Well, ‘world cup final’ . The so called best
protagonists of the beautiful game playing in what the media calls ‘soccer
city’. Over here it’s all Dutch Orange and great hopes. We had reserved a table
at a new beach bar called ‘La Bamba’ with loads of cheering; screaming and
jumping up and down orange and red supporters. You’d have thought by now the
strikers of the opposing sides would have known how to score a goal. Well both
sides missed what I would have called “a dead cert goal”. It seemed as if the
Spanish came to play football while the Dutch just wanted to spoil the party.
If I’m really honest, the best team won in the end The Spanish supporters
arrived with small pots of paint and were finger painting or graffitiing each
other with slogans and the flag colours. Hope you like the pictures.

Let me tell you a story. It's all about a letter; sent
from London to St Maarten; and by recorded air mail delivery as well. After
some 5 weeks or so of it not being delivered to us, (and us becoming concerned)
we went to the address where it should have been sent to, i .e. our letting
agents. And according to them, it had not been received by them either. They
advised us to go to the local post office to track it down as we had the
tracking number. So off we went to what we thought was the local post office In
Simpson Bay to ask them.

"Have a look through all the letters we've received which are in the pigeon
holes." Guess what....... No luck there. It then turned out they were not
in fact a post office at all, but a private mail company. The real post office
was ..... guess where....... right next door. So off we went to them. After a
lot of looking on a computer, the clerk finally said, "Yes........... It's
here."

"Okay... I'll take it now then please. I have proof of identity and
everything."

"No," she said. It's not here.... here. It's over there...... In the
main post office in Phillipsburg. This is Simpson Bay."

"Oh! ..... So why will they not deliver it to the recipient (I used a much
smaller word because I'm sure, (no positive in fact) that she would not
understand the big word.

"Well," she said. "It does not work like this here. What happens
is that when we receive a parcel or letter that has to be signed for, we then send
a letter to ask the person to come in and collect it."

Oh! I was quite surprised. And now I was beginning to get the picture, of how
things in their postal system worked.. A letter arrives and instead of delivering
it, they actually send another letter out asking you to come in to the main post
office instead. Crazy huh? So off we went to Phillipsburg.

The post office is a large single story concrete block
(by island standard anyway) with only three counters in the middle, and a lot
of staff. Fortunately for me no long queues, but it still took quite a time.
Finally at the front gave her the tracking number and she also started looking
it up . Patience is a virtue on the island. Remember, it’s Caribbean time? Oh
yes................

“It’s here.”

“Excellent!” I already knew that!

“But I can’t give it to you.”

“why not?”

Looking me straight in the eye, “Lunch time.”

“Lunch time?”

“Yes lunch time,” she repeated.

At 12.25pm? “What time should I come back?” thinking
3.00pm, but I was wrong, things were just beginning to look up.

“Two.”

“Good. I’ll be back then.” I was within touching
distance of something that I needed and was not going to upset the apple cart
now! I suppose she could have sent it back to London if I annoyed her . And just
imagine that! I duly returned to the post office after 2.30, I know what time
means here. And finally I had it in my hands. Yes! I persevered and succeeded.
I finally had my letter. 6 weeks after it being posted and using the Royal Mail
Special Express, and Signed for Service. Well, it probably got over here within
a day or so; and then I was in the hands of the local “service”.

Now  I know why companies such as Fedex and UPS
do so well. Stuff is delivered within 2 days if you use them. Brilliant!!!

Bad news now, my camera developed a fault and has to
be sent away. It may have to go to either Porto Rica, or Brazil.

I live in hope....................... Perhaps I’ll
live long enough to see it again!

 

Now 2 days ago we went to a new development called
Port Cupecoy. Being built in the Mediterranean style . And really nice. Walking
round the few shops looked into a window which had a few people working within.
The door flew open and a man came towards us smiling. Phew.... for a moment I
thought we were in trouble for looking.
That’d be a first for us; just looking. “My name is Bernard (in his French
accent) and I am opening this new restaurant tomorrow. “Come have a look
inside.” Now you know me; I always do as I’m told.... so in we went. A jumble
of tables; chairs; and a myriad of restaurant paraphernalia all over. Mmmm....... “And now here is the Chef.” This really good
looking Frenchman came over and started describing what he wanted to achieve.
“All ze food cum from Fronce. Really fresh. An I make all ze best sings from
zat.” Bernard then insisted that we come to the official opening. He didn’t
have to ask twice; good food and us go together like bread and butter; or fish
and chips except in French it’s pronounced feesh n ships. Anyway, we got all
spruced up for the cocktail opening. And what a grand place it was. Totally transformed
from the day before. A red carpet laid out at the entrance to walk in on.
(We’ve never actually been on one ever!) Inside it was beautiful, and then
Bernard came over to us greeting us as if we were his long lost relatives. The
guests were all dressed up in their smart island casual wear. And a wonderful
atmosphere with a DJ playing background music.   With
this all going on, I just knew we were definitely going to enjoy it. A lot.
Then came the food, served on large silver trays. Canapés delicately fashioned
with smoked salmon, caviar, prawns, cheese etc. The trays just kept on coming
along with the champagne. It may have been because we placed ourselves in a
very strategic position; right outside the kitchen door so every waiter and
waitress had to pass us on their way to the gathered throng. Then more beautifully
decorated trays of mini deserts. Just delicious? NO. Definitely not just delicious. It was in the
vernacular, a culinary art of such brilliance it was just totally mouth
watering. The chef had definitely lived up to his reputation. It even surpassed
the great expectations he was talking about the day before. All the food washed
down with exceptional white and strawberry champagne. A truly wonderful
evening. The DJ then asked everyone to leave....... Oh no we thought. It’s
over! And it’s been so wonderful as well...... So we all retraced our steps
back over the red carpet and into the plaza outside. Then he announced, “We’re
going to cut the ribbon and open the restaurant officially.” At that exact moment, as if by something ordained, and
right on cue, it started to rain! The ribbon was cut quickly and all the guests
charged back inside for more of the chefs delights. A brilliant evening.

In contrast today we had lunch at the Banana Cafe
opposite the police station on the French side. It’s an open air place with
Latin American music coming from speakers hidden somewhere. It’s an open air
cafe with rickety wooden tables and chairs all painted in the ‘shabby chic’
style. Except, they hadn’t been painted deliberately like this, it was simply
wear and tear. The owner is just larger than life. Patrick; or Patrise in
French. A large genial French Caribbean character with a big white bandana
right over his head; who is just so funny and always looking for a laugh. I
told him, “we’ve been here before, and it was so bad I just had to come back to
see if it was truly so bad, or was I just imagining it?” we both laughed. “We’ll
see soon!” After a while, the bread arrived.  “Now this is a good sign,” he said, “it means
the food will be here very soon now,” looking at me with a glint in his eye. And
I wondered what he had in store. And after another few minutes it arrived.
Perfect yet again.

He then mimicked a royal servant. Facing in our
direction, walking backwards, looking down towards the floor, bowing and
rolling his right hand in servitude. “Will that be all?” he enquired. “No,” I
said, “where are the dancing girls?” without another word, he went to two young
female customers sitting at the bar and said something to them. Well, they just
burst out laughing and it was so infectious. They didn’t dance for us, and we
all had a good time. I’m sure he’ll remember us the next time we walk into his
place.