Retreating to an Island--and Learning to Be One
What's so sublime about being on a tropical beach where you know nobody is, you can wear your unattractive, black, one-piece YMCA bathing suit with abandon. You don't have to suck your stomach in, walk backward or wear a sarong to cover those parts of yourself you're too scared to have surgically corrected.</br></br>I learned that after my birthday last year. It was not a milestone birthday, but a birthday nonetheless, and my husband wanted to plan a small soiree. I said, No thank you. He offered to purchase a sweater I had been coveting. I replied, Not necessary.</br></br>What, then? What could he assemble to commemorate the day I was born on a gurney in a blizzard in Washington, D.C.?</br></br>I finally confessed that I wanted to escape. To travel somewhere that didn't resemble midtown Manhattan in January. I knew my husband had work and my children had school, so this would only come to fruition if I went solo. And with this knowledge came the realization that I yearned to be alone. For the first time in 10 years. I was barking like a seal.</br></br>I left New York City for Turks and Caicos on a rather rainy and tempestuous morning, jostling my way down the JetBlue aisle in my down parka with a hefty duffel on one shoulder. On the other was a straw Calypso bag stuffed with magazines like the Economist and Newsweek (OK, US Weekly and People). I was fuming that the TSA had confiscated my sunscreen. Three hours, two crossword puzzles and half a novel about a juicy divorce later, we hovered over a paradise of crisp white sand and sparkling turquoise water. When I walked off the plane I was hit with such a mighty gust of humidity that it caused me to tear off my jacket, sweater and scarf like they were covered in fire ants. I was ushered through customs with my hair matted to my damp, pasty face.