A TREEHOUSE, A RUM SHACK, AND BARBADOS BLISS

Vacations rock.  I just spent a week living in a pseudo-treehouse.  With two (relatively small) bottles of rum, a blender, and Duncan (not necessarily in that order).  It was paradise.  Barbados at its best.

Duncan and I travel a lot.  All the time.  Everywhere.   We think that there are two ways to get away: either as a tourist or as a traveler.  Tourists want to relax, enjoy good food (that someone else cooks), and embark on a few light adventures.   They intentionally skim the surface of their destination, and often go home with a tan.  Travelers, on the other hand, seek ways to become part of the fabric of a place.  Neither is better than the other; each has its own time and place.

Duncan and I decided to throw ourselves into Bajan culture as travelers, and see what happened.  I highly recommend it.

We choose accommodations on the east coast of Barbados because it's rugged, isolated, and pristine.  Plus, at any given time, there are more green monkeys per square mile than people.  We thought that might be beneficial after our year-end flurry of client responsibilities.

Our room was carved out of mahogany, with a balcony perched above the palm trees.  We bought fresh fruit from roadside stalls, ate lunch along the cliffs, and marveled at the surfers riding giant turquoise waves.  "Ghost roads" led us through abandoned sugar cane fields.  Then, one afternoon Duncan and I found ourselves helplessly lost, and we ended up in a spot we'll never forget.  It was traveler nirvana.

The semi-boarded-up rum bar appeared at the side of the road, as if out of nowhere, precisely when Duncan and I needed a break.  From each other.  We'd been driving in circles, looking for some non-existent historical site (that was still on the map despite it being reduced to dust centuries ago).  Our tempers were flaring.

Fortunately, there were a handful of well-seasoned bar patrons more than willing to help.  They all had been drinking since daybreak.  As we got out of our car, the most inebriated of them all (which is saying a lot, given that one of the other contenders was slumped over with his eyes closed) called to us from the open-air window, waving and grinning from ear-to-ear.  He hadn't seen walk-ins emerging from a rental car in, well, forever.   Duncan and I were obviously a big deal.

As we drew closer, our newest BFF threw his arms straight up into the air, and kept them there, stoically (except for the occasional liquor-induced sway).  Clearly, our arrival was the Super Bowl winning touchdown of his day.  Maybe his year.

By the time Duncan and I stepped into the rustic 10' x 10' caribbean oasis, all the other customers (i.e., both of them, including the poor fellow who had been "sleeping") were also on their feet, beckoning us to a small table in the corner.  They wanted us to take the place of honor, below the faded plastic poinsettia and two tattered Christmas tree ornaments.  We sat down, graciously, trying to appear worthy of the regal reception we knew we didn't deserve.

For a while, things were quiet.  I sat back, local beer in hand, and watched as long shafts of late afternoon sun pierced through the raw, boarded walls of our secret caribbean enclave.  Rarely have I seen Duncan so relaxed.

Then the ice broke.  Our hosts asked if we would take photos. First of them alone, then with us.  Ironically, they never asked us to send the pictures to them.  I think they just wanted to be sure we thought of them from time to time, when we got home.

Then, with Elvis crooning on a dusty radio in the background, one gentleman stood and asked me to dance.  Fortunately, he did much better dancing than standing. He moved with grace and barefoot delight.  His hands were course, and I thought how different our lives had been up to that point in time.  But, in that moment, with the exception of our blood alcohol content, we were exactly the same.  Two people,
enjoying life.  It was wonderful.

After Duncan asked the woman behind the bar to dance, we offered to buy everyone a round of drinks (even at the time I knew it was an ill advised gesture, but it always looks so good in the movies), then took our leave.  We could still hear shouting, and clapping, when we closed our car doors.  I didn't look back because I wanted to remember things just the way they had been.

It's important to remember that, even in the most remote, and simplest, of places, and perhaps when we least expect it, each of us has the opportunity to embrace ordinary moments that make life extraordinary.  And to help others do the same.  Ultimately, the wonderful folks we met in the ramshackle rum bar won't remember whether Duncan and I were travelers or tourists.  But they'll remember that we danced.  In the afternoon sun. With them.