Trip Report: Beaches Turks and Caicos

If you get the chance to see “The Way Way Back,”see it.  It’s a fun movie.  It’s notable because Steve Carell plays a bad guy for once.  He has the same charming demeanor, but underneath he is a jerk.  It was refreshing to see him play against type; otherwise he usually plays the same hapless character.

The movie revolves around a dorky teenager named Duncan (perfect name for a dork) who goes to a  beach town in Cape Cod with his mother and his mother’s boyfriend (Carell).   Most of the action takes place at the “Water Wizz”, a decrepit water park run by group of fun-loving but sketchy guys (led by the irrepressible Sam Rockwell) who take Duncan under their wing.   The first thing they show him is how to man the water slide, which mostly consists of making young girls wait while the boys/men stare at their bikini-clad butts.

“Wait,” one says while a cute girl in a thong stands facing away from them, totally unaware of the game the boys are playing.  “Waiting, we’re waiting, and . . . we’re still waiting.”  It’s a cute coming of age movie.   It also has a great line apropos of my recent trip. Duncan’s next door neighbor describes the scene:  “It’s like Spring Break for adults.”  Yes, it is.   

I thought about the movie as I climbed to the top of the waterslide at the Beaches Resort in Turks and Caicos in my size 14 bathing suit.  Not surprisingly, the guys working the waterslide did not make me wait so they could stare at my butt.   I did notice a lot of guys staring at my breasts, however, even at my age.  Go figure.

This was my first experience at an all-inclusive beach resort.   We went with a group of Collegiate parents and their senior kids for the kids’ final Spring Break.  Turks and Caicos is an attractive island in the Caribbean, though not nearly as pretty as Costa Rica, which remains my favorite Caribbean country. 

It was like a cruise on land.  They had lots of entertainment (most of which I missed), plenty of food, activities like a chocolate dessert buffet (which I did not miss) and a Sesame Street parade for the kids.  The weather was perfect—sunny with cooling breezes and not too hot (mid-80’s during the day).  At night it would not cool down very much but the breezes would continue.    

The place was impeccably clean.  The landscaping was lush and the buildings were painted in bright Caribbean colors.  The ocean water was a gorgeous blue-green and the beaches were wide and clean with lots of lounge chairs and waiters ready and willing to bring whatever drink you wanted. 

The rooms were beautiful.  We stayed in the original part of the resort called the “Caribbean Village,” which one guest called “the slums.”  Compared to the newer buildings, I suppose it was, but what a slum!  Our room had a cushy four poster king size bed, a trundle bed for Guido, a small balcony with a table and chairs where I could watch the drunks dodge the sprinklers at night, and a tile bathroom that was much larger than the bathrooms on a cruise ship, I must say.  Our room was kept stocked with bottled water, soft drinks and coffee. 

Beaches has 19 restaurants and bars; in the five days we were there, Billy and I managed to eat at 16 of them.  The food ranged from pizza to sushi to French cuisine to a 50’s themed diner.  The food was good; not gourmet, but good. 

We have gone on many Caribbean cruises, which are also billed as “all inclusive,” but they do not include alcoholic drinks.  Our shipboard bill for a week-long cruise was typically $1,000.  This included excursions and trinkets, but mostly alcohol.  Billy doesn’t drink and the kids were too young, so all of the drinks were consumed by me.   I may have a problem.  I take some comfort in the fact that Italians (along with Jews and Greeks) are considered least likely to become alcoholics, but of course this is not a hard and fast rule.   Plus, alcohol is a depressant and so not a good thing for someone already depressed.   After five days of drinking I was more than ready to stop.  It’s just too much. 

The drinks, however, were great—lots of fruity, rum-spiked concoctions called things like “Another day in Paradise.”  Our group’s favorite drink seemed to be the “Miami Vice” – half pina colada, half strawberry daiquiri.   The bartenders were friendly and eager to serve.   We decided, however, that during the day the drinks were probably not very strong.   Even at night, at the bars where the young kids hung out, the bartenders often stopped putting alcohol in the drinks, at least according to some of the kids.  That is just as well, since many of the kids did nothing but drink and party on the beach. 

There were also water sports like snorkeling, scuba diving and banana boat rides. This is a family resort, so there were plenty of planned activities for children and tweens.  For our kids, of course, there was just one activity—or two if you count sitting on the beach while drinking. 

Some time during the trip, Billy asked Guido if he was having a good time.

“Dad,” he said.  “When I picture paradise, I picture this place.” 

We liked it also, Billy less so than me because he does not drink.  According to Billy, drunks are not nearly as funny as they think they are.  I wouldn’t know because I’m usually one of the drunks. 

It is a great resort if you like to sit on the beach or at a pool.  I counted eight pools.  One had a waterfall, another had a volleyball net.  Most had swim up bars.  At first I thought there was no way I could sit on the beach or at the pool and do nothing but read and talk to the other parents.  By the end of the week, I couldn’t wait to find my friends and sit with them.   It took me a couple of days to relax into the routine, but I managed to do it.    

As much as I loved it, Beaches had an artificial feel to it. It was as authentic as Bush Gardens.  I felt like I was in a bubble.  A safe, clean, fun bubble.  I guess that’s what most visitors are going for.  But compared to Costa Rica, it seemed rather sterile.  Costa Rica has beaches and mountains, plus volcanoes, rain forests teeming with wildlife, river rafting, zip lines, and hiking.  At the first hotel we stayed at in Costa Rica, our balcony faced the rain forest.  Each morning we watched a different species of monkey swing through the trees as they ate their breakfast.   The towns we drove through in Costa Rica were poor, but not poverty-stricken.  The houses were small, but well-kept.  Driving between the beaches and the mountains in Costa Rica was like riding a real-life roller coaster. 

By comparison, we never left the resort in Turks and Caicos except to travel to and from the airport.  The rest of the island looked dry, windy and desolate.  The same type of concrete building that looked festive at the resort looked lonely on the rest of the island.  I half expected to see John Wayne on horseback and tumbleweeds rolling along the streets. 

If I had to choose between Costa Rica and Beaches, I would choose Costa Rica.  Unless, of course, my brother Guido decides to go to Beaches to celebrate his and his wife’s 60^th birthdays.   For that, I could manage another trip to Beaches. 

   

The Missing Years, Part 2

The purpose of the Missing Years was to find a new man who was more compatible than Billy, or so I thought.  I dated a few guys and they were mostly jerks (not all of them).  One guy clearly had a checklist in his head and I could tell he was comparing me to the list during our date.   Apparently I didn’t measure up because at the end of the date he said "nice meeting you" and drove off.  That was that.  

I started to get depressed.   One night in early December I just wanted to sleep and forget about what a mess I had let my life become. 

I woke up the next morning to the sound of pounding on my door.  My secretary and paralegal came to check on me because I did not show up at work.   I think they had seen this coming.  They convinced me that I needed to be hospitalized.

Who do you think took me to the hospital that night?  Billy.  Who came to visit me every day while I was in the hospital?  Billy.  He took care of me even though I was in the process of divorcing him.  Now you know why I say I was such an idiot.  Billy is, hands down, the best person I have ever known. 

The first day in the hospital I received a phone call.  The general counsel of the company I worked for took the time to call me, one of his many lawyers, while I was in a mental hospital, to give me his personal support.  I will never forget that. 

The first night, I woke up and I could have sworn I saw a light shining into the room from the doorway.  Turns out it was just that.  The nurses checked all the rooms periodically during the night.  Creepy.

I spent 11 days in the hospital.   Even though I went in voluntarily, I could not get out until the doctors determined I was not a threat to myself.   So I spent the time convincing the doctors that I was not suicidal so they would let me go home.  

I can’t say being in the hospital helped.   I went home almost as depressed as when I went in.    

The only thing I learned while there was that the other patients in my ward were just like me.  All of were seemingly normal people struggling with issues that were too big to conquer without help. I think the time I spent in the lounge talking to the other patients did more good than the therapy sessions.

Some of you reading this may be wondering—should she be disclosing that she spent time in mental hospital when she needs to find a new job?  The answer is a resounding yes.   At my stage of life, a new employer needs to be prepared for what I am, warts and all. 

More importantly, I want to emphasize that depression is an illness like any other.  If I had been hospitalized for a broken leg or a heart attack, I would not be ashamed to talk about it.  I might not go out of my way to bring it up, but it is a fact.   And I am not ashamed.   It happened, it’s over, and it’s not likely to happen again.  I stay on my medications and see a therapist.   I have children who need me, a family that supports me, and a lot of friends who have stood by me.  Plus there’s also the thing about not pissing God off.  I really don’t want to do that.

Although I went looking for someone new during the Missing Years, what I found was me.  I started to do all the fun things things I wanted to do, but never felt I could for some reason. I went on my first cruise, went skiing at Park City and Vail, and took my first trip to Europe.  I stopped limiting myself.  

Growing up, we always talked about doing fun things, but we rarely did them.  I don't know how many times my dad promised to take us to Europe, but of course he never did.  He always said we couldn't afford it.  Yet he managed to visit Europe several times on his own. 

One day early in my career, I got onto the elevator with a colleague from my law firm, and a friend of his was also on the elevator.  They started talking and the friend said he had just returned from a ski trip to Austria.  Listening to him describe his trip, I thought to myself that I would never be able to do that. Why, I don't know.  But thanks to my good friends Nancy and John from the Richmond Ski Club, I did just that a few years later.  I had always wanted to visit the Alps.  They were just as majestic as I had imagined, even more so covered with snow.  

Skiing in Europe is quite different from skiing in the U.S.  Unlike resorts in the U.S., the trails in Europe are not marked very well, I think because people are allowed to pretty much ski wherever they like.  Unlike the U.S, Europeans are not concerned about legal liability.  People don't sue as much in Europe because in Europe, the loser pays the winner's legal fees.  That discourages frivolous lawsuits.  Why don't we do that in the U.S.?  Because in the U.S., the policy is to encourage free access to the court system.  It's a double-edged sword.

I learned a lot about myself during the Missing Years.  I'm not an athlete but I didn't let that stop me.  I was a terrible skier, but I did it anyway.  I had so much fun traveling with my friends, visiting new places, trying new food and enjoying the magnificent scenery from the tops of the Rockies and the Alps.  It was so worth it and I'm glad now that I said "yes" every time Nancy invited me on a trip.  Thank you, Nancy.   And thank you John.  I hope there are well-groomed trails and ski lifts with no lines in heaven. 

I learned how to take charge of my life while in Austria.  In Europe, people do not que up for the ski lift, buses, or anything else for that matter.  In the lift line, everyone sort of nudges themselves to the front of the line.  If you are not assertive, you get left behind.  I went to Austria with members of the Richmond Ski Club, and Richmonders are unfailingly polite.  For example, it is considered  bad form here to blow your car horn in traffic.  I once sat in line to pay a toll on I-95 while the woman at the head of the line got out of her car, walked around to the back, and retrieved her purse from the trunk so she could pay the toll.  No one honked at her.  We all sat there patiently waiting for her to find her money. 

So in Austria, a group of us Richmonders would get in "line" for the ski lift.  I would nudge my way forward, looking down at my skis to make sure I wasn't running over anyone else's skis.  When I got to the lift, I would look behind me and see the rest of my Richmond friends still at the back of the crowd!   There I was, getting onto the chair while my friends waited patiently for their "turn."   When you see your chance, you gotta take it.  

On to Part 3:  Billy takes me back. 
Below-- me on my first cruise.  1990.  Check out the gold lame jumpsuit.  Audrey recently wore it to a party as a joke!  It was pretty cool back then, or so I thought.  

The Missing Years, Part I

The funny thing about hitting rock bottom is that you don’t always know you have reached it until you are on the way back up.  It’s not like there is a “thud” sound.  I’ve fallen into the black hole of despair on more than one occasion but the good news is that I have only hit rock bottom twice.  The bad news is that I have hit rock bottom two times.  The second time was last September when I started to drown in the toxic soup.  The first time was in December of 1990 after I made the biggest mistake of my life.   I threw away the best thing that ever happened to me.   Fortunately, the first fall to the bottom has a happy ending.  

I never expected to get married or have children.  I was the brainiac of the family and my father’s expectations of me—and my expectations for myself—were that I would have a career as a lawyer.  

I was the typical dorky, spectacled geek all through school.  I always wore the ugliest glasses because my father would only pay for the cheapest pair of frames in the store.  We would go in and he would say “show me the cheapest pair,” and that’s what I would get.  It didn’t matter how hideous they were—and some of them truly were.  He said it was because I was just going to grow out of them anyway so way pay a lot? 

In truth I think he wanted me to be unattractive.  He was a control freak and if I was unattractive, no one would want me and he would stay in control.   He would say I was pretty in a way that suggested that I wasn’t, but that he loved me anyway.  

So I always believed I was unattractive. 

There was one person, however, who did not think I was unattractive.  He thought I was hot.

By the time I was a junior in college, my parent’s second marriage to each other was disintegrating, and my mother told me not to come home for the summer.  So I signed up for summer classes and stayed in Williamsburg.  I also got a job waitressing at a local hotel restaurant. 

On my first night on the job, the manager introduced me to the chef, a 30 –year old guy with little hair but bright blue eyes and an easy smile.  The manager introduced him as Billy.  My first thought was, “what is a 30 year old guy doing with a kid’s name like Billy?” 

His first thought was, “I wonder what she has underneath that blouse.”

A few weeks later, my roommates and I had a party and I invited Billy.  The rest, as they say, is history.  We started what I assumed would be a summer fling, and it has lasted almost 30 years.  With one big exception, which we have come to call “The Missing Years.”

We got married in 1985 after my second year of law school.   After I graduated, we bought a house near Richmond and I started working at the law firm.  After dreaming of becoming a lawyer since I was 12 years old, I had finally achieved my dream, and I hated it.  I walked into my office for the first time and thought, “I have to do this for 40 years?”

I don’t know when our marriage started to fall apart. In 1987, we got custody of Billy’s son from his first marriage, who was about 8 at the time.  Given what I have written about my childhood, it should come as no surprise that my parenting skills left much to be desired.   I was way too strict.  Billy, on the other hand, was way too lenient.  We could not come to any compromises on child rearing. 

Then, to make matters worse, I listened to someone who obviously didn’t know what she was talking about and let her convince me that I could do better than Billy.   I was a lawyer, after all, and he was just a chef.  I decided that I needed to be with another professional like myself.  What an idiot I was.  I moved out of our house in the summer of 1990 and got an apartment near my office. 

Your Sister Can't Twist (But she can Rock and Roll)

Oh your sister can't twist but she can rock and roll
Out bucks the broncos in the rodeo-do
She's only sixteen but it's plain to see
She can pull the wool over little old me
Your sister can't twist but she can rock and roll
Your sister can't twist but she got more soul than me

Your Sister Can’t Twist (But she can rock and roll), lyrics by Bernie Taupin

I was not the only child to suffer under our father’s regime.  There were four of us, and we each suffered in different ways.  My sister was the baby and caught the brunt of our father’s lunacy.   She was the last one at home, and after my mom left him for the last time, she was stuck with him.   He stopped buying food, so she had to buy her own food and hide it or else he would take it from her.  

Unlike me, she figured out ways to get around him.   She watched me trying to be good and do all the right things, and yet I got in trouble anyway.  She figured that if she was going to get in trouble for doing bad things, she might as well actually do the bad things.  And she did.  Let’s just say she had a good time in high school.     

For example, once when I was in college my parents came down to visit me.  My sister stayed home.  My dad told her not to take the old car because it was not running well.  Of course she took it.  She went to Annapolis to party.  And of course the car broke down on the way home and got towed.   

The next day, Sunday, she was frantic to get the car back before our parents came home.   She called the towing company.  It was closed but she got the owner on the phone.  Somehow she convinced him to tow the car back to the house.  

He brought the car back and asked her how it was parked in the driveway.  He put it in the same position, she paid him $70 cash, and he left.  As he drove up the road past our house, she saw our parents coming home.  They passed each other going in opposite directions. 

 

My dad tried to start the car later that day and naturally it wouldn’t start.  He didn’t understand why.  My sister kept mum.  

I defied my father only once when I was in high school.  I was going to NYC for a yearbook convention with my yearbook class.    The teacher had arranged for us to see two broadway shows:   The original Chicago, with Jerry Orbach and Ann Rankin, and Fiddler on the Roof with Zero Mostel.  But the tickets cost $20 each ($20!) and he said they were too expensive and I could not go to see them.

I wasn’t about to miss seeing Zero Mostel on Broadway,  so I paid for the tickets myself, which by the way, was not allowed.  My dad had this weird way of looking at things.  He said that anything we bought was actually his because if we had not paid for them, he would have.  That’s the reason why he took my sister’s food.  This makes no sense, but we could not argue with him.  If we did, we got slapped in the face for having a “smart mouth.”

I saw both shows—they were great—and never told my dad.  Until, that is, I was in my 30’s.    Even after all those years, he still got angry that I had defied him.   I could tell by the look on his face that he would have slapped me, except my step-mother (his fourth and last wife) was in the room and he didn’t dare show her what a monster he really was.  

My sister sowed her wild oats while she was in high school.  I would wait until I was 30 before I would cut loose.  It was a delayed adolescence, but with serious consequences.