Sous les palmiers
I am writing in a room with a large sliding glass door that opens onto a patio not twenty yards from the Atlantic Ocean. During the day, the waves rise and fall in noisy but amiable disarray, far too modestly to support surfing. At night, nothing changes, but because the pounding is invisible, it sounds much louder, and in the room, which amplifies the racket, the constant booming and ripping make one feel quite at sea. What's odd is that, day or night, it is all immensely restful. I've often heard that sea water is great for healing little cuts and bruises. The sound of the sea is no less tonic.
Observing the sea from the south, with the sun neither in one's eyes nor at one's back, reminds me of cruising across the Pacific - something I have never done. But then I have never looked out on the sea from the south before, either. Why it should differ from looking out form the north (Long Island, Nantucket), I have no idea. Perhaps it's the palm trees.
On the walk from one's room to the main building at this
once very exclusive resort, one passes little markers, planted in the small
lawns in front of the beach houses.
Each one attests to the presence of a G7
head of state, accompanied by an important minister, in 1976. Representing the
United States, Gerald Ford had Henry Kissinger in tow. I noticed Japan's first,
then Italy's - and then I began searching out the rest. Canada's was so close to
the main building (and the pleasant terrace where breakfast and lunch are served
- one's mind is on food, not shrubbery) that I began to fear that the G7 had
begun as the G6. When I can once again access the Web without paying Hyatt
surcharges, I will look into the matter: was the first of these big deals held
here? That would have suited the developers enormously.
Kathleen, who's getting a real rest (and reading The Grapes of Wrath, of all things), tells me that I'm much easier to travel with than I used to be. Time was when the idea of my accompanying her on a rest break would have been oxymoronic. But things do keep breaking down. Yesterday, it was the fixture in the toilet closet. Not the light bulb, but the fixture. At the moment, two neat gentlemen are here to explore why it is that the sliding screen panels no longer stop where they should, but glide all the way back and forth like Japanese screens. No, they are gone; nothing can be done tonight. This means that we either close and lock the glass doors, and sleep in silence, or take amateur James-Bond type measures that I won't describe until after we've awaked with our throats intact.
It has begun to rain.
