AIMEE: I pause at the railing of our private terrace to take in the view of the sparkling ocean. I put Brian in complete control of the honeymoon and that was one of the best decisions I ever made.
When we arrived at the St. Maarten airport, he had a private ferry waiting to shuttle us over to the island. Then champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries in our room. And a massage on the roof-top terrace at the spa.
We sleep in late and wake to the sound of room service bringing a carb-laden breakfast–lots of pastries and loads of jam–which we eat on the terrace in our matching Cuisinart Resort bathrobes that have become our official uniform for the week. Then it’s off to the isolated beach for a day in the sun.
Oh, is it 3pm? We don’t wear watches so the progress of the day is marked by the complimentary sorbet and gingerbread cookies that are delivered to us in our beach chairs at the same time every afternoon. And then sometime after that Brian will turn to me and say: “We have a big decision to make: what should we do for dinner?” A lobster buffet at the resort, a seafood extravaganza at Blanchard’s, or if we haven’t been lazy enough all day, room service.
As our week here comes to an end, I threaten to chain myself to the railing of our hotel room terrace.
“When we get back,” Brian says cheerfully, “think of all the free time you’ll have not having to plan a wedding.”
I perk up. I never thought of THAT. I can see movies again and read books again.
Still, I force Brian to listen to me sing my ode-to-Anguilla tune as we are packing. It goes something like this: “Oh, Anguilla, you make me feel-a, so happy.”