Of Passion, Poetry and Papayas

It was predictable. Yes, there she was: the girl in the bikini, blithely looking out into the ocean. It was a turquoise sea with placid waves. Half a mile from the shore a sand bank tamed the onrush of the surf, and only a lazy Caribbean murmur was perceptible.

The sun had left its mark on the European tourist. Under her bikini one suspected very white skin, since the natural blonde hair somehow did not match the milk chocolate of her tanned legs. Was she Dutch or maybe French? My guess: she was from some green village with little narrow canals and many cows and geese. No big-city girl. Her bikini was not the latest fashion - nor did she read People, Paris Match or Der Spiegel. I noticed she held a book of poetry in her hands - from a distance you could distinguish the breakdown of the page into verses, not paragraphs as in a novel. Could it be Baudelaire? Eichendorff? Heaney? Maybe Neruda?

I approached her, since she was alone, asked her for the hour (just before I had removed my watch, leaving tell-tale signs on my wrist). Even looking at the sun, I already knew it was around noon. I noticed she wore neither wedding nor engagement ring, but a small signet ring on her left pinky. Aha! Upper class, maybe pretentious, or just habit, a harmless family tradition. My eyes caressed her ring, her fingers, and moved up swiftly, feeling the length of her body. I was startled by her eyes, thinking she was inspecting me in the same fashion. Maybe I blushed. She did not. But I enjoyed discovering a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. Her eyes were that kind of blue that made me think of icebergs off the coast of Norway ... pretty much of a contrast with the tropical environment of our island resort.

Was my behaviour gauche? I tried to engage her in light conversation and was relieved to confirm my earlier intuition that she did not belong to the bovine category of tourists - nor to the flashy, loud New York type - hooked on CNN News and the politically correct comments about earthquakes in the Philippines, famine in Sudan, floods in the Netherlands and tornados in Oklahoma destroying the new bungalows of the Cherokee Indians. No, she reminded me of the more natural, less chip-on-the-shoulder girls of the ante-1968 generation.

She did not look like a smoker, nor did she carry a lighter with her. This pleased me, because I never particularly appreciated the aftertaste of cigarettes in someone else's mouth. I did notice that apparently she was not adverse to alcohol, since she had been sipping a Banana Daiquiri with nonchalance, playing with the straw when she was not drinking.

Just at this moment one of the beach bartenders came by to pick up orders and I risked looking supercilious by ordering a piña colada. Meanwhile I was fumbling with my camera and lenses, putting them in their respective cases. I stretched my towel on the sand and sat down.

"How long have you been here?"

- "Not nearly long enough," was her resolute reply. "Just under two weeks."

"Same here. And I'm staying for five more days."

- "Lucky you! Day after tomorrow it's all over for me."

I noticed the pattern on her bikini: little shamrocks on a Kelly green cloth. Funny, she did not look Irish at all. Nor did she have any trace of an Irish accent. By now I had decided that she could not be Scandinavian, since they always go topless. The more I studied her, the less she looked German or French - and surely not Italian. By process of elimination I determined she was Belgian, actually Flemish. So I brought the conversation to Jacques Brel, and no sooner had I mentioned "Marieke" that I learned she was from Hoeilaart, a woody suburb of Brussels. Yes, she liked Kriek and Lambic. No, she did not care for Hoeilaart wines. Too sour.

Bingo! It seemed we had more than a couple of things in common and that my little fishing expedition could be pursued:

"You won't believe this, but although I belong to the Beatles generation, I never quite felt their music. I preferred the Brel style, his message in "Quand on n'a que l'amour" or in "Ne me quitte pas".

- "Well, I do not quite belong to either generation - but, given the choice, I too prefer Brel to the Beatles. Actually, I have always been a fan of Joe Dassin and Reinhard Mey".

I started feeling very good. Was it the vibes, the sun or that intoxicating tropical breeze?

Out at sea novice water skiers were taking their predictable spills, which were not nearly as entertaining as the spectacular wipe-outs of the wind surfers. One of them was swimming ashore, pulling the board behind him. Later I learned that he had managed to break the mast. Typical beginner's "luck".

"Do you like water-skiing?" I asked her with a gesture as one who had just lost both his skis.

- "I don't know, I've never tried it. I think I prefer snow-skiing - you see, on the slopes you're free. It's you and the mountain. You go where you want to, even if you risk an avalanche when you venture hors piste. On the water you depend on the whim of the fellow pulling you - and you can only go right or left of the wake. What's worse, you always have the boat in front of you. You can never move to the fast lane."

"Come to think of it... I never liked being pulled myself."

While I was saying that, she closed the book over her index finger, so as not to lose the page. I finally saw what she was reading: an anthology of twentieth century poetry. Precisely at that moment the bartender came back with my piña colada. I paid him the $4 plus $1 tip he expected.

"Say, do you think that the beach is quite the right atmosphere for reading poetry?"

- "Well, maybe not, but I've been meaning to read this anthology for many months since I bought the book, and now I finally have the time to do so."

All of that sounded right on track. I was particularly enjoying the timbre of her voice and the slight accent. Obviously she had learned English in Great Britain - not in the Midwest. And then there was an intonation that I suspected was very much her own, not typically Flemish at all.

"Tell me, do you like American poetry?"

- "'Alas!', as some quaint poets might say, I have read much too little of it. I'm somewhat more conversant with European poetry - French, German and Dutch. Look here, I was reading Rilke's Leda."

"Fancy that. But I see that your anthology is in English, who did the translation?"

- "A guy called MacIntyre, I think he's dead."

I smiled to myself, since I was already familiar with the MacIntyre translation. Not bad, but a bit banal in comparison to the original. I always thought that any non-German speaker who reads Rilke only in translation will never quite understand why Rilke is considered a truly great poet, probably the greatest German poet of the twentieth century. Many people have tried their hands at translating him - including myself. But I was not going to bore her with that... Besides, I was intent on making a good first impression, bearing in mind that, as they say, you never get a second chance to make that first impression. So, cool it.

Still, I guess I should share with you some of the evocative magic of this elusive Central European and contemporary of Franz Kafka, born in Prague in 1875 and buried in the churchyard of Raron, Switzerland, not far from Zermatt and the Matterhorn:

Leda

When Zeus advanced toward the noble swan
he was perplexed to find it so sublime.
But driven by his need, he vanished in the bird
with youthful zeal, intent on his delicious plot.

Oblivious of the feelings of his feathered host,
adventurous Zeus pressed on, while Leda sensed
the restless god beneath the plumed disguise
and fretted what he anxiously aspired.

Resist she would, at first, but how could she
escape her own confused desire? Alighting
next to her, he wove his neck through ever
weaker hands and conquered the beloved.

At last he revelled in his plumage white
as in her womb he verily became a swan.

So many nuances, so many emotions... But, no, I wasn't about to tire her with my translations, unless I really wanted to ruin it. So I changed the topic to more humdrum subjects such as tennis and water-sports.

As it turned out, she was not a tennis fan at all, much less a player herself. Had never heard of Steffi Graf, Monica Seles, Pete Sampras or Andre Agassi. So I made my usual pitch for scuba diving and ventured to test her knowledge:

"You've been here ten days and haven't gone diving yet?"

- "No, I'm afraid of sharks." While she was saying that, she pulled up both her knees and rested her drink on them.

"I would not worry about it. You see, fish are so plentiful in these waters that you do not have to fear becoming part of the food chain for shark or barracuda. I'm told we actually taste pretty bad for the shark, who surely prefer a healthy pargo or grouper to any stressed-up human flesh. Of course, shark are not exactly the gourmets of the sea. Sometimes they eat all sort of junk-food like windsurfer boards or divers' rubber fins. By the way, do you know what 'scuba' means?"

- "No", she said, with a voice that indicated that she would be just as happy not knowing.

Persistent, as usual, I volunteered: it's an acronym for "self-contained underwater breathing apparatus". She smiled, and with that I somehow felt that she had had enough of me for the time being and that she wanted to get back to her Rilke and to her Banana Daiquiri.

So I decided to make a tactical withdrawal, referring to the diving expeditions organized by the Hotel to the superlative coral reefs around the island and even to an airplane wreck off shore. I gulped down my piña colada, wished her a nice afternoon and went off to the pier to catch the boat taking the divers off to the reefs.

As luck would have it, my diving "buddy" turned out to be an elderly Connecticut businessman. I was in a mood for solitude - just me and the fish, but, as true aficionados will tell you, you never dive alone. The afternoon dive proved to be uneventful - no sharks, no barracuda, but lots of angelfish - silver, red, yellow, blue, orange and even violet creatures with fins and gills, parrot fish, surgeon fish cruising through Caribbean soft coral, striped and/or spotted wrasses grazing in the reef's algal turf, hybrid butterfly fish hovering over sponges, red coral, yellow coral, brain coral, bubble coral. Simply unbelievable stuff. How could God keep track of so many species - let alone invent them!

And the whole time I was thinking of her - I imagined her swimming next to me, through the pink fan bushes, gently swaying with the currents. The water was almost as warm as in a bathtub. It felt like a caress, a whole body massage, since I was not wearing a wet suit - just my swimming trunks and the scuba equipment. It was a high. But no, she was not swimming with me: When I looked back, it was the Connecticut businessman giving me the old "O.K." sign.

Back on the beach in the afternoon, I could not find her. It wasn't until four p.m. that she emerged from the hotel lobby [I still did not know the number of her room. Shame on me!] with her towels, sun tan cream and a new book: Bruce Chatwin's Utz. I made a casual approach - walking nonchalantly in her direction, snorkeling gear in one hand and a novel in the other: Gabriel García Márquez: El Amor en los Tiempos del Cólera.

"Hi, there! What have you been up to?"

- "Nothing much. I took a nap and woke up with a headache - probably too much sun this morning - or too much wind yesterday afternoon. Headache is gone, but I feel a bit off, as if I had a question mark in my head."

"Sorry to hear it. I guess you should get yourself into the shade, drink a fruit punch sans rum and maybe read about porcelain in Prague." I escorted her to a table under a coconut tree and we sat down on the white beach chairs. A sudden opportunistic joy invaded me when I realized that she was now discovering a book that I had read earlier in the year - it was too tempting a chance to let it escape me, and thus I asked her whether she liked Meissen porcelain and, in particular, Harlequin figurines. She laughed, put her finger on the rim of her sun glasses, removed them, and said:

- "So you like Bruce Chatwin too? Have you ever been to Prague?"

"Of course, a couple of times. Any self-respecting culture lover will find his way to Prague sooner or later. And, if our paths should ever cross in Europe, how about visiting the porcelain shops on Wenceslas Square, the Hradsány, the famous Laterna Magika?"

- "Now, now. I just saw you go off scuba diving. What's this about meeting in Prague? Do you intend to dive in the Moldau?"

"No, but maybe you would like to take a stroll along the river, cross the Charles Bridge to Malá Strana. Any excuse to go to Prague is good, but you wouldn't care to go there all by yourself, would you? I can hardly imagine that a girl like you would stay alone for very long."

- "What do you mean? I love being alone. Solitude... solitude is a form of luxury. It allows you to be yourself, to discover your feelings, to nurse a wound, plan a revenge, to think outrageous things without other people knowing." This she said softly, as if she didn't want anyone to overhear the conversation. "Of course, you are right. I haven't been too long on my own - was married for three years, but we decided to go our different ways. He was interested in his work more than in me."

"I guess your husband lost out." I looked into her watery eyes. "But, same here. I blew it with my ex and here I am, 37 years old, divorced and with no children. By the way, my name is Mike Peterson."

- "Kidding me?"

"Don't know. Would you prefer John Smith, III ?"

- "Well, about time that you should introduce yourself, Mike. And my name is Henrietta Boers. I think I would have chosen a name like Beatrice or Julianne, but my rich aunt was called Henrietta. Besides, she's my godmother."

"Enchanté, Henrietta. Now, where were we? How about lunch at U Elenas's?"

- "Where's that?"

"In Prague, of course. A splendid place. Just off the Staromestke Namesti - and what fabulous food!"

- "Sounds intriguing. You know, I've never been to Prague. But this book I'm reading deals with a porcelain collector in Prague, an amusing old fellow with an even funnier wife, who started off as his cook. Yes, he too seems to have been a gourmet. I didn't know the Czechs had any kitchen to speak of."

Now, what should a fellow with a name like mine know of Czech cuisine? Nothing, really. But I have tried at least a dozen good restaurants in Prague, Pilsen, Karlovy Vary, etc. and would not mind going back for some Knedliki at Skorepka's.

- "Now, where's your weapon?" she suddenly asked me.

"What do you mean?"

- "Your camera, of course! You had it with you this morning."

I had hoped she'd answer something else, but, anyway, I had barely learned her name.

"No weapon for now - I already shot three films on the island. Besides, I hate to carry equipment with me. It's more fun to see and do things rather than photograph them." - Platitudes here, platitudes there. How could I be so unoriginal?

- "Me too", she remarked with an optimistic air, "I rather remember what I have seen and felt and not what I have captured on film. On the other hand, I cannot deny that photographs can renew an experience and in their own way develop it further. In the age of photography we evolve with and through our pictures. Don't you think?"

Kindred spirit? Or was she pulling my leg? Somehow I felt the subject was exhausted and that I should switch. So I brought the conversation back to food: indeed, food is always a safe topic. And I suddenly remembered that two days ago, before I met her on the beach, I had seen her eating a whole papaya. Was she just indulging herself on tropical fruits or was she anti-meat, one of these chic vegetarians? Hopefully not, I thought, as a recidivist carnivore. Maybe she was just a fruit-freak.

There she sat on the terrace of the hotel facing the sea, visibly enjoying her papaya. An image for the gods, especially for meat-eating gods.

- "Delicious, isn't it?" - "Oh, yes, much better than any steak". - No, no, she never said that. I'm imagining again.

"Weren't you eating a papaya Monday afternoon?"

- "You saw me? Yes, as a matter of fact, I am very fond of tropical fruit: mamey, zapote, mango, guayaba... And there are wonderful local dishes here, seafood creole, king crab and even Indonesian Saté."

I felt relieved. So, she wasn't, after all, a vegetarian by conviction, who would despise entrecote and only go for carrots and courgettes. With luck she was an amateur mushroom collector, an enthusiast of French cepes and bolets. For my part, I must confess that I have a weakness for greasy quarter-pounders with cheese. And I will sin, on occasion, and gorge myself on baby-back BBQ ribs. Enough. I should not scare the lady, lest she think I will become an obese Milwaukee-shape middle-aged tourist, 300 pounds worth... And just when I thought I was making such good progress with Henrietta, I had to rush off to another dive.

The next morning I saw her again with her novel and her sun-cream, lying on a red lounge chair and wearing a yellow swimsuit. She had nearly finished reading Utz - not surprising, since it is a short novel, barely 150 pages long! Perfect for a short vacation. This time it was she who greeted me before I could wish her good morning. And she asked me about my scuba. This gave me an opportunity to tell her all about the airplane wreck - from the late 1940's - and the bizarre vegetation you see at 30 feet.

- "How deep have you been?" she queried, putting her hand on her suntanned thigh. My eyes followed her hand.

"The deepest I ever went was 150 feet or around 50 metres. Well, you see, my diving watch is guaranteed only to 50 metres, and we do not want to risk ruining a good Casio, do we?"

She laughed, and continued her inquiry. - "I've heard the colours down there disappear the deeper you go."

"Sure, even at shallow depth your thighs do not look tanned any more, but a sickly white. And the gorgeous red and blue coral gradually lose their magic. Everything starts looking green or black. And, of course, the deeper you go, the less the rays of the sun will penetrate. I advise you to stay close to the surface. Actually, you may see the best fish when you just go snorkelling.

I imagined snorkelling with her - hand in hand, in the shallow waters, marvelling at the kaleidoscope of colours, occasionally swallowing salt water, when inadvertently dipping the tube while trying to look sideways. To my surprise, I learned she had already gone snorkelling and loved it. As she enthusiastically put it:

- "I really did not want to leave this magic world - why return to land when the underwater world is so beautiful? But, of course, the fairy tale is for the fish and the dolphins - not for us."

When lunch time came around, I invited her to join me, and - praise the coconuts - she did not turn me down.

Again, she ordered a papaya, which she devoured with obvious delight. I mused over the hundreds of soft, black pits. What enormous effort nature invests to reproduce a single fruit: hundreds, even thousands of pits - and most of them go to waste, get trampled upon, rot.

"What splendid colour this papaya has", I said, "How would you like to have your dining room painted papaya?"

- "Actually, not such a bad idea. I adore the colour. It should awaken anyone's appetite."

Mine was awakened all right. - "Ever thought of doing the bedroom in mamey?"

I heard her laugh. Then silence. Then a dry "no".

I feared I had committed an olympic Freudian faux pas, that I had been too intense, but, happily, she did not seem to mind it. A man would have sent me to hell long ago. But some women are not only interesting and beautiful and charming: they can be patient and forebearing, and even capable of forgiving peccadillos.

As the case may be, she seemed to put up with me for the moment, and again it was she who now turned the conversation back to water sports.

- "You said you did not like water-skiing. Why on Earth not?" She asked.

- "You mean, 'why on the ocean not?' Sorry, bad pun. You're right. I do not care for water skiing because I do not feel free. Besides, water skiing is a solitary sport - not to say anti-social."

- "What do you mean?"

"Simple: when you water ski you do not have a partner to chat with, you cannot share the water and the wind with her - you are alone, worse still, you are being pulled by some fool who sometimes does not know where he's going and you nearly crash into a windsurfer." I gestured as a frightened windsurfer who throws off the sail to save dear life. She interrupted:

- "How about snow-skiing? Of course, we do not have great mountains in Belgium, but I usually take winter holidays in Switzerland. Last year, for instance, I went to a place called Champéry, at the foot of the Dents de Midi not far from the Mont Blanc."

"Splendid area, I know it. But I think I prefer Les Diablerets or, for that matter, Saas Fee".

"Alpine skiing is a social sport", she said, playing with the spoon in her hands... "You go with a group of friends, stop along the piste for a chocolat or a vin chaud; you go down the slopes chatting, laughing, sometimes even singing."

"You said a social sport. I like that. I guess I've seen more public kissing on the slopes than anywhere else. You can kiss on the télésiège, you can kiss on the verge of the precipice, you can kiss after you take a nasty spill. That's an important difference! You cannot kiss while water-skiing. Only before or after."

Again she laughed, looked into my eyes, then down to my plate and said matter-of-factly: - "You haven't eaten your veggies."

True enough, I had hardly touched my plate. I looked at her and said: "Well, anything to lose some weight. Now, would you please pass the ketchup!"

After lunch she wanted to take a nap and write some letters. So, she took her leave and we agreed to meet again at the bar at 4 p.m.

I waited and waited. It wasn't until 4:45 that she finally showed up, smiling brightly and wearing a hibiscus flower in her blonde hair. When she came closer, I detected a familiar scent: she had generously sprayed herself with Cacharel's Eden. She wore yet another swimsuit - a striped blue combination with matching towel.

"Great to see you again. Did you finish your novel? And what's that funny thing in your hair? Did you plunder the hotel garden?"

- "No comment on your second inquiry. As to the first: Yes, but I did not entirely agree with the ending. I was sad to see Utz simply die. And I would have wanted to know what happened to the Meissen porcelain."

"It's anybody's guess, but I'm sure the Baronin von Utz did not smash the figurines just to keep them away from the confiscating hand of the communist philistines. I'm sure she found a way to smuggle them out to some happy collector in Hoeilaart or New York. The Baron was no fool, and he would have given his life to preserve these precious pieces."

- "Well, well, well." She teased, running her fingers through her hair. "I did not realize you remembered the story line so well. I guess you liked it, too. Do you read a lot of novels?"

"You bet, it's better than watching football on the tube, or serials such as 'Miami Vice' and 'LA Law'. I'm always channel-surfing anyhow. Nothing keeps my attention longer than ten minutes - with the notable exception of the Discovery Channel, which you probably do not get in Brussels, or do you?"

- "Actually, we do get it on cable, but I'm more into the music programmes, especially late at night. Sometimes I fall asleep to Mozart."

"And so you fall asleep."

- "Oh, you American philistine! Or, are you American? You seem to like ketchup. That qualifies you, doesn't it?"

I raised both eyebrows and smiled:

"Yes, I have an American passport. But I feel comfortable in many places - especially places without music. Isn't silence simply wonderful? I can watch the sea, the clouds, fire, the mountains - in absolute silence."

And exactly as I was saying that, Latin American trumpets interrupted our reverie: the "happy hour" began.

We decided to escape it and took a long walk along the sea. We must have walked for an hour. Most of the time in silence. Just enjoying the proximity of each other, not needing to say anything. The afternoon was wearing thin. The trade winds made a pleasant, almost constant sound when traversing through the coconut trees. Far out at sea the sun made me think of a huge orange, full of yellowish-reddish juice. The moment seemed infinite, eternal... But then the big orange touched the skin of the ocean - would it now roll to the right or to the left of the horizon?

The languid clouds blushed in the sun's proximity. The god of the Tropics would not linger - in two minutes, thirty-eight seconds he had sunk, soundlessly, almost imperceptibly: leaving a ludicrously coloured sky, one meant for children and clowns - and lovers. I was reminded of a cheap tourist poster - pink, violet, lavender, light green, Prussian blue. And yet it was not a romantic fata morgana. This was reality in the tropics. And it was worth it.

- "Gosh, do you realize I spent three weeks planning this two-week holiday?" She remarked with a sigh.

"Well, I always thought that the art of leisure entailed doing less- - not more." I replied. "But I know that modern vacations frequently require too much planning. Somehow I cherish the idea of spontaneous escapes with no preparation at all - just ad hoc, ex tempore, spur of the moment."

- "Sure, but if you work 50 hours a week in an office in the heart of Brussels, you n e e d to get out to a place like this - and forget it all."

"I confess, it is not all that different with me. But I seldom take exotic vacations. I usually stay in Europe and do silly things like cycling around Lake Geneva over the weekend."

- "You’re pulling my leg. How far around, is it?"

"May I pull your leg? Avec plaisir…. Actually, it’s just about 180 kilometers around. Still, you can improvise this sort of thing on short notice. Or, for instance, you jump in your car and drive down the Route Napoléon to the Côte d'Azur - for three days... Of course, this is hardly 'vacation', and it is likely to tax your body more than work. Strenuous sport, alcohol consumption, scarce sleep - all end up negating whatever recovery the change of pace had announced. Even the positive balance of relaxation - if there is any residue after vacation excesses - is cancelled out by the final travel stress."

- "Alas," she said with a resigned voice, "my vacation is drawing to a close. Tomorrow I fly back to the grind, to the real world, and soon I will be back in the old work syndrome. And I had begun to enjoy this vacation rhythm so much."

"Yes, yes - but carpe noctem - you still have tonight and there are plenty of vacations to be organized. Indeed, a good thing deserves another - how about linking up somewhere in Europe in the not too distant future? I would not be exactly averse to taking a vacation with you - maybe another vacation in the sun, maybe a vacation to the crystal and porcelain golden city of Prague, or to the palatable palatschinke world of Bratislava and Vienna.

As I said that, she kissed me gently, on the lips. I drew her to me and kissed back, somewhat more vigorously. Meanwhile the amber sky was turning bright papaya red - a long, that captivating, tropical, incredibly kitsch papaya-orange-amber.

The Pelican which had been observing us - for so long - flew off, its silhouette gliding ever so low over the waves. Without speaking, we went into the sea and swam out to the sand bank. At first we did not want to return to shore: the twilight, the breeze, the temperature - all was velvet, and we both felt it. Dinner followed and then room 44, Leda's room.

As we awoke, the wind was blowing the curtains half way into the room; the sun's rays adorning the walls with the spectrum, white plumage wafting in the air. She was still half asleep, her golden hair like an impressionistic design on the pillow. I smelled the vestiges of perfume on her neck and shoulders.... One more swim on the agenda. Then luggage, taxi, airport.

Three days without her... damned solitude!

I looked forward to strolling with her along the embankment of the Vltava and going for dinner at U Lorety on the hill facing the Czerny Palace... It occurred to me that Rilke had also written a poem about the old Loreto monastery... I imagined Henrietta with her vade mecum, her anthology of 20th century poetry, entering U Lorety and ordering a papaya. But no, she was not just a papaya eater. Ten thousand kilometers away she assured me over the phone that she would also enjoy a hearty middle-European Schnitzel - with or without a slice of pineapple on it.

When it was my turn to fly back to "reality", I already knew that this vacation was also reality: Wasn't Henrietta reality? Wasn't the beach just as real as the conferences, commissions and word processors? Tomorrow and next week and next month, while I toil away at my overcrowded desk, evaluating data, examining reports, pushing papers, the coconut trees will still be swaying with the trade winds, the tourists will persist in overeating, and late afternoons a few romantics will still linger on the white sand, looking out into the vastness of the sea, observing the silhouette of a passing cruise ship, experiencing nirvana: enjoying the ludicrous papaya sunsets of Aruba.

FINIS