There and Back again…

We weren’t planning on going anywhere for a good long while after surviving that thirteen-day trip last year, so when Henry and Kelly invited us to join them in the Dominican Republic the first week in August, I was surprised at how quickly we said, “Yes!”

We would be staying at the Ocean View Penthouse on Calle Pirata a block from Playa Arena Gorda in Punta Cana.

Bob and Henry have been friends since they were fifteen and roomed together at The American School In Switzerland. We knew we’d have a good time with him and Kelly because four years ago we’d celebrated Bob’s birthday with them at Kitty Hawk and had a blast.

 

To make this trip even nicer, they brought their daughter, Maya. Henry’s sister, Daisy, his brother, Juan, and Juan’s wife, Nancy, were also in town to attend to some family business.

We quickly discovered that Maya had a wonderful sense of humor and spoke flawless Spanish like her father. She ran interference between us and the locals and was also soon fixing all the old people’s smartphone issues.

Our daily routine looked like this: Henry, the provisioner, was the first up. He made coffee for the house. Next, Bob would pour himself a cup and join Henry on the terrazzo terrace.

About this time, the woodpeckers would start working their way up the palms outside the terrace.

Eventually, we’d all make it out there.

Next, Kelly and I would take a long walk on the beach, water swirling around our feet. Then we’d meet the others at Villa Blanca Beach Club. for breakfast. I was especially fond of the Chilaquiles.

By mid-morning we’d have a swim, followed by some world class lounging in a large thatched palapa with cushioned chairs and couches. Tough times.

Eventually Bob and I would leave the beach to siesta in our room. I would ground myself with some low level housework before lying on the cool floor to stretch. Then I’d join Bob on the bed to read Donna Tartt’s, “The Goldfinch” which, if you have not read it is most definitely a page-turner.

I enjoyed ducking through the Dutch door to the terrace to join the others or check the towels I’d left out to dry. It gave me the same secret thrill I used to get when I was eleven squeezing through a thin spot in the privet hedge between our house and the riding stables.

One day, after the tap water spurted and died, I took the blue mop bucket downstairs, dipped it into the swimming pool, and brought it back in case anyone wanted to flush a toilet.

We lost water twice, and Juan guessed correctly that it had something to do with the construction going on next door. Turns out they had broken the water main.

On about the third day, I ventured out in search of drinking water. I had been studying the foot traffic and felt I knew the formula that would paint me as a self-contained expat rather than a target for solicitation: boring green shorts, a baggy tee, money tucked into a pocket, nothing dangling from my shoulder, shoes and socks, a fast pace, and no gawking. It worked. Even the Poppi Express drivers ignored me when I hustled by with a bag of mangoes tied around one wrist and a gallon of water dangling from each hand. I was invisible!

You might say water was the overarching theme. Water for drinking swimming, and flushing.

It was off season and there was plenty of renovation going on: next door and on the street below, men chipping concrete using shovels, saws, and pick axes.

A pigeon on a roof made me think about my grandfather Frank Illo, with his dream of raising white pigeons once he retired from show biz in New York City. Sadly, that dream was never realized.

Five days flew by and we found ourselves at the airport queuing up for a 3:30 flight. It was noon. Bob steered us toward a side office where he bought us VIP passes so we wouldn’t have to stand in a herd of travelers waiting to pass through immigration and customs, a process that could take two hours.

Believe you me, I felt like a rich person as they ushered me down a deserted corridor. Well worth the $35. It was a new program, he said when I asked how he’d heard of it, and he’d seen it on Reddit or TripAdvisor. Pays to have your own travel agent browsing for deals.

Thirteen hours later, we’d arrive home, porch light glowing, with its good well water, and cool summer hot tub, our heads buzzing with memories. No beach to greet us in the morning, no friends to share coffee with on the terrace. Just the finches clamoring for seed, the hummingbirds hoping for sugar water, and the garden sagging with unharvested fruit.