A Saban dance hall, a pizza, a good night’s sleep and still.  This day 2 hasn’t even started.

When I was a child, I enjoyed rainy days.  Forced inside-ness.  While everyone was complaining about the weather, I secretly loved being made to play Monopoly, sit by the fire, and have my Mom’s grilled cheese-tomato soup combo.  My personality longed to practice cursive writing and play cards.  Everyone was excited that the sun came out behind the clouds.  Everyone, but me.

“But the afternoon is opening up (post 50 years old), intellectual, cultural, spiritual activities that were pushed aside…” I read this just now.

“Even between the closest human beings, infinite distances continue to exist.  A wonderful living side by side can grow up if they succeed in loving the distance in them which makes it possible for each to see the other whole and against a wide sky.” (I am still quoting and writing Gift From the Sea in my Saba morning, day 2.  My long story on Saba started here, and on Day 1 and Day 2.

“On this island, I have had space.  Paradoxically, in this limited area, space has been forced upon me.”

This is me this morning.  Forced space.  “We cannot afford the luxury of silence-we must exam every available instant with conversation.”

Out of the welter of life, a few people are selected for use by the accident of temporary confinement in the same circle:  So far:

  • Michael, an MIT grad living in San Francisco, traveling east to meet his love, whom he met in college.
  • The elderly couple-a gay funeral director and his partner, a court reporter.  Much loving conversation about our politics and our country, and I want to get in their suitcase and go to St. Maarten with them.
  • Florida man:  DISCONNECT! DISCONNECT!  OK!
  • Anguilla cranky old man who has to go to New York now, and shovel snow.
  • K-an athlete on Saba, a Doctor who teaches at the University, Edwin who has my ex-husband’s name.

And all the while, people greet me VERMEULEN!  Because my last name is Dutch, they think I speak Dutch, and talk to me in Dutch, and after awhile I give up.  I eat Stroopwaffles on the plane, and give in to my borrowed Dutch heritage.

I am not Dutch.

“Plenty of solitude, and a sudden panic at how to fill it.”

My host tells me about church, about steak night at The Swinging Doors. I ask him about a lady whose number I have as a contact.  He says, you’re in luck.  She lives right below us.

I leave my phone in my room, and venture to town.  I’m in luck.  She is right there.

Advertisements