Like any good German Catholic daughter I thrive on routine and purpose and there is none of this in Jamaica. I'll calm down in a couple of days I tell the housekeeper. She has been summoned as I have dropped a bottle of red nail polish and my bathroom looks like the slaughter of the Innocents.
Activities people wear whistles around their necks and they prowl the rows of beach chairs looking for people who might be fun. My nose is in my book and after awhile they stop trying to make eye contact. My husband, of course, is every activties person's poster child and they all know his name and his story.
Cowboy Dave has met many new playmates and I remind him that he must not introduce me to any of these people. They are farmers and construction builders, beer salesmen and nurses. They are mostly from the northern states of the Midwest and the Canadian provinces with a few Brits thrown in. Those English people go everywhere. This is not a theme park so the Asian division is not represented. Let me explain what appears to be political awkwardness on my part but the Japanese are rude travelers and I have met many sane people who share this opinion. There are a few Spaniards wearing spandex on the far end of the beach and hopefully, they will stay there.
We dine on strip steak and a marvelously rich gumbo and I excuse myself back to the deliciously quiet solitude of my room and Dave explores the nightlife. The next morning as we walk about the property strangers are seeking Dave out, slapping his back and speaking to him with a touch of awe and marvel in their voices. Evidently, the cowboy was the star of the island's entertainment last night winning a reggae dance contest and beating one of the activities kids in a push-ups competition. It's amazing what a consistent supply of Appleton rum will do for a person.