[Photo above:We booked room 153 at the local Holiday Inn Express. Kate was skeptical at first, but she eventually got used to the lack of running water, outdoor plumbing, and the manage of little critters that scampered about at night. Just kidding.]

[New photo gallery uploaded: 1/31/2010: Horizontal Elevators & Rubber Gloves]

Earlier this past week, after eight days of hot, sweaty and relatively successful work on the boat, Kate decided it was time for us to take a day off (that's sick isn't it!) and get reacquainted as a couple, so we planned a trip to Grand Case on the French side of the St. Maarten. First, I had to create and send a full page ad for our real estate business to Bill Brooks, publisher of Urban Times in Indianapolis. I began at 7:00 a.m. and emailed Bill a 3.7 meg file by 1:00 p.m., a whole day before deadline. So began my day off.

There are several options for travel on the island, some better than others. Car rental can be expensive. Scooters are hard to find. Cabs cost $10 to $15 per person for a one way trip to any place worth visiting, so has Kate mastered the art of travel via the local bus system. Calling it a system is a stretch, but it's cheap and gets you where you want to go - eventually. Did I also mention it's cheap.

To catch a bus, you jump up and down and wave your hands at the next one traveling your way. If it's not already full, and if you're lucky, it'll stop. Most island buses are panel vans modified with windows and seats added. Your average bus holds fourteen passengers fully loaded. Most busses have "jump seats" that fold down to make room for two or three more aisle blocking butts, and trust me, despite the French influence, there are some pretty wide loads that ride the busses of St. Maarten. This all sets up a game of butt shuffling that goes like this:

The last riders on the bus take the fold down jump seats when the regular seats are full. The last riders on are rarely first off, so when someone shouts "STOP HERE", the customary means of hailing a stop, the driver jams on his brakes, pulls over, and the jump seat butt shuffle begins.

Since jump seats block egress, riders in those seats must climb off the bus so the stopper, usually in the very back, climbs over someone's well-fed grand mama to debark. Jump riders move quickly to vacated seats in the back so they don't have to play jump seat jump up at the next stop. Passengers waiting to board the bus wait patiently for the butt shuffle to end before boarding. They know the game.

Island busses are basically horizontal elevators; they just have wheels instead of cables. Similar riding rules and etiquette apply. If your cell phone plays reggae hip hop, make sure the volume is turned all the way up so everyone on the bus can enjoy your tunes. Don't sit backwards in your seat. Stare straight ahead and look at folks only from the corners of your eyes. Though English is a first or second language for most folks here, striking up a conversation with strangers you can understand is hit or miss, as illustrated during a hailed stop.

A young man with streaky, unkempt surfer hair, baggy knee length pants, and a well worn canvas pack shouted "STOP HERE", so the driver pulled over. The lad handed the driver a buck and opened the side door to get out. The driver took the buck and in barely understandable island speak with a waving hand asked the young man not to slam the door when he got off.

Not understanding, the young man smiled and slammed the door anyway, but he noticed the driver waving and trying to say something to him, so he reopened the door. The exasperated driver repeated his request that the door NOT be slammed. The second request was more animated and inflected than the first, and it was clear the young man couldn't understand a word the driver was saying, so he slammed the door a second time.

The whole exchange lasted just seconds, but the locals who could understand the driver's dialect were hooting and hollering like they just found Jesus at an island tent revival. The young girl next to me choked back tears and laughter as she muttered "Lord, mercy". The ride cost us a buck a piece. The entertainment was free. Not a bad deal all things considered.

We actually enjoy traveling via bus on St. Maarten. The wait between busses is tolerable if you let go of any expectation they ought to run on a schedule. You get to see the island instead of worrying about crashing a rental car or running over a dog or wandering pedestrian. When you do you strike up a conversation with someone you can understand, you may learn where to find the best ribs or barbecue chicken on the island.

We arrived eventually at Grand Case and wandered down to The Perfect Pot, a place we visited last time we were on the island. There were three roosters running around a weathered, wood planked porch, but the place was closed for lunch, so we left and meandered about until we reached LeShore, a sleek, European style, beach restaurant. Le Shore was closed for the afternoon, but its amply endowed French owner encouraged us to check it out. We toured the place and marveled at its impressive mellons, err menu, deciding then and there to return on a Friday night when they serve up live jazz with the cordon bleu.

Crand Case is the epicurean epicenter of the island. There are all sorts of international flavors from which to choose operated by expatriates from a feast of nations. Many are open only in the evening, so we drooled at menus posted outside, growing hungrier as we worked our way down the main drag. A requisite smattering of t-shirt joints and boutiques selling sexy sarongs and island dresses beckoned as did displays of fashionable evening wear. This was not a jewelry capital however; that's Philipsburg. We wandered through a boutique or two so Kate could keep her serotonin levels high and not feel the trip to Grand Case was a total waste of time.

We found a bus stop in Grand Case and caught the first of three busses that returned us to Simpson Bay and Myananda. During the ride, Kate proffered that Grand Case was a place she could live. I spent a couple days trying to fathom what the hell that meant but opted to keep my wonderment on lock down. The subject did not resurrect, and the moment passed as her serotonin levels returned to normal. There's nothing wrong with Grand Case, but I had a sense I'd go mad there trying to cover the cost of eating out by selling palm frond baskets on the boardwalk or beach scenes I painted on weathered dock planks.

Back aboard Myananda our day mellowed with top shelf margaritas and another spectacular sunset. I dealt with a fleeting moment of guilt by reminding myself I had earned the right to enjoy this day off by spending the last week working my ass off on Myanada. Yeah, the To Do list was still there, but it'll always be there. If I was back home, it'd be the same thing only different, not quite an epiphany.

I held on to this thought as I mulled over the best way to decalcify the bottom of Mya-dinghy tomorrow morning. The solution dawned on me as I watched Kate washing dishes in the galley. She had no idea what was in store for her Tuesday morning, but it involved a scraper, a pair of neoprene gloves, and her new French bikini. I'm nothing if not easily entertained.