well.

Then I zero out the display and restart, cranking up to 7.2. I check when I get to .02 miles. It's usually either 15 or 20 seconds. Because the machine takes that many seconds to come up to speed, and those are wasted seconds that I do NOT want to be penalized for at the end.

As in, "I almost made my time goal, but if it wasn't for that wasted 15 seconds I would have." Nope, not anymore, I just add it back on at the end if I need to.

I'm not anywhere near that compulsive in ordinary life. There's just something about a treadmill that brings that out.

I think it might be the running endlessly in one place without ever going anywhere.

But I'm not sure.

After two miles, I crank down to 3.8 and walk two minutes. While I walk I drink some red Powerade mixed with water. Red Powerade is the best. I mix it with plain water to stretch it, because 20 ounces is not enough, I am going to want 30 ounces or so. So I drink some and refill with plain water. Before running. Once I start running I just go with the remaining 20 ounces of watered down red Powerade.

Then I wipe myself with a towel if I am sweating. Lately? I can run two miles without sweating yet, but the towel is there just in case. And sometimes I blow my nose on a white paper towel from the men's room, that I have in my pocket. (The towel, not the men's room. The men's room is back in the locker area.)

Then I mentally toughen up, find a spot on the wall to focus on, and crank back up to 7.5. The mental toughening is because running the next two miles at 7.5 is a goal, and you have to mentally toughen up for a goal. Mentally toughening up sounds like, "Grunt, grunt, grunt" I know you thought there would be some good philosophy in there or something, but no, it's mainly just grunting. But just to myself: I don't actually grunt out loud.

Most of the time.

When done with the 4th mile, the display should read 34 minutes, then I walk two minutes until 36. That's key to the whole operation, because once I get 4 miles in, and I have a recovery walk, and I am at 36 minutes ready to crank up again, then I can run just about how many miles I feel like doing. Max of ten so far though. Hey, let's not get crazy or anything.

Ten miles took 90 minutes, that is about all the treadmill anyone should ever do, unless maybe if you are incarcerated, then you could do more I'm sure.

While running there are various televisions to look at, but I never actually turn anything on to watch, unless it's football season, which it isn't. Otherwise I just watch whatever is on, except I don't really watch, it's just a distraction for the mind.

After a bunch of miles, anywhere from six to ten, depending, I crank down and walk to cool down. By this time my shirt is soaked. (I wear a lucky white T-shirt, which is from NASA and says MARS Rover, with a picture of the little MARS Rover car that explored the Martian surface. A friend gave it to me after he visited NASA. I'm not usually that nerdy anymore, but I am when I run.)

Now, my question is, did you kind of get tired of reading this, and notice that it just kind of went on endlessly without ever really saying anything, and if you didn't concentrate really hard your mind started to wander while reading, and . . .

Treadmill.

I just now found out that we had 33 people die on a college campus on a lovely April day. I was out of communication most of today, just busyness, no radio or TV on, and a meeting that lasted until almost 7 p.m. I didn't find out until logging on a few minutes ago. I read a bit, then turned on the TV news.

The only thing that comes to mind is another ee cummings line:

.

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:

your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness

I remember once seeing a photo of an Arctic beach of pebbles and stone with a cute seal pup ambling along and a wave rolling in in the background. Except when you looked a bit closer there is something in that wave, the 8 ft. fin of a killer whale just visible through the water. The seal pup had approximately three more seconds of life left on this earth. A beautiful, sunny April 15 feels a little like that to me.

We already figured our taxes weeks ago. That's because we have a college-age son with filing deadlines for college financial aid. And you can't file anything aid-related without first submitting the federal governments offical FAFSA form. FAFSA stands for Frickin' Asinine Fat Stupid Application. Or something aong those lines. Suffice it to say that it is the sort of paperwork that you do not want to even think about until you absolutely have to.

So, spouse got to it long before I did, and in order to show our family's dire financial straits, she had to figure our taxes first, and put in our adjusted gross income.

Is your income as gross as ours is? Ours is pretty gross, but they want to know EXACTLY how gross. So we had to get technical. Wages, interest, all that stuff.

But, really, quick and dirty results would do for the FAFSA, because if we were a few dollars off it wouldn't make much difference. We already knew how much aid he was promised by his school, we just had to get the form filed. So spouse got out all the standard income tax equipment weeks ago: calculator with spare batteries, pencils with great big erasers (we always use the big greasy kind that smear up the forms when you make a mistake), and handcuffs. The handcuffs are to help hold me down so that we can get our taxes done on time, plus they come in handy if we have trouble with "accuracy." We always figure that if we ever get audited we'll just bring our own handcuffs, maybe they'll go easier on us.

Possibly because I already had the handcuffs on (practice makes perfect, you know) we made a small error. Resulting in us thinking that we owe $6,000 this year. Resulting in general panic and plans to leave the country. (Unfortunately, due to lost luggage from the last trip, those plans never materialized.) Instead we spent several weeks in worry and dread, and then made plans to see a tax accountant.

We have never seen a tax accountant before. We also have never owed money on tax day before. We always expected a modest sum to come our way, which was then applied to our impending local property taxes. (The government giveth, And the government taketh away.) So we didn't really know what to expect.

It was actually pretty cool. It took him about four and a half seconds to discover our silly error, and reassure us that we do not, after all, owe $6,000. We chuckled in relief as he explained that we probably owed about $3,000, and that he could continue looking over the form, but would have to charge us, whereas if we wanted to stop right there and just "consult" he would do that for free. (He was a friend of a friend for whom we had done a favor recently.)

Owing $3,000 felt awesome! Aren't circumstances funny like that? If I had woken up on an ordinary day and found out that I owe someone $3,000, that would be a bad day. But thinking and worrying about owing $6,000 made owing half that seem like we were getting off easy.

I think it's all part of the federal government's grand plan. Not being dragged away in handcuffs makes ordinary tax day seem pretty nice.

Now I just need to find the key. Let's see . . . she usually keeps it in the box with the pencils and spare batteries . . .

A week ago (last Thursday) we visited a well-known blues club in the city, and saw B.B. King and his band. Before describing the concert I just want to throw out a number to my readerboat: 90. That's not his age, though it's getting close (he's 81, and diabetic, with bad legs, so he performs seated).

Countries. He has played in 90 countries. Not 90 cities, but 90 countries. Without looking at a map or globe I don't know if I could name 90 countries, could you?

So, what was he like? He performs with eight pieces behind him, all African-American guys he refers to as "young men." Most of them looked to be in their 50s or 60s themselves, and most of them have been with him for more than 25 years. One is his nephew. One drummer, a bass guitar, another electric guitar, a piano, and four horns. B.B. himself, of course, pays a guitar referred to as "Lucille," because he gets notes out of it that sound amazingly like a human voice. He likes the ladies, and he plays up to them in the audience even asking permission before performing one tune, "Just Like a Woman," because the audience has to participate, and he wants the females in the audience to let their guys join in. He is that charming, and warm, and interactive, and of course (remember those 90 countries), how can anyone not love him right back?

He mentioned that his"pastor" was in the audience, and Jesse Jackson did a fan-wave from one of the balcony seats. B.B. played for about two hours, never took a break, though he did pause at one point to down a beer followed by a large glass of water. He moves around a lot for a guy that's sitting down. And his voice is wonderful. He tells quite a few stories while his musicians just kind of keep a rhythm behind him, telling about picking cotton, playing craps, walking behind a mule, growing up in Mississippi, lots of stories. He kids his audience if they don't know his songs, but then he tells you what to say because he depends on that audience response.

The toughest part of the evening is that the club is all standing room on the main floor. Three or four hours on your feet is a bit trying, I think we went in about 9 p.m. and left after midnight. And the house was packed so tight you really couldn't move much. But you know that those little details are ones that you forget in a little while. I don't think I'll forget listening to the man himself.

On a treadmill I go at 7.5 mph for a couple of miles, then take a two minute walking break to recover. I can now do that twice (four miles in 33 minutes), that's my fast running pace. To go on, I have to either slow down to 7.2, go only individual miles to the next walking breaks, or keel over and expire. At 7.5 pace a mile takes exactly 8 minutes, so in 60 seconds I would go one eighth which is half-way around a standard track. If I really pushed I could do it in 52 seconds, and then rest.

Youngest son (18) is so into track right now. Indoor season has ended but he had his first outdoor meet cancelled due to cold weather in our area. He was so disappointed. He looks forward to a track meet the way some people look forward to an evening out.

But a week ago he came home from the final indoor meet with a cool-looking trophy for his relay team, which took second in a big state-wide indoor invitational. The event was a creative one, the distance medley, so one guy ran a 400, one an 800, one a 1200, and the last a full 1600 meters. (1600 meters is a metric mile in track). He did the 400, which was the second leg (enabling a running start), and he did it in 52 seconds. Indoor tracks are smaller, so they are mostly turns which means it's harder to go all out like you can on a straightaway on an outdoor track. That would be a 3:28 mile pace, or about 17 mph. If you have a treadmill, see if you can even set it at 17 mph.

By the way, 52 seconds is not fast in terms of really fast high school runners. The fastest guys in the state will be doing those in 50 seconds or under by the time the outdoor season is finishing.

Vacations are so relaxing.

Booking our island return flight through Philadelphia gave us the opportunity to spend the last night in an airport hotel where we had to get up at 3 a.m. to make our flight to OHare.

When we finally made it all the way home beautiful spouse kept musing about keeping that relaxed island frame of mind alive. She found the following quote in her yoga book: “As we open our minds to the philosophy of yoga, we become open to life’s possibilities. We learn to let go of the past and leave the baggage behind.”

That particular passage had so much meaning for us! It wasn’t just the expression of embracing all of life’s new possibilities, but how did those Eastern masters know that the airline had lost her bag? Ahh, the ways of the mysterious East! (Now, the Caribbean isn’t really that far east, not even one time zone. In fact, St. Martin lies directly south of Halifax, Nova Scotia, a fact that I was trying hard to forget.) But somehow the airline personnel had figured a way to help her ease the anxiety of ordinary life by leaving her cares on the island. No more dirty laundry, no more unpacking and hanging things away, no more deciding which souvenirs are really going to be worth keeping.

It is very interesting when you lose a bag. Our first thought was that someone had grabbed it by mistake from the carousel. Because there were seven different connecting flights that had delays in Philly waiting for our flight’s passengers to get through customs and make their way to the other concourses. Some of the families had ten or fifteen bags on a couple of carts, and they had taken off very quickly.

The first airline guy that I notified wasn’t too concerned however. He had the island frame of mind. Don’t worry, it will probably show up in Chicago.

The fact that the bag was tagged to Philly made that unlikely. Still, he assured us, there was no reason to fill out any forms or go looking for it. We didn’t even need a phone call made. Just fly on tomorrow to your final destination, that‘s the place to file the paperwork.

Of course, I was picturing the Chicago personnel telling us the next morning that we should have filed the form in Philly as soon as the bag was lost. Why wait twelve hours? I told him that we had three bags checked, the other two had come through, why would one get left behind? The Philadelphia baggage supervisor had no idea why it happened like that, but he assured us that it happens at least a couple of times every day.

The next morning I really wanted to talk to someone else before leaving Philadelphia, but at 5 a.m. there are not many choices. I asked the lady at our check-in gate for the USAir 1-800 number, but she didn’t know it. There was another passenger who also wanted the same number for a different reason. We were both told that she would look for it the first chance that she got. Eventually when I began to get irate (drat those islands!) she found some numbers on a brochure. I copied down the baggage number I needed and gave her the brochure back, which she then ripped in half and threw away. No use keeping those phone numbers around!

The other fun thing about losing a bag is trying to remember what was in it and then add up the value. Hint to readerboat: it adds up way faster than you might think, all those shoes and outfits for a weeklong vacation. If it had been my own bag, a couple hundred dollars worth of shirts and shorts wouldn’t be much of a loss. I would have lamented the loss of my running shoes more than anything. I’ve never lost a race in those. (First one comes up next month, but please don't mention it.)

Eventually, after a series of phone calls from home we learned the bag had made it to O'Hare, but no one had entered it into the system yet. We drove to the airport and she found it herself. It was pinned against a wall along with a mountain of other bags, probably several hundred.

Once home spouse discovered a TSA security notification tucked inside. It had been pulled aside for inspection when we arrived in the US, and that's why it wasn't on the carousel in Philly. If only the baggage supervisor had checked on that for us! The mysterious bag or two each day, explained!

One of the best part of the whole thing was that climbing atop the giant mountain of lost bags introduced beautiful spouse to several new yoga positions that she otherwise would never have tried. Upward Leaning Tiger was the best one, but I also liked Cowering Fox, demonstrated by the helpful airline lady in the baggage area.

(Previous entry is probably required reading, or you won’t see any humor in this) (unless you are of female gender, in which case you might laugh anyway, just out of viciousness):

The next day we were looking forward to the togetherness of a snorkel excursion to Creole Rock, a small island just a few minutes from our resort beach. We had done a dive there a couple of years ago and knew that the reef had some good stuff to see. We were signed up for a noon trip, and there were just two more people joining us, which turned out to be two American women around our age.

The first thing they told us was that they had snorkeled before, just a couple of times. The second thing they told us was that they were traveling together because both had marriages that broke up when their husbands left them. They had met a few months ago in their support group.

Of course, I immediately offered to jump overboard. This, I figured, would give my spouse extra opportunity to tell them about the night before, and save them all the trouble of pushing me overboard and shoving a rag into my snorkel tube.Beautiful spouse immediately shared the hopelessness of being married to someone who buys drinks for random sexuality educators that he meets in bars.

After they shared attorney recommendations and explicit directions about preparing oleander the best way, the dive guide (French male, I felt safer with him around) took us through the orientation for the snorkel trip. I was happy that we would be following him the entire way around the island, leaving little opportunity for our new “friends” to nudge me into a sea urchin nest.

The snorkeling started out really good, but the opposite (seaward) side of the island had a pronounced swell rolling in. Swells and I do not get along (they are badly named), and in about fifteen minutes I was getting pretty queasy. Another fifteen minutes or so had us all back at the boat, the three women climbing aboard and me holding the ladder and gagging.

I figured I might as well get things over with right in the water. I didn’t see what was so funny about it either.

But it helps to have a couple of drinks first. Of course, this doesn't actually increase my coordination too much, but it does wonders for lowering the threshhold of what I consider "good dancing." When I have imbibed just enough alcohol that I am impressed by making it onto the dance floor without either tripping over my feet or spilling my drink, then I am ready to really bust the moves. It also helps if the others already on the dance floor are REALLY bad. So bad that someone at your table has already nabbed the other couple's camera and shot pictures of them surreptitiously, so that when the trip is over and they see what they actually looked like, they will never travel again.

We were at The Blue Martini, an outdoor bar and restaurant in Grand Case, St. Martin, in the French West Indies. And, like every Tuesday evening in Grand Case, it was Friendship Night (this is sometimes translated as "Harmony Night," but only by those who have not actually heard the raggae band playing at the Blue Martini).

We had already had dinner at one of the "lolos." On St. Martin the lolos are local barbecue places that serve downhome island fare like ribs and chicken. (Imagine Kansas City, but surrounded by a lot of warm blue water and you'll get pretty close.) We had shopped at the cute boutiques. (Imagine your upscale neighbor's walk-in closet, but all her clothes are for sale.) And we had strolled the main street. (Imagine a winding, suburban driveway during a party, but they're not the people you invited.) All before landing a table at The Blue Martini, where a raggae night was promised. Beautiful spouse and I sat by ourselves wondering if the island guys hanging out in the back of the outdoor courtyard were actual musicians or just some regulars messing around with the drum set. No actual sounds were being produced, just a lot of standing around chatting. I was drinking Presidente, a good beer from Dominican Republic. She was sipping a pina colada. (If that one needs explaining, you should probably stop reading now.)

Spouse pointed out Vince and Brittany at one of the other tables nearby. We had met the night before at our resort. Married just three days they were celebrating their honeymoon by, first, catching Jimmy Buffet on Anguilla before, second, spending the rest of the week on St. Martin. Though it was a second marriage for both of them, they were still the "cute couple." at our resort. With them we saw Bob and Emily, an older couple who I had been considering laid back nature lovers, because he had stood up to someone removing a starfish from our beach, making her put it back into the water.

I was reluctant, but spouse said we had to say "Hi," or we would be rude. They asked us to join their party so we pulled up two more chairs. Small talk was about life back home, selling real estate, Buffet concerts, all while the "band" continued to mill about looking useless. We joked about the smell in the air that we hadn't remembered since college days in the 70s and 80s.

When the band did start they seemed to be pretending. There was no warm-up, no sound check. Just some tentative rhythm, and a rasta-looking vocalist with a knit cap covering his dreads. He announced with some feeling that he would begin with 'an original." And it was probably his anthem, something about Rag-gae mu-sic!, Rag-gae-mu-sic!, Rag-gae mu-sic! Save da world!

In mere seconds Emily, (picture a 50-something white suburban lady in tourist shorts) was on the dance floor grooving to his island rhythms. Apparently she was a Jennifer Grey-Patrick Swazy fan as well. This was where Vince grabbed the couple's camera to snap a couple of island memories for the other couple.

Meanwhile, behind us, the place was filling as more sidewalk-strollers were lured by the raggae beat. Our former table was now occupied by a college-age girl dressed like a grad student at a coffee shop, sipping a Carib beer with lime in it. Eveybody else was in couples or groups. She was just watching.

Have you ever had one of those moments in your life that is a real watershed experience, but you just didn't see it coming at the time? Sometimes they kind of sneak up on you, although in retrospect you know you should have seen it coming all along. Brittany and Vince were busy trying to wash up a small cut on her hand, and Bob and Emily were both swaying to the island rhythms, and I took the opportunity to ask the overworked waitress to pop over to our table for another round of drinks. Then I got one extra Carib sent over to the neighboring table, just because grad girl sitting all by herself looked like a good kid.

Since this may be my last opportunity to protest my TOTAL innocence before the world turns on me like Hitler marching into the Sudetenland, I just want to add that I was not hiding anything from anybody. The waitress brought the beers, I pointed out who was taking the extra one, and the evening went on.

Within a couple of minutes, spouse and I were making our way to the wooden dance floor. It was pretty much like a backyard deck, overhung with trees, and now filled with probably 30 - 40 gyrating partyers. The band had warmed up, everyone was having a good time. After a couple more tunes the main vocalist turned the mic over to a younger guy who basically only knew how to screech. We returned to our table, grad girl had finished her drinks and a new couple was at our former table. Someone else bought one more round, we sat and chatted for a minute again, but when the lead singer got his mic back a bunch of people headed back to the dance deck.

Spouse and I were getting our groove on (we usually share just one groove) and everybody was moving just slightly because things were pretty packed in. The band was pumping now, the bar area and all the tables were filled, and all were having a good time. It was kind of like Sunday morning on Pearl Harbor. I glanced at the bar and saw grad girl getting another beer and heading onto the dance floor. She came up to us, said, "Hi," and she and I clinked bottles. I introduced us and she said her name was Jesse. The three of us were dancing, until the music stopped between numbers.

"So where are you from?"

"Alberta , Canada. But I just work there. I grew up in Nova Scotia."

I shared the fact, learned the previous evening, that St. Martin is directly south of Halifax on the globe.

"Cool. I like that." Spouse was just staring now.

'"So what do you do in Alberta?"

"I'm a sexuality educator."

When the bombs were dropped at Pearl Harbor not all the battleships were sunk immediately. Some smoldered and burned for quite a while before finally rolling over and being swallowed by the waves.

It was on the way home that torpedoes and bombs began landing on my deck.

"What was that? Did you know her??"

"No, I bought her a beer."

"You bought her a drink? When??"

I noticed that all the questions were followed by second questions with double question-marks. Those are never good. "When I bought a round of drinks for our table i just got an extra Carib. I wasn't hiding anything. Didn't you see the waitress taking it over?"

"Yes, I thought it was a mistake! Why did you buy her a drink??"

"She just looked like a nice kid, she was all by herself, so I bought her a beer."

"I can't believe you did that."

"It didn't mean anything."

"Then why did you do it??"

Multiple hits were crashing throught the top decks. Guys were abandoning ship left and right. "She just seemed like a nice kid. She looked like a grad student or a teacher and she was just sitting all by herself."

"Well, you got the teacher part right!"

"Yeah, but I didn't know that!"

At this point multiple damage reports were coming in from all stations, and the captain was considering going down with his ship. "You know I love you. I'm sorry I hurt your feelings, I would never have done that if I thought it would bother you. I just thought she looked like an interesting person, and she was all by herself, so I bought her a drink." Some of the larger fires were dying down. "You have to admit she was an interesting person, right? And she's just traveling with her Mom. That's not easy for someone that age."

"How did you know she was a teacher??"

"I didn't know, I just thought she looked like a teacher or a grad student or something."

"You never talked to her before?"

We were down to single question marks! "No, I never said anything to her when she got the beer. The waitress took it over, and then she left and came back. The first thing I said to her was to introduce you."

"Why did you clink bottles?"

"Just because she was saying Hi, that's all." We had walked almost all the way back to our resort entrance when I asked for the damage report. "So, are you going to be mad at me for the rest of the trip?"

"No."

"OK, good. Because I didn't mean for that to hurt your feelings."

Actually things were fine for the rest of the trip. One of the things about being married to the same person for thirty years is that you both get to do your share of stupid things.

And I was thankful that I hadn't bought any drinks for the five French girls at the NEXT table over.

Eventually we found an open Shell station. I purchased a Cadbury Dairy Creme, one of my favorite candy bars, figuring it might be the condemned's last meal. Beautiful spouse pointed at her map along with one of the island guys that work at the station.

One thing about living on a small island (it's only 37 square miles) (except they're kilometers) (and they're not even square) is that everybody already knows where everything is. The other thing is that no one has ever actually used a map before. She showed him her island map, cleverly torn from a tourist publication in our hotel room. All the jewelry stores were clearly marked. After just a minute or so he was able to figure out where his own gas station is. The Cadbury's was creamy and delicious and the sticky, chocolatey fingers, I reasoned, would give me a better grip on the steering wheel.

In just one more minute he pointed and said, "Yes, you want to go just here. You go up the hill, then back down, there."

This was starting to sound familiar.

"At the bottom is a T, to go left or right. Go left, and that is the French side." Which was actually the same thing another guy had told us ten minutes earlier, only he wasn't pointing at the map. And his station was closed.

Now we had renewed confidence. Celine Dion (but in French) was singing something soft and uplifting. I thought, "That WOULD make a good song for a funeral." He also had said, "No turning. Just straight down to the T."

Have you ever noticed that if you already know where NOT to turn a road seems "straight?" Even when it is filled with twists and curves and intersections? At one point, we were ready to turn left. But every car coming from both directions was turning right. Did they know something that we didn't? Spouse was gently reminding me of the directions as I parked in the middle of the intersection to gather my thoughts. Soon I gathered a thought that said, "If you park in this intersection on a dark stormy night when no one can see anything, much less steer around it, you might not get to finish that Cadbury's." Luckily, just at that moment another car that had been heading right towards us turned toward the French side. Celine's voice soared. We determinedly bypassed several more Chutes back to the start of the game.

(To begin game, put your marker at the Jewelry Store near the Airport. The first hazard-Scantily Clad Women in Clubwear-appears immediately, but is clearly marked. Other hazards - Torrents of Death, Roundabouts on the Road to Hell, & French Side?Never Heard of It!- are not so easily avoided.)

We took off after the vehicle that was leading the way to the French side. Unfortunately, that car had an engine, and we were having difficulty keeping up. We followed his wake, his red lights winding into the distance as I floored the pedal. As I slowed toward a stop I removed my foot from the brake and hit the accelerator. It's always wise to test the brakes before proceeding throught water. We weren't gaining on him, but he we were keeping him in sight. Just then we floated past the stone marker that sits at the border crossing. We stopped the car just long enough to give it a French air-kiss (touch left cheeks, make kissy sound, repeat on the right, just like the Tour de France girls presenting the day's yellow jersey) then pressed on.

The rainfall had lessened as well, and we continued passing familiar landmarks. Soon I was entering the code for our resort's security gate: 1-2-0-2. (Please: do not share this, or I will have to drive back and change the code.) The striped pole went up, the steel doors began to part. This entire set-up is pitched at about a 40 degree angle downward, about 10 degrees to the left, with three speed bumps thrown in for good measure (in centimeters) all during a hard 90 degree turn to the left as you go through the gate. (SEE? I can drive & the roads really were crazy!)

As the steel gates neared the point where you can begin to think aboiut taking foot off brake, the striped pole began to come back down again. I inched forward into the no-man's-land between the pole and gate. Then the gates began closing. I lunged out the window and punched the code again, faster this time, and the pole went up, but the gates kept closing. Spouse said something to the effect: "Maybe we should just back up and try it again," but with fewer words.

Throwing our Dihatsu into reverse (it was really more of a toss) I was able to escape the game's last trap, Striped Pole of Doom. Security code reentered, we were home. It wasn't even raining any more.

I was hoping to go back the next night. Thursdays are Caribbean Night (2 for 1) at Bamboo Bernie's!