During our stay in the Dominican Republic, we breakfasted together at the Villa Blanca Beach Club every morning. I was especially fond of their Chilaquiles.

After Kelly and I shared an early morning beach walk, she’d cool off with a swim, then join the rest of us for breakfast at the club.

There was usually a cat or two hanging around.

On more than one evening, we found ourselves at Enjoy Corales restaurant down the street.

Everything they served was delicious: pizza, pasta, Dominican dishes, seafood and salad.

Henry’s twin sister, Daisy, also attended The American School in Switzerland, so Bob has known them since he was fifteen.

Bob enjoyed a nice sole fillet with fries.

Ignoring the lettuce scare back home in the States, I often asked for salad. The raw vegetables always had that crisp, freshly-harvested texture, and I never got a hint of a bellyache.

Maya has a no-nonsense personality with a splash of spontaneity and a hint of wry humor.

It took a minute to choose a dish from the extensive menu unless you didn’t eat meat or fish. That made it easy for me—salad!—and then I’d turn into one of those people who yak at you while you’re trying to decide what to have.

What I love about the third world: signs that make no sense.

Me and Bob, Maya, Henry and Kelly, Nancy and Juan, and Daisy at (let me guess) table 31.

As a splurge one evening, we dined in style at the highly-rated Citrus.

A great smile starts inside, spreading to eyes and lips. Great smiles can be passed down from mother to daughter. From what I heard about Kelly’s mother, she is also golden inside and out. So that’s three generations of beautiful smiles, possibly more.

Turns out, the Villa Blanca Beach Club offered so much more than that: sprawling thatched palapas with cushioned seating situated between a great restaurant and the beach, with waitstaff offering cold drinks and warm food.

Villa Blanca reminded me of my high school art teacher’s beach club in Long Branch, New Jersey. Idle hours swimming, my skin turned mahogany, that salt water smell mixed with board wax and French fry grease, hanging out with my friends, Crosby, Stills, and Nash pouring from the speakers, and after-dark arthouse movies projected onto a screen set up in the sand.

Tiger-patterned cats with white feet patrolled the club in search of dropped fish tidbits. I didn’t mess with them, especially the notch-eared Tom, lording it over his domain.

For me, the best moments of any day are dawn and dusk. Being a morning person, I wake with a fully charged battery—so full of energy I feel I could eat the world—and get myself outdoors to embrace a new, honey-dipped day. Twelve or so hours later, after the heated bluster subsides, I celebrate those amber tones again.

In 1998, while walking the streets of Tianjin, I made up this little poem:

Embrace the morning
Endure the day
Celebrate the evening
Cherish the night

If things that lit me up were currency, I would be richer than Elon Musk!

For the first hour after the sun emerges from the Atlantic, it is only beach walkers.

The whole day stretching ahead like a magic carpet.

Once the sun is up, maintenance crews arrive to push around the sargassum, a floating seaweedy algae currently in bloom.

Each day’s sargassum washes up against a darker, older layer. We’d find a cut in the algae berm and wade into clearer water to swim. Later, after a shower, I’d see a stray sprig on the bathroom floor and laugh.

The palapa situation was super cushy. It was real fine watching everyone relax. Such a busy world we’ve made for ourselves with precious little time for doing nothing.

One afternoon a carpenter bee circled our heads looking for a hole to drill or one that it had already drilled. Ceaseless circling. Honestly, they seem so clueless I want to point to the hole and shout, “It’s right here, silly!”

Annoyed, the usually unperturbable Maya, blurted, “It would be nice to be in a room without flying bugs!” “All right,” I said, standing up, and went after the bee, clapping my rubber sandals together loudly until it flew off to find another palapa to pester.

I loved the ritual of rinsing the sand from my feet before climbing the stairs to the penthouse.

Saltwater is baked into my childhood. It’s where I learned to swim and where I played with my brothers, cousins, and friends for most of my childhood and a fair bit of my adulthood. I revel in ocean water, and the presence of algae only makes me feel more connected to this beautiful, unscripted world. Were it too perfect, I might have felt out of place.

Bob was a birder when I met him thirty-six years ago, but in an act of charitable solidarity, he chucked his life list and started over with a joint list for the two of us. No bird gets added until we both see it. In some cases, we’ll settle for both hearing the bird, as in the Yellow Cuckoo, a migrant we hear in our woods every summer but will probably never see.

We had 480 birds on our combined life list when we boarded our flight for Punta Cana, excited to add a few more. It’s worth mentioning here that there are about 10,000 species of birds worldwide, and that avid birders have lists in the thousands.

Explora Ecotour sent a driver to fetch us at 7:00 AM to take us an hour west of Punta Cana to Cotubanamá National Park on the Caribbean side. His name was Eduardo, and he pointed out sights along the way, including his neighborhood where he grew up and still lives.

Eduardo told us that when he was younger, Punta Cana was called Punta Borracho, which is Spanish for Drunk Point, but they changed it for obvious reasons. It would be fun to see if tourism revenue spiked after Punta Borracho became Punta Cana.

The only thing I want to say about Doña Pula is that when you see a giant woman in an apron, you have to stick your camera out the window and take her picture. We did not stop there to eat.

Our guide, Manny, spoke American English, had schooled in Florida, and started Explora Ecotour with his wife eighteen years ago. Manny was a delight and, we soon learned, politically aligned with us as all educated people tend to be. Funny how that is.

We met Manny at the end of the road on the east side of the resort and walked down a service road on the Parque Nacional Cotubanama side of the Cadaques Caribe Resort and Villas, turning at the beach and continuing south, a total of 1 1/2 miles.

The clouds had been threatening rain, but didn’t open up until we reached the beach, where we happily took cover in a maintenance shed. After the brief shower passed, we continued hiking south along a forest trail with views of the beach.

One of the first birds Manny picked out was the Vervain Hummingbird, which, at less than two and a half inches long including its bill, is the second-smallest bird in the world.

The Hispaniolan Mango hummingbird has a curved bill and is twice the size of the Vervain.

Palmchat (Dulus dominicus)

This cute little lizard’s for you, Steph.

Manny helped us add sixteen new birds to our life list, the most colorful being the Tody, a tiny bird related to the kingfisher with a bright green back, yellow underparts, a red chin, and pink flanks that it fluffs in warning. As in “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll cute you to death!”

It was at least an hour before Manny could lure the Tody into lens range. I wondered why he was trying so hard, telling myself, No big deal; we saw plenty of other birds, underappreciating his determination, until I saw it. Seriously, the Tody was the highlight of my day!

We saw Hispaniolan Woodpeckers during our walk with Manny, but Bob snapped this photo during morning coffee on our penthouse terrace.

No trip to the Caribbean is complete without a glimpse of the Magnificent Frigatebird, even if they are pirates. So are Bald Eagles and Brown Pelicans.

The skies were still moody on our drive back to Punta Cana, and we noticed several rock walls that resembled bulldozed rubble.

On the way home, Eduardo pulled over so that I could get a picture of a resort with a fanciful name. I asked Eduardo and Bob, if they had to choose, would they choose Secrets or Dreams? For me, I’d choose Secrets because secrets are usually juicier, with a more intelligible storyline. Which one would you prefer?

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.

Nothing added up: why the bird at the feeder looked like a dove with a big head when she knew it must be a juvenile cardinal or why, despite the unexpected coolness, the air refused to refresh, unwilling to reach the bottom of her lungs, or why the vaporous fabric of her dreams now enveloped her once-familiar back yard.

Everything seemed disturbingly out of reach, like a language she was suddenly unable to read, like a book held too close, like how the word elephant ceases to have any meaning after said aloud fifteen times.

She was torn between resistance and acquiescence. Should she square her frame and march forward with purpose, forcing the day to come into intelligible focus? Or flop into the hammock and rock herself back into a comfortable stupor?

This hazy dilemma was proof that she needed no outside stimulus to keep herself amused. Her imagination had followed her into retirement like a faithful dog and she would not want for entertainment.

Blah, blah blah, practicing cursive. Sometimes cursing. Musing, venting, observing, and occasionally writing stories. Perfecting comma placement.

On a good day, I take my coffee to the back porch rocking chair and let the words flow, distracting myself from the day ahead, the number on the bathroom scale, the unbearable headlines, and my stagnant dumbells.

This is my “Me” time, filling pages with ink I buy off Amazon. It’s a good way, a friend reads somewhere, to stave off dementia. Something about the hand-eye-brain connection that differs from fingers on a keyboard.

On a not so good day, I don’t have or take the time to sit on the back porch with paper and pen. When this notebook is full I’ll add it to the stack of already-full notebooks, building my tower of words one inch at a time.

I first heard about this relatively new park four years ago from my friend, Amy. She also wonders if Cane Creek might be an epicneter of unusually good weather.

We always meet in the parking lot where we admire the forest green trees against that piercing blue sky with the white white clouds. I’m sure I’ve told her how some day I’m going to crochet an afghan in these colors because it’s the thing I usually say in situations like this.

After Cane Creek built the Monadnock Lookout Tower, Amy said, “Let’s go!” so we picked a date in May.

We were halfway up the 80-foot tower when Amy turned and told me that she has an uneasy relationship with heights. However, she pushed ahead and 70 steps later Amy was standing on top.

I scanned the horizon, trying to pick out landmarks and vowed to bring my camera with the big lens next time.

Six weeks later I returned with Emma, who when I told her about the tower, had said, “Let’s do it.” Once again, it was a perfectly crisp, dry morning. I swear this is some kind of Alamance County Park juju.

Emma and I head up the trail at what I think is a respectable pace until we are passed by a jogger, a thin woman who shouts over her shoulder, “Therapy!” in response to my, “You go!”

Emma confesses that she isn’t comfortable with heights, so I suggest she go first like Amy did in order to strike her own pace. “The platforms are the worst,” she says. “I don’t like how you can see through them.”

I consider this while staring through the metal grid, wondering what are the chances that two of my friends might express a desire to climb something that gives them the heebie jeebies.

I recently learned about the Visual Cliff experiments from the ’60s in which babies who would crawl across a platform to reach their mothers, refused when that platform was made of plexiglass. The hypothesis being that humans are hardwired to avoid the air space between trees lest we fall to our deaths.

My five brothers and I are all goats—we’ll climb anything—and I can’t wait to bring them here. Although they may not enjoy it as much as the towers they have to squeeze through locked gates to climb, those danger boys, now in their 60s and 70s.

Emma and I reach the big platform at the top with its sturdy rails and magnificent view, a giant American flag clapping for our triumph, and a nice breeze to wick away the sweat of our efforts.

I point out the nuclear plant some 40 miles to the south. I admire Emma’s courage, admire her for boldly pushing herself upwards to stand here in the breeze looking down into the overstory. She isn’t even holding on to the railing.

I point to the north, to a cluster of man-made towers and Emma says, “I think that’s Durham.”

After we’ve had our fill of thrill, we walk back down and take turns posing with the warning sign at the bottom. To wit:

Climb at your own risk. Falls from the tower may result in death or serious injury.
Tower may be used during park hours of operation only.
Do not climb on or lean over railing.
Visitors under the age of 18 cannot climb the tower without being accompanied by an adult.
Any visitors with health issues should be supervised while on the tower.
Park management reserves the right to close the tower at any time without notice.

We are nearly back to the lot when our jogger reappears. “Therapy!” I shout, and she laughs. “It beats housework!”

We stop to admire the way the sun is highlighting flora and fauna on the bank of a thin creek and crouch beside the wooden bridge to watch a half dozen damselflies flirt above the rocks.

I point out some chanterelles—Emma’s first—and she grows as excited as she did with the blueberries we’d been seeing along the trail. “We have to go foraging sometime!”

By the time we reach our cars, I am infused with friendship, endorphins, and hope. What a great use of tax dollars! What a great Country! This sure beats war and detention centers, ballrooms and arches. If Alamance County can do this, maybe the old U. S. of A. isn’t entirely broken.

We roll down the sheet and the light patchwork quilt Bob had made for us in Ghana, and turn towards each other. It’s sheet-washing day, Saturday, so we leave the bed unmade when we get up. I start undressing pillows while Bob goes into the kitchen to heat up our coffee. We open the windows and discover an unexpectedly cool day. 58°.

We’ve seen 101° this month and discovered that 92° is almost refreshing as long as the humidity is low. A full body reset. Seems we are ready for summer.

I have mixed feelings about the solstice. I don’t want the days to get shorter. Well, a little shorter might be good. At 14 1/2 hours, they drag on more than I’d like.

Can’t they just stay the same? That’s what I love about the tropics, I tell anyone who asks. I love the predictability of a twelve-hour day. I’m not into roller coasters.

“Take it one day at a time,” Bob says when I bring it up. “Be here now.” He’s been doing a lot of meditating, been reading about mindfulness and non-duality. He is very chill these days, extremely patient, and I am learning from his good example.

As retirees, we have the luxury of time. No need to stress unless we cram our calendars, which we tend not to do. Time is fertile ground for mindfulness. I will savor my early morning goosebumps without dreading the sweaty summer afternoons ahead. We can afford to be chill. No need to sweat that which has passed or has yet to pass.

Another do-over. The clumped clay rubble where the old propane tank used to live will slowly become a soft, pain-free place for bare feet.

You wonder why it took so long to do something about the west side of the house. For years, you diligently blasted the sparse weeds along the brick skirting with your electric trimmer, telling yourself, “Nothing wants to grow here in the shade of the fig,” without a thought to amending the soil or sprinkling seed.

Last year, masons repaired the wall, making everything worse, so that only the hardiest weeds took root. You clicked your tongue and hurried by on your way to the laundry line or to inspect the chestnut trees for Japanese beetles.

And then a few months ago, it got even uglier when you changed propane vendors. Euliss, the new company, sent out a crew to deliver a horizontal tank to replace the old one, leaving a mound of clay clods and three concrete blocks where the upright tank used to sit.

You haul off the blocks and rake the barren dirt smooth, then stand back, pleased with yourself for having “fixed” the problem, and continue walking past the grey scar for another month or so.

Then one morning in that stolen hour between coffee and the meaty part of your day, you wander outside to pull a few cool breaths and see those leveled dirt clogs in a different light. You get out the wheelbarrow, roll back the tarp over the compost pile, and get to work.

Be kind to these tender seedlings, you tell yourself sprinkling water in a soft, fine spray—protect them, believe in them, and they will thrive.

It wasn’t laziness that kept you from fixing this eyesore, it was lack of imagination. You don’t have to accept anything that does not serve you. Barren ground can always be amended and a new story, if tended, will take root.

I’d rather not start work so early, but shout I must because . . . well I don’t know why.

After I’m done making myself heard I’m ravenous, and unless one of those large, featherless birds have forgotten to stash their seeds, leaving a pile out in the open for all to steal, I must hunt, pecking through dry leaves and old flower heads for anything with protein and fat.

It takes a lot of energy to defend my newly-acquired domain from other red-crested males. I fly at them in fury. Some of them don’t even try to get away, and they are so hard that it hurts my beak when I smash into them. There’s a rumor about us being fooled by our own reflection, that what clearly is another cardinal is not even a real bird, but I don’t believe in conspiracy theories.

When I have time to contemplate the mysteries of life, I wonder about the featherless birds. Why do they sit in their wood and glass cages most of the time? Why do they cage themselves at all? Not for me to know, though, and I am very happy about their unattended food because it makes my job so much easier, giving me more time to sing the most beautiful song of everyone, a song that will surely bring me the most deserving lady cardinal so we can make a family.

Yes, it takes plenty of calories to accomplish everything that must be done. And there’s no sitting still for any of us non-predators. No, we must twitch and fiddle, constantly swiveling our heads so that eagles and hawks think we are on to them. No napping, no sir. You nap; you die. Or another bad bird moves in on your territory.

I’m not gonna lie, although I quite like the notion of coupling with a supple babe—I can practically smell her warm feathers—I don’t look forward to the work that lies ahead.

Nest building, for one, is a huge undertaking. Then, after she of the yeasty smell produces eggs, I’ll be foraging for two until they hatch. Fetching food and bringing it back to my mauve beauty.

And, after those little darlings hatch, she and I will be foraging for them, too. And not just seeds. We have to go all carnivore, finding insects and grubs to help them grow their tiny selves. Carrying off their poop sacks. Trying not to get eaten or let anything eat them.

It’s all too much, come to think of it. Whoever said “Free as a Bird” was obviously not avian. It’s all exhausting! Oh how I wish I could sleep in for once!