A Week in the Tropics

EVEN THOUGH my triumphal re-entry into Philadelphia late last Saturday was aboard a wheelchair rather than a quadriga (chariot with four horses to you non-Latinists), Eve and I had a wonderful week in St. Maarten/St. Martin, Dutch/French Antilles. We'd flown out the week before during a temporary lull in the barrage of snowstorms plaguing this area, and spent the next seven days under clear skies reveling in 80-degree temperatures.

Just around the corner from our Dutch-side villa was Cupecoy Beach, one of the island's famous clothing-optional bathing venues. When I noticed that I was the only male on the beach wearing swim trunks, I thought, "What the hell, when in Rome..." and took 'em off. Never thought I'd do that. Such is the magic of SXM. It's interesting how the standard-issue human body, after a certain age, is not really all that erotically stimulating. I was reminded of a herd of elephant seals on a rocky beach in sub-antarctic South Georgia.

The rest of the time, we toured the island over its narrow, traffic-choked roads, enjoyed a couple of truly outstanding meals at Le Bistro Nu in Marigot and the Calmos Cafe in Grand Case, explored the ruins of Fort Louis in Marigot, and lounged around the pool at our Ocean Club villa.

Of course, I was not going to be allowed to get away with so much enjoyment scot-free. On the Friday before we left, all the rich food and drink started to blossom into an excruciating flare-up of gout in my left foot, and by the time our plane landed in Philly, I could hardly walk and every step felt as if it was through broken glass. Hence the wheelchair.

Would I do it again? You betcha! Wheelchair and all.