Three trips

Travel creates memories, both good and bad. The Hubs and I haven't traveled extensively but we've shared our ... moments.

When we flew to Santa Barbara (on-the-cheap and in pre-9/11 skies), the flight attendant literally dropped our meals on our trays and grunted, "Here's yer food." A decade later, The Hubs knows that whenever I carry food to him, he'll hear those three little words that warm his cockles: "Here's yer food."

One year we traveled to St. Thomas during the off-season. Negative: it was hotter than Hades; positive: we were the only two clients on a snorkeling trip aboard a beautiful old schooner. Although we were smaller people then than we are today, we weren't by any means average-sized people. A smallish man, the captain/owner of the schooner cautioned us both as we entered the water that he was neither young nor strong, "So don't go strokin' out on me." His care for our well-being (and his insurance premiums) was awe-inspiring, and his sentiments are repeated on the rare occasion when one of us puts forth enough energy to actually sweat.

Our first trip to St. Croix found us at a loss for understanding the lilting local West Indian dialect that is both similar to and different from what most of us think of as a Jamaican accent. When locals addressed questions to us, our responses were frequently non-committal noises somewhere between yes and no. Our hope was that one would assume the "right" answer and move on. Finally bored by the inability to communicate, The Hubs blathered on at length to a St. Croix local about some arcane piece of island trivia he'd read in a book. The only words we understood in two weeks were when the West Indian threw back his head in laughter and said very clearly, "You writeen' your own history now, mon." Yes, mon, he tends to do that.