All that blathering I did about coconut palms has unearthed a rather more serious issue than the mere hankering for fresh coconut water: the longing for a vacation.
Poor J has been pining for one for ages now, but it is only recently that I have contracted the contagion as well. I was afraid of this: that the moment L.A. no longer seemed remarkable in that it no longer felt 'foreign', I would begin to whine to get away.
Many moons ago we ran off to a little enchanted island for one shimmering week. Two days we spent in the strangely seductive, humid, tropically-colored capital, and then took one very dangerous bus-ride to a beach town four hours away. This beach, when we arrived, had me giddy with joy. (This picture was the view from our balcony.)
Even the daily afternoon rain did nothing to displease me. In fact, we would jump into the ocean when that happened. It was extraordinarily thrilling to be rained on while we were in the water, for some reason. Every morning they would bring us a grand pot of excellent coffee (one morning it was flavored slightly with ginger) that we would drink for about two hours. Through the days, we ate and drank like a famine was near. And in the evenings we took long, long walks along the curving beach, accompanied by one or two of the very individualistic dogs who called it home.
I don't think time has beautified the memories I have, meaning these memories aren't extra-glowing because a few years have passed. That short week really was perfect.
Coming back to the present, Montana has always appealed to me. Should I simply kidnap J and go off? It is time.