Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The Ultimate Irony


Just returned home from a trip to an unforgivably astonishing Island.
BIG SIGH.
Very Depressed to be home.


Let me just say this:
I am hopelessly, desperately, passionately IN LOVE with St. Bart’s…
(The Island. Not the actual Saint.)

**Of course, true to my nature, just as with Men, I have discovered myself a Soul-Mate with several Places.
(Among them Santorini and Providenciales.)
Which, in all reality, is not as fickle as it sounds, considering I have been blessed to travel to and engage in some beautiful places on the planet.


For those of you who have been following, most likely, you are peripherally aware of my romantic misgiving regarding Frenchmen.
Thus,
You will appreciate the Irony.

Enraptured and heartsick, lying naked on the sands, I tried with all my might to conjure a plan that might allow me to become an ex-pat to this sumptuous Paradise.
At night, I stared into the blackness counting the stars while feverishly concocting schemes that perhaps would allow me to remain.
Horror of horrors, I even considered living my life there as a waitress.

Thought of a quote I once heard:
"A woman unsatisfied, must have Luxuries.
But a Woman who Loves (a man, a place) would sleep on a board."


On the taxi ride to the airport, I inquired of the driver if it were possible for American citizens to work on this Island.
His words were bleak:

"It is only possible if you hold a French Passport."
"Really?"
"Ah oui. Vraiment."

Sigh.


"Or."
"Or?" (Hope?)


"Well, of course, you could marry a Frenchman, and zat would solve zee issue."

(Are you snickering at me yet?)

From a propeller plane so miniscule I was able to spy the panties on the laundry lines of the houses below,
we landed on St. Maartin.

There, in the only Café, during a three-hour layover, I met a Frenchman named, 'Yves'. (As in 'Adam' and...)
He interrupted my half-focused reading.

"Where were you?"
"St. Bart’s. I am in love with that place. I wish I could have stayed forever."
"I am a Widower. My children are grown. I have no Mistress. I have a French Passport. You are lovely. I will marry you."

Well. Now that’s a biiiiiiiigggg 'how-do-ya-do'.

In the book I was reading: "Cuba: An Insider’s Guide", I still have his business card.

At the moment, it’s a bookmark.
But who knows?
Life is full of surprises.
I will have to see how determined St. Bart’s is to possess my heart and soul.

It would be the wryest joke the Universe has ever played on me.

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