We packed our suitcases and left our baggage behind

White Christmas trees line the beach.

We woke to quiet on New Year's morning. Home, after ten days of noisy toads outside our window at night and bustling, chirping, sugar finches all day. Friends, from The Artistic One's past, had been inviting us to visit on St Martin's Island, since they moved there in 2004.

This is the view from their property, at the top of the hill.

Half French, half Dutch, the island is a cruise ship port of call and has the main international airport you'd fly through on your way to St Barthes or Anguilla. It really does have white sandy beaches and warm turquoise waters with coconut palms swaying in the sea breezes.

We were not sure that we would get there and even less sure we'd get home to California. When I went to check in online, the morning of our departure, TAO handed me his French passport. In his mind, he was off to France and that was all he needed, with no thought to the return journey and getting through customs and immigration in the US.

 Insouciant Mer-Man

What should have been a simple step of pulling his blue passport out of his passport file, turned into a major search, which was unproductive. Coat pockets turned inside out, unzipping every compartment in all the suitcases in the garage and, finally, heading out hours earlier than planned to see if the missing passport was at the office for some reason. Niet, Nada, Nichs!
I keep photocopies of TAO's documents, for obvious reasons. I was able to use his passport number to check in and print boarding passes. SFO has a self-serve scanner at check-in and the young woman who looked at our passports was comparing photos to passengers, not passport numbers to boarding passes, so we slipped through O.K.
Landing In St Maartens with an EU passport was not a problem and we were met by warm air and smiling old/new friends. After a shower and change we went to the supermarket together, as it was Christmas Eve and provisions must be gathered. There was no doubt that we were in a French community, except the fresh produce was virtually non-existent. Not a salad to be had.

The veggies come in from France but won't land at the international airport, as it's on the Dutch side of the island and there must be some taxes or some other deterent. The goods are flown to French Guyana and transferred to a smaller plane that flies in weekly to the local landing strip.  The cauliflowers on display had brown spots and were definitely worse for wear.
After the first few days we discovered that the Dutch markets had lovely fresh produce and we kept making forays to supplement our local diet of Foie-Gras and sugary rum drinks, to keep scurvy at bay. Our hosts told us that they once went to the Dutch produce store but no one spoke French so they don't like it.

Yachts being spruced up for incoming owners.

We went from table to beach, to table, to pool, to table. We had some of the best rose wines, no matter where we were.

YoYo, the iguana, made a surprise appearance by the pool.

Not exactly dressage, but a once in a lifetime moment, nonetheless.

Lovely daughter and I had a private guided ride. We cantered along the sandy beach paths and experienced the joy that these horses have in going into the ocean. They really wanted to go deeper and swim. 

When it was time to head back to the US, we were prepared to leave TAO behind, if he wasn't allowed on the plane. We managed a smooth departure but were a bit apprehensive about  what might lie ahead.

Customs and Immigration in Charlotte, NC, as 2012's last few hours trickled down. Surges of humanity, all with somewhere to be, other than at the airport. A customs agent who took our party of three in turn. 

I remember a song from Sesame Street, "One of these things is not like the other ones. One of these things just doesn't belong", that was how our passports looked; two blue and one burgundy. We were in the US resident queue. Eyebrows were raised. "He is a US citizen" I said. "He just doesn't know where his passport is". "We have a photocopy and his original citizenship certificate. Will that do?" The agent checked in his computer and TAO must have been in there without too many red flags. He considered a moment and let us through. I thanked him heartily and let him know I was aware he could have made our passage much more difficult.

Safely back home in California in the small hours of the first morning of 2013, greeted by temperatures close to freezing. We were as disoriented as if we'd been away for months. 

St Martins is our new favorite destination. We'd go back in a heart-beat.

Speedos, or Nothing...

One last post before we go. I can't believe I ordered a bathing suit online, and it fits. I had to cut out the underwire cup supports. Whose idea were they? It's bad enough trying to wriggle into a bright turquoise patterned, ruched sausage skin, without rigid bands of metal defying the very intent of streeeetch fabric and clouding the forecast of oceanside relaxation.
Last night, in between nursing poor Honor, who was quite miserable, recovering from spay surgery, I got out the Nair. In defiance of those nasty ladies with the hot wax, a pretty successful attempt was made to clean up my act. Pedicure at 9am tomorrow, and I will be beach ready.
(Any potential robbers out there, "forget it, we gave already" and we have house/cat-sitters so double darn to you).
St Martins, Isle Saint Martins, St Maartens is home to a friend of The Artistic One, and he's been inviting us for years. I fully expect to spend time listening to war stories of youthful escapades, from two Septuagenarians in Speedos, who haven't met face to face for three decades. Lovely daughter is accompanying us. We'll have a real generational sampling. I hope, for her sake, she'll find some other age-compatible islanders. I suspect they'll be buzzing around like bees in no time. Why wouldn't they?
I've researched the equestrian facilities and I'm taking my riding kit. Although all the photos are of tourists in short shorts, riding their horses in the surf, I have hopes of some real riding too.
We are making this the extent of our family present exchange, although there will, of course, be gifts for our Host and Hostess.
The Artistic One has packed his watercolor paints and brushes. His memories are tangible. I can't wait to see them unfold.