Busy Making Other Plans

There’s a reason why it takes nine months to have a baby, and it isn’t just because this is the amount of time that the female body needs to develop a human being. The way I see it, these nine months are a gift that mother nature bestows upon future parents, a precious yet rapidly narrowing window of time for us to prepare for the biggest job of our lives; parenthood. 

Nine months can go by surprisingly quickly. There’s plenty to do to keep busy; countless hours spent deciding among the plethora of nursing chairs, strollers, bassinets, and car seat choices, each selection more complicated than the next. Nine months of buying and washing baby clothes, of building cribs and swing chairs, of reading books on everything from breastfeeding to vaccinations to making-yours-the-happiest-baby-ever-how-tos.

The fact that everything in my pregnancy has gone exactly according to plan has only served to speed up this process. The changes in my body have played themselves out like clockwork, at least as specified in every pregnant woman’s meccas of information; the weekly babycenter newsletter and the fourth edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I was sleepy and lethargic during the first trimester, energetic and productive during the second, and simultaneously restless and exhausted during the third. As zen as I’m attempting to remain throughout these last few weeks before the big day, it’s tough to stay cool and collected when a protruding belly, a squished bladder, and disturbing dreams prevent you from getting any kind of uninterrupted shut-eye (props again to mother nature for giving me a head start on sleepless nights). 

Restlessness aside, the third trimester has by far been the most instructive. For starters, I’ve developed a new-found appreciation for my laid-back Miami lifestyle. One weekend in the Big Apple was all it took to discover how not fun it is to ride crowded subways filled with New Yorkers oblivious to the work that comes with carrying a tiny human being in your belly. 

Now that I’m finally big enough for people to notice that I’m pregnant, I’ve also learned what a great asset this can be, especially when it comes to traveling, skipping long bathroom lines, and getting seated quickly at trendy restaurants (Carlos and I have taken full advantage of Zuma’s we-don’t-make-pregnant-women-wait policy). As with everything, these benefits come with drawbacks; for some reason a big belly seems to give perfect strangers the urge to hurl all kinds of unsolicited advice my way, from the nosy FIU med student scolding me for ordering a decaf cappuccino in the campus Starbucks to the supermarket bagger at Publix chiding me for carrying my own groceries.

But the biggest lesson of all has come in preparation for labor. The fact that everything I knew about childbirth up until a few weeks ago was shaped by what I’d grown up seeing in movies meant that I was in for a steep learning curve. The same went for Carlos, whose biggest fear was the fact that our hospital is a 25-minute ride from our home. “What if you have the baby in the car?” he wondered out loud, eyes frozen with terror. If only babies came out in 25 minutes.

There’s a whole new set of words that become an inextricable part of your vocabulary once you start preparing for labor. Mucus plug, effacement, pitocin, epidural, midwife, doula, birth plan, meconium, pelvic floor...and in my case, the most unexpectedly relevant of all...breech.

By the time that Carlos and I went in for our 36-week sonogram, we had all of our childbirth plans figured out (or so we thought). After briefly considering a home birth, I decided to stick with my doctor and hospital, but complemented this more conventional route by hiring a doula. I had my doctor sign off on a birth plan, interviewed and selected a pediatrician, and soaked up every last word of Birthing from Within, my natural birth bible.

As Carlos and I busied ourselves preparing for the birth, we remained totally oblivious to the fact that Sofia was making plans of her own. At 36 weeks, she was still sitting upright, in breech.

Most babies are head-down by week 30; this is the position that they naturally gravitate to, since its typically the most comfortable way for them to settle in the womb as they grow and space becomes restricted. It also happens to be the only way that babies are delivered naturally in Miami-Dade County. Because breech deliveries are rare and complicated, these days most doctors deliver these babies by Cesarian.

By the time I found out that Sofia was in breech, I was so heavily invested in my natural birth plan that the news came out of nowhere and hit me like a brick. I was devastated.

As the unwarranted input of family, friends, and absolute strangers began to flow in, I resolved to take the advice of anyone willing to to offer it. I crawled around my house on all fours until my back and knees hurt. I lifted my legs up into a “pelvic tilt” until I had trouble breathing. Even Carlos became involved, patiently burning a Chinese herb called moxa near the outermost corner of my pinky toes for 40 minutes per day (the process is called Moxibustion, and the heat from the moxa activates energy linked to the uterus which has been proven to give babies the extra pep they need to flip).

At some point in the midst all of the madness, I eventually came around to the realization that I was losing sight of the ultimate objective; having a healthy baby. Hence the first of many parenting lessons; as much as I try to give Sofia the space and energy that she needs to get out of breech, she is ultimately the only one who can decide how she is born. And as much as I continue to hope that at some point she will flip, I am now finally at peace with whatever path her birth ends up taking.

Welcome to the Monkey House

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned recently, it’s that most of the things that people assume that they know about pregnancy don’t actually turn out to be true. In my case, it’s been six months and I have yet to eat a single pickle. To Carlos’ great dismay, there’s been no need for 2am ice cream runs. I never once felt nausea nor vomited myself into oblivion. I don’t cry at the sight of cute dogs on TV commercials. And the shape of my belly has nothing to do with the sex of our baby (sonograms don’t lie people -- either it’s a girl or we’re in real trouble).

When it comes to pregnancy, it turns out that the few people that actually know what they’re talking about are...drumroll...mothers. Yes, mothers, that mystical species I’ve only recently begun to come to terms with. 

For some reason, mothers don’t ever talk to non-mothers about pregnancy. It’s an unspoken rule (that I’m all too happy to break). The space in which mothers speak about motherhood is like that very exclusive club in Chelsea that seems impossible to get into, and elevated hCG hormone levels are the only way to get past the velvet ropes. Once you get in, the floodgates open, and every mother wants to tell you her story, including intimate details about her labor that are best not shared with newbies.

One recurring theme among members of this club is this idea that pregnancy awakens new senses; you develop an awareness that you never knew you had. One of the first thing that a mother will tell you about expecting is that the feeling of being pregnant is unique, even though it’s impossible to describe at the very beginning. Forget morning sickness, missed periods, and pregnancy tests -- you find out that you’re pregnant when your intuition tells you. One day you just wake up and you know.

Of course, anyone can claim extrasensory powers in retrospect, and it’s easy to dismiss this as romanticized hindsight. And yet, the more I think about it, the more I tend to agree that it wasn’t just my body that was acting differently during those first few days of pregnancy.

For first-time mothers, these early spiritual clues can be difficult to read. In my case at least, those first few days of knowing without really knowing were unnerving -- I really thought that I was losing it. By the time I actually believed that I was pregnant, I had blown through $50 worth of pregnancy tests and subjected myself to multiple inconclusive vaginal ultrasounds (I’ll kindly spare my male readers the details). On most days I was certain that the only ward I was headed for was the looney bin.

Looking back on things now, the signs were crystal clear. We had just come back from Berlin and I had come down with a cold. Instead of overdosing on over-the-counter medicine, I decided that my body could battle the flu on its own (this is quite unusual for someone who pops Tylenols at the slightest hint of a headache). Rather than combat my low energy levels at the gym, I buried myself deep in the sheets for unprecedented stretches of time (outlandish behavior for a self-proclaimed non-napper). And for several consecutive evenings during dinner, I watched in awe as my delicious tumbler of cabernet remained untouched (as obvious a warning sign as any). 

And then, just like that, one day I woke up and decided to take a pregnancy test. The fact that it came out negative only served to encourage my bizarre behavior; at that moment I decided it would be a fantastic idea to save the urinated relic. As if that wasn’t strange enough, a few hours later I paid my unlikely souvenir a visit. And that’s when I saw it -- the faintest, most obscure little line you ever saw. Or didn’t. I was sure I was hallucinating.

During the next few days that followed, I woke up every day at the crack of dawn to pee on sticks and scrutinize ill-defined lines. In the process of clearing out the pregnancy test aisle at CVS, Carlos did research on the mystery of the indistinct line. “All the forums say that a line is a line, no matter how fuzzy,” he kept insisting. And even though deep down inside I know that I knew, for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. 

Why did I have such a hard time listening to my own intuition? It may be that identifying this sixth sense is another one of those things that only comes with experience. Kind of like that hard-earned entry into the motherhood club. 

Fatto in casa

Thanks to my tropical roots and ten consecutive years surviving cold winters, the summertime is and has always been my favorite time of year. Forget autumn foliage, white Christmases, and cherry blossoms. Blistering sun, sweltering heat, frizzy-hair-inducing humidity -- hands-down this is the time of year when I’m happiest.

Exciting things always happen in the summer, and this year proved to be no exception. Not only did we discover a little bun baking in the oven (more to come on that later), we also had a two-week family trip to Italy to look forward to. What more could we possible ask for?

An on-time departure would have been nice. Our trip got off to a rocky start courtesy of American Airlines, who decided to torture us with four hours of 30-minute delays before canceling our overnight flight to Madrid. Two Admirals Club lounge visits and an electric blue airport-shop blanket later, we sluggishly made our way back home, disappointment only partly offset by the prospect of trying out the British Airways Business class pods thanks to a rescheduled flight via London.

Despite an additional setback at Heathrow involving a painstakingly meticulous security agent determined to discover anthrax in my Mott’s applesauces, we finally landed in Rome. Although our weekend was cut short, it was enough time to revisit key staples; a stroll to the Spanish Steps for an early evening spritzer, a quick wish at the Fontana di Trevi, and a dubious meal at a tourist trap in Piazza Navona. 

Fortunately for me and my then lime-sized fetus, the focus of this trip wasn’t centered strictly on wine-tasting. Instead, we took full advantage of the wide range of cultural events and festivities emblematic of summers in Europe. In Siena, a picturesque pedestrian hill town just 40 miles from Florence, the curved, nearly egg-shaped Piazza del Campo was colorfully decorated for the bi-annual Il Palio festival, a notorious horse-race dating back to the 17th century. Every year hundreds of zealous spectators gather in the center of the piazza to watch delegates from 10 of Siena’s 17 districts compete in a perilous saddle-free race around the square, each district represented by an improbable animal such as a porcupine, caterpillar, tortoise, and yes, even a snail. It was just days before the race and the anticipation was palatable, with die-hard fans gearing up for the festivities by reserving 300+ euro seats for 90 seconds of front-row action. 

Our stay in Verona coincided with the inauguration of the Opera Festival; this is how it came to be that I had the privilege of spending my last minutes as a 28-year-old watching the dramatic death of La Traviata in the magical Arena di Verona (a 1st-century amphitheater turned open-air opera house). Venice had its Biennale art festival, Lucca its summer music festival, and in Perugia, our last stop, the small town buzzed with thousands of Umbrians celebrating the annual International Jazz festival.

Of course, there was always room for the occasional wine-tasting pit stop. In Montalcino we visited the Castello Banfi, a 7,000 acre wine estate where 20% of Italy’s Brunellos are made. A tasty three-course degustation lunch was followed by a rudimentary tour of the facilities, where I learned that Prosecco is just one type of Espumanti (Italy’s champagne), that Grappa is made from vinaccia (the leftover skins and seeds of the grape used to make wine), and that our 2009 trip to the Spanish wine country has forever transformed us into self-professed wine-tour snobs.

On my end, my inability to drink wine actually turned out to be an advantage, as it translated into increased intestinal capacity. In Siena we developed an infatuation with Pici, an extra-thick spaghetti so hearty and delicious that Carlos hand-carried bags of them for the remainder of the trip just so he could make them back home. Our Florentine food epiphany took place in a tiny local restaurant called Il Fagioli, where we were temporarily transported to chocolate lover’s paradise by the cantucci e vin santo -- freshly baked biscotti filled with the warmest, most decadently rich chocolate dipped in sweet Italian wine. In Venice we did our best to avoid the perils of dining al fresco and opted instead for the well-enclosed and very famed Harry’s Bar, home to the birth of the carpaccio. At 41 euros a pop, the enlightened raw meat was by no means wallet-friendly, but worth the splurge nonetheless. Equally delightful were the bacon and saffron pappardelle, the incredibly delicate veal cannelloni, and an outrageously fluffy vanilla cream cake.

The culinary peak of our travels culminated in Bologna, known as the gastronomic capital of Italy. A small, rose-colored city filled with culture and charm, Bologna is not often frequently visited by tourists, but turned out to be the site of some of the very best meals of our trip. The formula was simple; fresh ingredients, simple recipes, and most important of all, lots of TLC on the part of the most passionate nonnas in the nation. It was here that we met Manuela, the proud owner and quasi-dictator of Osteria La Traviata. “La sua specialità è la pasta,” she proclaimed early on, “fatto por me”. In other words, don’t bother eating anything but pasta, which I make with my own bare hands. We followed her instructions to the T and found that this was one tyranny worth succumbing to; silky tagliatelle with asparagus and pancetta, carefully crafted tortellini in brodo, artful tortelloni filled with ragú, and, perhaps most delicious of all, ricotta-filled tortelloni generously topped with black truffle. Dessert? The creamiest mascarpone, fatto por Manuela. After-dinner drink? A potent coffee-rum liqueur, fatto por Manuela. If there’s one lesson we learned in all of this, it is that the key to unlocking Carlos’ culinary potential lies somewhere deep within the heart of Manuela’s kitchen.

And just like that, in the same way that the glorious months of summer always seem to pass too quickly, our tour of Italy came and went. All that is left is a couple bags of Pici, a few hundred megabytes of photos, and renewed hopes for a future apprenticeship with a Manuela-style nonna.

What lies beneath

For years I’ve had an unwarranted aversion to Germany as a tourist destination. There are three things that come to mind when I think of the Deutschland; gallons of beer (not exactly my drink of choice), a heaping plate of sausages (the white ones make me queasy), and the incorrigible tone of the acerbic German tongue (I’ll take Swiss French any day, lazy numerology included). Without a doubt, these stereotypes have gone a long way in keeping Germany a considerable distance from our travel radar. 

Luckily for Carlos and I, most of our vacations are family-oriented, so the decision of where to travel is not always ultimately up to us. This is how it came to be that despite my self-imposed disinclinations, the city of Berlin became our first post-Geneva European getaway.

Much like Obama’s birth certificate, Berlin is a city that generally flies under the radar; until someone sparks the conversation, that is. Then, out of nowhere, a whole universe of zealous Berlin-lovers start making spontaneous appearances, complete with an extensive array of fond memories and travel tips. “You have to go to the Pergamon!” The perma-what? “Berlin has such amazing architecture!” Big whoop. “I just know you’re going to love it!!!” Alllll-righty then.

Despite the mounting expectations, it wasn’t until my first glimpse of the city that I finally started letting go of my stubborn inhibitions. Impeccably blue skies, an endless expanse of minty green lilly trees, pristine waters flowing beneath quaint bridges, an array of palaces, embassies, and mansions, each more unique than the other. There’s no denying it, the place has charm. 

According to Ramon, our impetuous Argentinian tour guide, Berlin’s beauty transcends the physical. “This is a city of tolerance,” he declared emphatically on our first day, “everybody gets along. Just look at the Tiergarten.” By this he referred to the large park in the center of the city, where on an average day one is equally likely to spot mothers taking their babies for a stroll as throngs of lesbians tanning in the nude. Liberal attitudes aside, I couldn’t help but wonder; can a city that spent nearly half of the previous century violently divided by competing ideologies really live in absolute harmony?

It’s quite obvious that today, efforts are centered on representing the two sides of the city as one, particularly through the city’s architecture. Tourist attractions are riddled with phrases like “Berlin’s fluidity”, “building a band between the east and west” and “the old becoming new again”. And yet, upon further inspection, it becomes clear that tensions remain. Contrasts between old, new, past, and present spill throughout the city; the monstrous Sony Center media complex in the West; boxy Ikea-type buildings on the East; a WWII bunker turned billion-dollar art deposit; larger-than-life ads used as temporary façades for yet-to-be-financed construction sites; fake balconies on Russian-style buildings. The fabric of society has its own way of unraveling, and in Berlin, the undercurrents of change fit anything but seamlessly into the politically-sponsored narrative of unity. 

Although in four days we barely scratched the surface, it was certainly enough time to read between the lines. I also gathered plenty of material to develop my own fresh perspective on Germany, one that goes well beyond sausages and wiener schnitzels.
 

A Little Less Conversation

As I’m sure everyone does when making life-changing decisions, Carlos and I resorted to a Geneva vs. Miami pros and cons list before resolving to move. Looking back, I’d say our assessment was pretty much on the money. Then again, it’s hard to beat gorgeous weather, ocean views, spacious quarters, and Caribbean weekend getaways. 


In one area that we did undervalue our life in Europe was in the quantity of great meals we experienced. Although we knew that Miami would be a food downgrade (neither of us was delusional enough to expect Publix to size up to Globus), we weren’t exactly anticipating culinary dearth. Had I known eight months ago during our last meal at Anne Sophie Pic that I had reached my culinary zenith, I would have let the cloud of champagne-infused grouper melt in mouth a little longer before letting the luscious foam slip into oblivion.  


I didn’t realize how deprived we were (or how spoiled we’d become) until our most recent vacation-planning brainstorm session, during which we found ourselves narrowing down possible President’s Day weekend destinations by restaurant caliber as opposed to beach quality. It’s a good thing that we slept on it; after nearly committing to a six-hour flight to Las Vegas, common sense prevailed and we opted instead for New York City, where I was willing to endure two days of wintry weather for the sake of culinary sanity.

Thanks to an oversized crunchy French toast at Norma’s, a suckling pig at Maialino’s, and a five-course meal at Per Se, we returned home with our gourmet food cravings somewhat satisfied. When it rains it pours, and when the sun shines it scorches; upon arriving at Miami International Airport, an unexpected surprise awaited us in the form of a cardboard flyer welcoming incoming chefs to the South Beach Wine & Food Festival. Alas, a Miami-based event with culinary promise!


With tickets booked just hours later, Carlos and I began doing what we do best; setting ourselves up for failure by inflating our own expectations. By the time we arrived at the event, we anticipated nothing short of the Food & Wine Classic in Aspen. What we got instead was a Miami-style beach party featuring free booze, loud salsa music, and the inevitable cougar battle over perfectly coiffed twenty-somethings. Gourmet food seemed to be the last thing on anyone’s mind; to my dismay, Celebrity Cruises had one of the few stations with anything truly tasty to offer (oh, the irony!).

Fear not, dear readers, for it wasn’t all a loss; our disappointment with the food was offset by colorful demos by some of our favorite culinary heroes. We got to see Jamie Oliver, whose passionate discourse was filled with poetic phrases like “human aioli”, “salad philosophies”, “food is medicine”, “dressing the board”, and “kissing the meat”. 

Things began looking up for every man in the room when Giada showed up, all dolled up in a pretty purple dress and full-on hair and make-up. Rather than get down and dirty, Giada let eager volunteers cook her spaghetti al melone as she took questions from the audience. We learned trivial facts about her life including how she maintains her figure (exercise, small portions, and daily 5am yoga sessions), her favorite pick-me-up (a spoonful of nutella) and her future baby plans (not anytime soon, she claims).

Despite his inability to speak coherent English, Morimoto impressed the audience with his whole roasted pig preparation (I apologize to any vegetarians I may have traumatized with the above image). Last but not least came Guy Fieri, a.k.a culinary rock star. The challenges of making pizza in 90% humidity did little to deter Guy from riling up the crowd; all he needed to galvanize hundreds of screaming fans was a show-stopping DJ and 25 gallons of the “South Beach Slurr-icane”, a vodka-fruit-punch cocktail that he concocted on the spot (check out the video after the jump).

The Sobe Food & Wine festival was emblematic of our Miami culinary experience; the scene took precedence over the food. Nonetheless, inspiration from the chefs helped us ease back into our new food lifestyle, which is now composed of a lot fewer restaurants, much more home-cooking, and the occasional culinary escapade.

All Aboard

In Latin America, having a large extended family is the norm. Rather than limit family reunions to Thanksgiving weekends, get-togethers take place on a weekly basis. Since my family and I spent most of our lives thousands of miles away from our relatives, we crammed our reunions into bi-annual visits to Panama. Besides getting caught up on family drama, my favorite pastime during these occasions was counting how many cousins I had to later show off this number to my impressionable friends back home, many of whom were seriously lacking in the kinship department.


Dating Carlos quickly rectified this inflated perspective. His family (on both sides) is so large that meeting each and every person required a week-long trip to Venezuela. We had been dating for nine months by the time we went on this “vacation”, and although I had met his parents and the occasional uncle or cousin, I certainly wasn’t prepared for the jam-packed agenda that awaited us. New events cropped up every day like groundhogs in a whack-a-mole, and it wasn’t long before I was forced to readjust my lifelong conception a big family. Hundreds of first aunts, uncles, cousins, and nephews later, my own family tree started feeling more like a bonsai. Not to mention the overwhelming amount of second, third, fourth, even fifth cousins that the Machado-Ball household runs into on a day-to-day basis; just remembering the faces and names of this vast network of individuals is a full-time job I still haven’t quite mastered (you know you’ve failed miserably when you’ve heard the mortifying phrase “You don’t remember me? I went to your wedding in Panama!” on more than one occasion).

This holiday season, Carlos’ mom’s side of the family decided to organize a trip to celebrate the New Year together. As you can only begin to imagine, deciding upon, agreeing to, and booking a destination for 40-plus opinionated individuals was a feat all on its own. Although I was not privy to the entire process, I did sit in on one five-hour session dedicated to debating where to stay in DisneyWorld. As a Ball-family-vacation-planning newbie, I seemed to be the only one taking the exercise seriously, spending twenty minutes on the phone with Hyatt reservations only to discover a few hours later that Mickey and Minnie had been entirely dismissed from consideration. Some lessons are learnt rather quickly.

I still can’t quite figure out how it happened, but somehow everybody managed to agree on a cruise in the Caribbean. The day after Christmas, Carlos and I made our way to Port Everglades in Ft. Lauderdale, where we were greeted with an embarrassing “CRUISE VIRGINS!!!” shout-out at the Celebrity Solstice check-in. I’m not sure why our cruise-free status was so fascinating, but I’m glad to have gotten the awkward initiation over with.

In theory, the cruise concept is infallible. It’s basically a large floating hotel, complete with its indoor and outdoor pools, bars, restaurants, random boutiques, spa, club, and casino. The food is included (for the most part), and if you choose to purchase the overpriced drink package, consumption generally becomes a stress-free experience. One of the greatest advantages is that the cruise enables you to visit multiple destinations at your own pace and without the hassle of extensive planning. Once the ship is docked in a particular destination, passengers have the option of waking up at the crack of dawn to embark on organized excursions, or sleeping in and improvising. We wisely opted for the latter, which turned out to be as simple as hop-off, hop-on.

As with everything, the cruise has its drawbacks. Although I didn’t get seasick, it took a couple of restless nights (not to mention a few adventures on the treadmill) to become accustomed to the ship’s constant motion. The food was not disastrous, but there was certainly room for improvement. In the Grand Epernay, the main restaurant, the key was keeping it simple. Unfortunately, Master chef Michael Roux made it practically impossible to do that, what with his Paul Bocuse complex and the food marketing department’s uncanny ability to fabricate mouth-watering descriptions of what too often turned out to be very mediocre dishes. The best bet were the specialty restaurants, although these were fully booked well before departure. And then there were the extra fees and tourist traps -- a soft drinks package limited to watered-down soda fountain beverages, a $5,000 bingo with a skimpy $300 grand prize, and, for those of us who caught colds and viruses, a $10 bucks-a-pop price point for antibiotics.

Once you become accustomed to the caveats, it becomes clear that the cruise is a particularly appropriate venue for extended families. Although each of us had the liberty to do exactly as we pleased, we were all physically constrained within a 5-mile radius. By a mysterious force of nature, we constantly gravitated towards each other, either for dancing in the lobby, sunset-watching at the stern, or crepe-eating on the fifth floor bistro. For those of us who live abroad and are constantly playing catch-up, these impromptu gatherings were hands-down the highlight of our seven days on the high seas.

Chicken or pasta?

The fact that we’re no longer living in the heart of Europe hasn’t slowed down our travel agenda, it’s merely displaced it eastwards. Although replacing the minimalist serenity of the Geneva airport with the chaos of MIA hasn’t exactly been easy, two years’ worth of accumulated American Airlines upgrades have somewhat eased the transition. There have even been improvements; to start with, I’m no longer forced to crush my purse into my carry-on during boarding to meet ridiculously literal one-bag-per passenger policies (take that, Easy Jet). Our temporary business class status means we can avert heightened levels of exasperation at inefficient travelers slowing down security lines one metal accessory at a time. Other perks include free drinks at the Admirals club and the seriously addictive warm chocolate chip cookies served in the first class cabin. We’ve further improved our on-flight culinary experience by carefully coordinating seat assignments with flight numbers to ensure first dibs on “chicken or pasta” (as Carlos quickly discovered following a near-death altercation with a chicken-less steward, food is served from front-to-back on even flights and back-to-front on odd ones). In fact, the only real set-back to our Miami-outbound weekend getaways is the hassle of immigration lines and passport stamps. In an effort to address this concern, we kept our most recent beach-capade as local as possible, spending Columbus Day weekend in the US virgin island of St. Thomas.

Carlos and I are self-professed island enthusiasts, and though I’ve never really given much thought to our passion for these isolated geographic entities, I suspect that a lot of it has to do with islanders and the carefree ambiance they generate. From Despina’s bubbly team in Santorini to the infectiously upbeat staff at Coco beach in St. Martin to Capri's exceedingly eager grotto guide Mario, all of the island hosts we’ve ever encountered have been pleasingly easygoing. Given this track record, it’s not surprising that the concept of an unhappy island had never even crossed my mind.

St. Thomas was a different story. The stress began at the airport, where we faced an intimidating group of aggressive taxi drivers barking a confusing series of fares at droves of unsuspecting tourists. Somehow we (I) managed to avoid a $100 private ride to our hotel, only to discover minutes later that this was far from a triumph. We soon found ourselves trapped in a small, air-conditioner-free van with a dozen other passengers, many eager to strike up pointless conversation. As our lethargic driver chugged us along each and every inch of St. Thomas’ winding roads, we watched the last precious minutes of sunlight vanish, and for the first time in my life I wished Carlos had taken the bait. Many furtive “I-told-you-so” glances later, the unwarranted tour of every hotel on the island ended, and we arrived at the Ritz-Carlton. The realization that we’d spent one-third of our vacation in a hot, smelly van was only slightly offset by what proved to be the only courteous islander in St. Thomas; a frail, apprehensive old woman in the lobby whose entire job description involved welcoming guests by pouring a complementary shot of rum into plastic cups filled with tropical punch.

Maybe it was the rough start that did it, but despite the beautiful hotel and gorgeous beaches, Carlos and I had trouble syncing with St. Thomas. It wasn’t just the hostile service; in my opinion the island has a bit of an identity crisis. While its famous for being the most frequented port in the Caribbean, there’s nothing to see or do on the island beyond shop (this is not an asset when you live in Miami). Long distances, expensive taxis, and antagonistic drivers make it difficult to explore the culinary scene. Unless your idea of living on the edge involves paddle-boating and kayaking on a plateau of water, I wouldn’t exactly call it a place for adventure. And when it comes to fellow tourists, there’s not much room for diversity; everyone there was either running after a baby or attending a five-minute wedding ceremony.

I realize that this is a harsh review considering we were only there for 48 hours, so I’m willing to give the US virgin islands the benefit of the doubt; it may be that it's a place best explored with a little bit of a longer timeline and a whole lot more patience. One important lesson we did learn? An immigration line is a small price to pay for an authentic island getaway.