Resort living
“This is just like Hawaii!”, exclaimed my sponsor. He was sitting on my couch, which doesn’t remind many people of Hawaii. Actually, no one previously had made even a vaguely Pacific remark about it.
“What do you mean? What’s just like Hawaii?”
“Well this,” he gestured around the room. “The windows open, ceiling fans running, the door wide open, not even a screen door. When the breeze blows through, if feels just like Hawaii.”
Admittedly, it was a mighty fine day yesterday—sunny, dry, 70s, light breeze. Still, Hawaii hadn’t popped into my mind.
“Well if this is Hawaii,” I said, “then I want my money back.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s not a palm tree around, no one’s offered me a lei, nor have I seen any cute surfer boys.”
The closest I’d seen, not an hour before, was a barefoot rasta mon skateboarding down Goodman Street wearing enough gold chains to drown if he ever came within 50 feet of a puddle. Granted, Jamaica is an island with palm trees, but rasta is a completely different state of mind. Different ocean too.
I suppose though, that to an owner of a large home, my apartment could feel like a small resort suite—kitchenette, balcony, private entrance, fountain gurling outside the window
Ahhh yes Just add a cute waiter bringing me something served in a coconut. Yeah, I could see it.
