THE GOOD LIFE
VIRGIN TERRITORY
Rediscovering My Inner Beachcomber By DINA SANTORELLI
In any other year, Type A person that I am, the thought of lounging on a beach for five days would be totally unappealing. Not so in 2013, a time I like to call the Year of Upheaval. It was a year when I had to clean out my parents’ apartment, following the death of my mom in the spring and the caring of my father who had fallen ill a few months later. That summer, I was driving to hospitals in New Jersey while on deadline for a nonfiction book, Daft Punk: A Trip Inside the Pyramid (St. Martin’s Press, January 2014), and running off on day trips with my three children to make up for canceling all of our extended travel plans. It was a year of ups and downs and give and take and come October, I was emotionally and physically exhausted, just as the weather was turning cold and the hustle and bustle of the holidays were heating up. I planned a trip to the Virgin Islands’ St. Thomas for the end of October with a group of girlfriends—well, rather, one girlfriend and a trio of her
friends whom I barely knew, but I didn’t care. I needed out. After the Year of Upheaval, I wanted nothing more than to stick my toes—if not my head—in the sand and let the roar of the ocean drown out my mental to-do lists. The first thing you notice about St. Thomas when your airplane is beginning its descent into Cyril E. King Airport are the emerald green peaks of this largely mountainous isle. For such a tiny place—just over 31 square miles—the land is robust with lush zigzagging slopes through which, I discovered, vehicle drivers snake their way to their destinations in ways not unlike New York City cabbies. We were staying at the Ritz-Carlton, which is nestled within a 30-acre waterfront estate of white-sand beaches and tropical gardens. When I walked into the hotel lobby and immediately handed a fruity drink, I officially turned my brain to off. Initially, my girlfriend and
I, being over-scheduled New Yorkers, had all these grand plans for our time as island girls…excursions to neighboring islands, ferry rides, swimming adventures, visits to St. Thomas’ historical sites and museums and shopping in Charlotte Amalie, the capital city. However, for five glorious days, we barely left the resort. After sleeping in and spending entire afternoons lounging by the pool guzzling rum punches, we ended our days at nearby restaurants watching the sun set. At night, we became a slumber party of five middleaged women lying around our suite in our PJs, ordering pizza, watching reality shows and sharing the minutia of our lives. We did this every day and rather than be bored with the routine, I found I craved it. I took long, splendid showers, my only worry being whether or not my bathing suit dried out on the veranda in time for me to get it wet again. I ripped through the stack of entertainment magazines I brought with me dating back to the spring,
devouring write-ups of films I couldn’t even remember playing in theaters. The only real decisions I made involved red or white, pool or ocean and my choice of aromatherapy oil scent (I opted for pineapple) during my visit to the Ritz-Carlton’s spa, a West Indies-inspired seaside enclave. After 50 minutes of a Signature Massage, I emerged feeling like a young Achilles who had been held by her heel and dipped into a river Styx-like magic salve. My heart rate slowed to the beat of a lullaby, elevating only when a five-foot iguana, who was sunning himself, surprised me beside my beach chaise. And it rained only once during the vacation, one morning while we were having breakfast and stopped by the time we paid the check, the constant breeze of the island quickly causing the puddles to evaporate as if the storm clouds never stopped by. I often thought of my mom. In the past, I made a habit of calling her while on
vacation whenever I had a little downtime, to let her know all the things I’d seen and done, but most of all to let her know I was all right. I wondered what she’d think of this little sojourn of mine into luxurious repose, as it was from her I inherited my penchant for busyness. One of the things I kept from my parents’ apartment was a tiny piece of paper my mom used to display on her refrigerator door (and is now on mine) on which she wrote, in her distinctively flamboyant handwriting: “It’s the journey, not the destination.” The note serves as a little reminder for her life was a series of destinations and is not to be wasted on the anticipation of any one place. And it will forever remain a reminder to me—her Type A progeny—to enjoy every single one of them, be they full of activity or otherwise. Still, after five days of luxurious nothingness, I was ready to return to the chaos I call home. SE
After 50 minutes of a Signature Massage, I emerged feeling like a young Achilles who had been held by her heel and dipped into a river Styx-like magic salve.
112 SHAWN ELLIOTT LUXURY