Escape From New York

Is there any better vacation than the one you take when you're in between jobs? The folks from the old job have stopped bothering you, the folks from the new job haven't started bothering you, you're looking forward to that raise, and you don't yet have to worry about blowing your entire retirement savings on flip-flops to match your beach coverups. You're free as a bird!

(Well, not totally free, because once that new job starts, it's a lot like a marriage: You're together nearly 24/7, you sometimes fight about money, only one person ever seems to know where that file -- or, you know, the scissors or the Advil -- is, and "I have a headache" is your daily default, not just an occasional white lie.)

Still, I had three glorious in-limbo weeks of loafing and lethargy ahead of me, and decided to do it in high style, which entailed splitting our time between two fabulous villas . . .

. . . and having the cheeseburgers brought to me.

Indeed, I packed enough sand, sea, and binge-eating into those three weeks that, in the time it would take to read a day-by-day recap, you could just fly to Anguilla yourself (which obviously isn't the worst idea). And so, in lieu of a full day of travel, a handy A to Z guide to the adventures of the idle not-so rich.

A is for AURORA
Let's face it: Nobody likes change. And so when I learned that CuisinArt Resort would become the new Aurora, I balked. Would they jettison the very un-Caribbean jewel tones in the lobby? (Hopefully yes.) Would they retain the resort's justly-famous frozen mojitos? (Also hopefully yes.) When we visited, would they completely "forget" that we'd spoken the day before and require an hour of wrangling just to use two loungers on the otherwise empty beach after we dropped over $200 at lunch? (Sadly, also yes.)

Still, if you are idle and rich, it's hard to beat Aurora for chi-chi decor, cushy loungers, craft cocktails, and celestial prices.

Aurora still maintains CuisinArt's hydroponic garden, so salads are the way to go at lunch.

And they taste even better when it doesn't take three tries to get your order right. That's where the cocktails come in.

But maybe avoid the guac and . . . potato chips?

Post-lunch, we enjoyed some frozen mojitos and our hard-won loungers.

And look, ma: No more jewel tones!

B is for BLANCHARD'S BEACH SHACK

Blanchard's has a lot going for it, chief among them being griddled hot dogs, a gorgeous stretch of beach, griddled hot dogs, excellent fresh-brewed iced tea (which has just about as much alcohol as their drinks), and griddled hot dogs.

In fact, if it weren't for BBS's refreshing iced tea, I can't guarantee that I wouldn't have another, um, hydration incident.

B also stands for Ben's, home of my favorite pizza on the island.

B also stands for "Best keep your hands off my pie, and my potatoes, and my profiteroles."

C is for CHEESEBURGERS
I know, I know, you're tired of all my ravings about FBI's cheeseburgers. But this is a rave about SandBar's cheeseburgers, which are juicy and salty and perfectly slider-sized so you can just pop 'em in your mouth like Tic-Tacs.

Indeed, SandBar's sliders are so good, they give FBI's burger a run for its money. (Much like you can call your sibling an idiot, but will promptly deck anyone else who does so, only I am allowed to favorably compare anyone else's burger to Ferryboat's.)

D is for DOLCE VITA
One of our favorite restaurants on the island, "Dolce Vita" is Italian for "Mangia! Until it hurts."

That face you make...

When your plates look like this, but Abbi will still ask why you didn't like your meal due that one bite of pasta standing between "pleasantly full" and "bring me a stretcher." Thank god he made us that digestif.

E is for E's OVEN
E's is our favorite "date night" place because we both always order the same thing -- the moist but crunchy coconut-crusted grouper with curried beans in a decadent banana-rum sauce -- so there's no reason to fight (over that, anyway).

Of course, it's easy to roll into E's in a good mood if you've had a few martinis across the street at Anguilla Salts and Sands beforehand.

Just how good are these salts? We needed some yard work done last summer . . . and the gardener asked to be paid in AS&S salts in lieu of cash.

F is for FBI
Longtime readers of this blog know that the only thing I love more than digging into an FBI cheeseburger is digging into an FBI cheeseburger while poking fun at Christian.

That's obviously harder to do from afar, especially with him being so busy up at the North Pole.

Still, there aren't many places where I feel comfortable enough to slip behind the bar and spike my own drink.

Heck, some people even have a special shirt just for visits to FBI.

Of course, we stopped by a few times for lunch, too . . . to try to get off the naughty list.

G is for GREAT HOUSE
One of the oldest resorts on the island, Anguilla Great House was built in 1985, and if your brain works anything like mine, you automatically think that 1985 means 15 years ago.

Great House's piña coladas are as legendary as a flock of seagulls (how's that for an 80s-themed beach pun?), but their spectacular seafood crepes are the real unsung heroes: Huge chunks of seafood are enclosed in a paper-thin crepe and swimming in a lobster bisque-like sauce, only crepes > bisque because the crepes are served with a fork, the tines of which provide a decent defense if anyone catches a whiff and starts to make noises about trying "just a bite."

Hang on to that fork for the colada-curious, too.

H is for HIBERNIA
We don't ever need an excuse to go out to eat, but when we heard about the special dinner to benefit Hibernia's orphanage in Myanmar, we jumped at the chance to revisit an old favorite while also doing some good in the world. I mean, just look at that little face!

Not me, the children.

Everything we tried was exquisite, as befits this stunning spot.

And I didn't even take a dip in the decorative pool (this time).

I is for IRIE LIFE

What was that again about blowing through your retirement savings to buy flip-flops and coverups?

J is for JOHNNY CAKES
There are as many different johnny cakes on the island as there are goats that run away when I try to pet them, and everyone thinks their favorite johnny cake is the best one. But I am here to tell you that Roy's really is the best one, because it is pillowy and lightly salted and served with soft, creamy butter. Butter is always better.

Always.

K is for KALE
Kale -- that curly stuff they use to decorate salad bars -- has somehow managed to actually become salad. And the best way to make it palatable is the same way you'd make anything that tastes like a tree trunk palatable: Add fried goat cheese.

L is for LOCKRUM POINT VILLA

Anguilla is chock-full of gorgeous villas, none more so than Lockrum Point Villa.

Its strategic location -- close to FBI everything, while feeling like you're a million miles from anything -- is second only to the villa's chic designer decor, sumptuous four-poster beds, and sunny private pool.

Inside, the combined living and dining area, with its soaring West Indian-style ceiling, is just as dramatic as the views outside.

In the spacious bedrooms, textural details abound.

I loved this crisp white bedding so much, I tracked it down and bought it for my bedroom at home.

Before bedtime, Lockrum Point's wild, windswept setting just east of Blowing Point affords unparalleled views of St. Martin, the crash of waves to lull you to sleep at night, and complete privacy for midnight skinny dips.

Or impromptu photo shoots.

And don't even get me started on these showers.

Inside and out.

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We still have a little over half the alphabet to go! CLICK HERE for PART 2!

^{Missed Part 1? Start with Letter A here!}

M is for MALLIOUHANA
Malli is stunning at any time of day, but sunset in their aptly-named Bar Soleil is next-level.

Especially if you happen to be lucky enough to catch a candy-striped sunset.

N . . .

. . . is for NO CREDIT

Coals Man is not playing.

O is for OLAS
Though only open since 2019, Eulandy's dynamite drinks and terrific tacos have quickly established Olas' as a must-do on Shoal Bay.

In fact, my only complaint about Olas is that they could use some additional loungers and umbrellas. It's only fair: If you're going to serve a caipiroska that's this good -- and this potent -- you've got to provide people with a place to lie down and sleep it off afterwards.

P is for PICANTE

P is also for, "Please do not touch my corn."

And "Pound that tequila."

And "Plenty of cheese."

And "Pigs."

P also stands for "private pool," which is the only polite place to bare your bikini bod after a few visits to Picante. The one at Lockrum Point Villa ensures complete privacy for your porcine ways.

Q is for QUACK, QUACK

R is for RAIN
For the first time in recorded human history, the day we departed was the worst weather day of of our trip, not the best.

A rainy day on Anguilla is still better than a sunny day anywhere else, but a rainy travel day is a level of suckage that I would only wish on the kind of people who take the lounger right next to me when there's a whole row of empty ones.

S is for STRAW HAT
Lest you think that I subsist solely on cheeseburgers and rum (ahem), behold our lunch at Straw Hat, where the Greek salad is so good that I make the occasional foray into vegetalia.

I even had fruit!

And look, more veggies!

In fact, we enjoyed our lunch at Straw Hat so much that we came back a few days later.

Lettuce marvel at the fact that I ate salad twice in three weeks.

T is for TASTY'S
My point of view is that Tasty's is a great place for a dinner date.

Tasty's point of view is that this is a cool new place to hang.

And everyone shares the point of view that Chef Dale is an island treasure.

U is for UNCLE ERNIE'S
Uncle Ernie's has come a long way from being a little beach shack on Shoal Bay East.

Now it's a little beach shack on Shoal Bay East avec panache français.

Plus service with a (beautiful) smile.

The beachy cuisine leans more béchamel than Ranch.

As for Shoal Bay East, it's beautiful in any language.

V is for VEYA
My favorite thing at Veya is shooting the breeze with Jerry after dinner while we polish off a bottle of Champagne. Of course, the food's not too bad, either.

^{Yes, all you Eagle Eyes out there, I wore this dress for sunset cocktails at Malli. Of course I didn't re-wear it -- quelle horreur! This dinner at Veya was that same night.}

On this visit we learned that Veya's calamari with nuoc cham is no longer on the menu, which nearly brought me to tears. We reluctantly ordered the crudo with yuzu and Thai basil, which also nearly brought me to tears . . . but for a whole different reason.

For dessert, we shared some Key lime pie in a jar, and one of us may or may not have asked for a second helping of Veya's heavenly basil mashed potatoes.

You know how that Angel is.

W is for WILDLIFE
You've got to love a sign that says "Animals Ahead" without specifying which kind. Aardvark? Armadillo? Anteater? The options are endless.

X is for XTRA WATER PICS
I mean, can you get really get enough of that blue, blue water?

Y is for YELLOW
Bring your sunglasses to Leon's.

And your own straw to match your drink.

If you are going to eat the garnish off a salad bar, be ye not as foolish as I was and get it with a frisbee of fried goat cheese on top next time. (See: Letter K).

If you set out to pet a chicken, you will almost never be fast enough to catch one. Fall asleep for 10 minutes, however, and the chickens will come to you.

Z is for ZEMI
Gorgeous architecture, great food, a stunning beach, sexy pools, caring service, and a relaxing spa? No wonder Zemi is named for a deity -- it's pretty much heaven.

The Thai House Spa offers massages, mud wraps, body scrubs, facials, mani-pedis, and other treatments using natural herbs, oils, and polishes.

It is good to do nothing, and then to rest.

Or, you know, eat some more.

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Next up, a no-holds-barred blowout birthday someplace completely new: Antigua! Click here to subscribe, and you'll be the first to know how that, um, 35th birthday went down.

What happens when two longtime visitors to Anguilla bring two newbies along for a week . . . besides the crushing pressure of planning the perfect trip?

A whole lot of incidents, injuries, and ill-considered decisions, which are best summed up in this handy tally:

Large ducks mounted: 1
Large ducks destroyed: 1
Times Trina went home with a stranger: 1
Times Scott went home with a stranger: 1
Times Tracey sampled a stranger's dinner: 2
Fake accents employed: 2
Injuries (cuts/scratches/scrapes): 15
Injuries (bruises): 11
Injuries (Angel): 0 (for the 22nd year running)
Hexes placed upon Angel for his lack of injuries: 1
Stabbings (by a particularly sharp plant): 2
Sun rashes: 3
Swim platforms exposed to ladybits and sloshed with frozen mojitos: 1
Times we mashed de place up: 1
Bug bites (Tracey): 2
Bug bites (Trina): 7 (all localized to right butt cheek)
Bug bites (Scott): 11
Bug bites (Angel): 348
Goat pettings: 0
Attempted goat pettings: 42
Faces melted by Carolina reaper & ghost pepper sauce: 2
Stories we heard about someone named Snakey: 2
New British greetings invented: 2
Resort pools crashed: 3
Cheeseburgers consumed: 8
Pizzas consumed: 6
Bottles of wine consumed: 9
Number of rum punches consumed: We can't count that high (and even if we could, we can't remember)
Pounds of homemade scalloped potatoes consumed: Until nauseous

I should have known when Delta Airlines slashed our newbies' connection time at JFK to just 45 minutes -- then sent them a red, boldfaced warning which read (I'm paraphrasing only slightly here), "Hey, you're probably not going to make the connection that WE idiotically scheduled for you, so you might want to re-book at your own expense" -- that this trip was not going to be tranquility wrapped in blue, but calamity soaked in rum. But as my sister Trina and her husband Scott skidded breathlessly into the early boarding line with us at JFK and we scurried onto the plane bound for St. Maarten, I still held out a sliver of hope.

And in fact, the rest of the travel day ran like clockwork: An easy transfer from plane to dock, complete with icy bottles of water and chilled towels soaked in lemongrass oil(!); an uncharacteristically bump-free boat ride over to Anguilla complemented by a round of rum punches; a breeze through Customs; and the Jeep we'd rented waiting in the parking lot, just as Ronnie Bryan promised.

I mean, Catherine (of the fabulous Anguilla Villa Company) was even waiting at the villa wearing a fabulous tropical-patterned dress that (1) I immediately commented on and (2) she admitted to wearing just for me. Smoooooth, I tell you.

As we have on trips past, we stayed at Coconut Palm on Mead's Bay, not wanting to risk any surprises at a new-to-us place with our new-to-island peeps.

After months of agonizing, I knew I'd made the right choice when Trina and Scott sequestered themselves in the suite downstairs, leaving me and Angel with the entire upstairs to ourselves. (This was pre-Covid, when people sequestered themselves on purpose.)

But we didn't come all this way to hang around the house; I had an entire island to show off, and just one short week to do it. And so we made a beeline for one of our (literally) nearest and dearest, Malliouhana.

Soon the long day of travel began to catch up with us.

Luckily it was nothing that a couple of glasses of Minuty at Leon's couldn't fix.

That evening we decided to stick close to home for dinner, so we headed down the beach to Waves.

We ordered a round of drinks, and pretty much everything on the menu.

It was a quiet night at Waves, with just a handful of bored locals at the bar. And so, when they cranked up the music and asked if we wanted to mash de place up, who were we to say no?

The next morning we explored Coconut Palm and hung around the pool for a bit.

Soon our stomachs began rumbling, so we got ready for lunch.

I picked Ocean Echo on Meads' for Trina and Scott's first lime. I'd say they got the hang of it.

Soon the sweet smell of curry wafted down the beach, so we willed ourselves out of the water and up to the restaurant for lunch.

It was a tough choice -- eat a second pizza, or get back in the water? I think I chose wisely.

Later that afternoon, we spotted it. Like a mirage, it bobbed unsuspectingly in the distance: A gigantic blow-up swan that was just begging to be boarded.

Or, as Scott put it, "You guys are gonna mount that big duck?"

Yes, Scott. Yes, we are.

We bounded off down the beach, energized to complete our conquest.

Only later did we realize that we'd wasted precious energy jumping around like idiots, because that swan was far.

Like, really far.

Indeed, it is no accident that we look like we are drowning in this photo. Did I mention how far it was?

Finally, sweet relief! We grabbed onto the swan for dear life and clambered aboard . . . to find not an Instagram-worthy rosé party, but a couple of children sitting in a puddle of warm water that had collected in the middle.

But it wasn't until we'd, um, swanned off and headed back to shore that we realized that the "water" in that swan was suspiciously warm. Bet you never see that on Instagram.

The next day, we noticed that the swan had disappeared. I guess they had befowled it.

That evening we enjoyed the sunset at Coconut Palm before heading out for dinner.

I really wanted Trina and Scott to enjoy the island on their own for a bit, so we dropped them off in Sandy Ground while Angel and I headed up to Falcon Nest.

But not before yelling, "Don't do drugs!!!" -- Almost Famous style -- as they exited the car.

We ordered up our "usual" - two gigantic lobsters, a rum punch, and a Presidente -- and set to work.

As we were finishing dinner, we bumped into friends Sue, Dina, and Denise enjoying a pasta feast. They politely asked me if I'd like to try it, and anyone who regularly reads this blog knows what a bad move that was.

At least Denise had her head on straight. Here she is thinking, "Don't even look up. Don't make eye contact. Just eat your food before she does."

For their part, Trina and Scott had enjoyed a tapas dinner at SandBar, then walked down the beach for a couple of nightcaps at a new spot on Sandy Ground, Lit Lounge.

The next day we decided on lunch at Elodia's, which Angel likes for their strong rum punch and I like because they do not shame me for ordering off the kids' menu. But first, a stop at the scenic overlook on Back Street.

At Elodia's, Angel and I played in the water while Trina and Scott perfected their limin' technique.

Soon it was time for lunch.

We were just on our way to be seated when we ran into my friend Karen, who was in Anguilla with her parents, who also happen to read this blog. I was honored when Karen said it would make her father's trip if I stopped by to say hello and, after chatting with the three of them for nearly an hour, I was even more honored to have been so easily welcomed by this warm, charming bunch with such a great sense of humor. (Case in point: When Angel came by to gather us up for lunch, Karen's dad took one look at his dark sunglasses and shaved head, and exclaimed, "Oh, look, another celebrity: Mr. Worldwide!" How an 80-year-old man knows who Pitbull is is anyone's guess, but what you don't need to guess is whether Angel was referred to exclusively as Mr. Worldwide for the rest of the trip.)

After lunch, we settled sleepily into our loungers to while away the afternoon.

Of course, we couldn't leave Shoal Bay without introducing Trina and Scott to a local Anguillian favorite, the guavaberry colada. Tropical Sunsets makes an O.G. version that's just Pepto-y enough to satisy even the most discerning palate.

That evening we decided to go fancy for sunset at the Four Seasons.

The place was packed -- particularly for August -- but we lucked into a table with a great sunset view.

Trina and I took a stroll while the guys held down the fort.

We'd timed it perfectly in order to make our dinner reservation at Picante.

I tried to introduce Trina to my beloved seafood enchiladas, but she rebuffed them.

Instead, her and Angel had a staring/swearing/sweating contest, melting their faces off with Picante's Carolina reaper & ghost pepper sauce, made with peppers home-grown by the chef's mother-in-law.

I, of course, was not foolish enough to burn off all my taste buds so early in the trip.

Thankfully they took things down a notch at dessert, with some cool, creamy vanilla ice cream and Picante's justly-famous frozen lemon-lime pudding with the little chili-lime salt shaker on the side.

But you just know those two hotheads went crazy with the chili salt.
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By this time we were roughly halfway through our trip, and already we had mashed de place up; mounted a floating, pee-filled duck; eaten half of a stranger's dinner; endured bug bites, sun rashes, and melted faces; and consumed enough rum punch to forget all about the bug bites, sun rashes, and melted faces.

So it seemed like a good time to take our lives into our own hands.

Our friend Rob Willsher, he of the tireless will to find my missing ring, runs the island's best dive shop, Vigilant Divers, and, in a moment of gratitude for everything he'd done for us, I temporarily lost my mind and inexplicably agreed to give scuba diving a try.

We were literally that "How It Started / How It's Going" meme.

Angel did really well, but I was a disaster. First there was the fact that I literally could not stand upright, since the gear weighs 50 lbs. . . . and I weigh 100 lbs. Second was the fact that my thin-skinned body is basically a collection of dowel rods wrapped in tissue paper.

The worst part, though, was that as Angel and I were thrashing about in the water fighting for our lives, Trina and Scott were enjoying a serene, leisurely brunch at Straw Hat.

One of them even had the audacity to order a hot dog while I gasped for my last dying breaths. Next thing you know they'll be scarfing down FBI cheeseburgers at my funeral.

It is a testament to Rob's patience and professionalism that he still agreed to have lunch with us at Straw Hat after we essentially spent the morning sucking up two tanks full of oxygen in order to dunk our heads under water and then wail, "Save yourself! Go on without me!"

We were joined by Trina and Scott (who apparently never left after breakfast), Rob's wife Julie, and Straw Hat owner Anne Parles.

Rob may look like a tough guy, but he dines like the British royalty that he practically is, lunching on an elegant chicken salad and a crisp, grassy Sauvignon Blanc.

Rob regaled us with stories of his road-trip adventures in America -- all of which involved him sparring with the likes of Maury Povich and ended with us in tears of laughter -- and, as the Sauvignon Blanc flowed freely, we decided to create two new British greetings in his honor ("Beef kippers to you!" and "Great candied pears!").

That evening was a Wednesday, which could only mean one thing: Wing Night at FBI.

What appeared to be a new waitress in an AXA Brewery tank flitted from table to table, occasionally popping in behind the bar as well. When she stopped by to check on our table, we got to chatting and, after another round of rum punch, the talk inexplicably turned to which one us had the funniest baby pictures. I thought it was me (I had front teeth the size of tombstones that you could park a truck between); Trina thought it was her (she looked exactly like a Cabbage Patch kid until she was well into high school); and Amy? Well . . . Amy won.

At least she turned out gorgeous. Trina and I are still waiting.

Later Amy mentioned that she'd just gotten a new puppy to keep her existing dogs company, and did we want to come by and see him since she lived just up the hill? I certainly wasn't risking a walk in the dark -- I'm clumsy enough in the daytime and without any rum punch -- but Trina was all in, and although I'd normally be loathe to let her set off in the dark in a foreign country with a complete stranger (to see a puppy, no less -- the oldest trick in the book!), I figured it would be fine since Amy worked at FBI and Scott was going along, too. And so they set off into the Anguillian night.

Later, when Marjorie asked where they'd gone, I explained that they'd gone up to her new employee's house to see some dogs.

"You mean that blonde girl I saw earlier?" she asked. "She doesn't work here."

Oh.

Luckily Trina is too small to make a skin suit out of anyway, and so her and Scott returned to FBI safe and sound and covered in puppy saliva.

The next day we decided to head over to Zemi Beach House for lunch, to show Trina and Scott how the other half (and shameless interlopers) live.

We enjoyed a delicous lunch of fish tacos, watermelon and feta salad, tomato gazpacho, and more.

After lunch we headed to the upper-level pool for a swim.

Not a bad day for a bunch of interlopers.
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There's still one more part!! Click here to subscribe and you'll be the first to know if we mount any more large, seafaring blow-up animals.

That evening our friends Hal and Donna invited us over to their villa in Island Harbour for sunset cocktails.

I wore a very special outfit: Donna made this dress for me, using a sarong I found at Irie Life. Made it! Me, I can barely use scissors without adult supervision.

After drinks we drove the short distance over to Ben's for dinner.

See that pointy plant in the foreground? It had no sooner stabbed me right in the crotch when I heard a muffled "oooof" behind me, only to turn and see Trina nearly impaled through the groin by the same sneaky shrub. (It is only with great restraint that I do not make any bush puns here.)

Sadly, she hasn't been able to sit upright since.

I knew I was having Ben's excellent pepperoni pizza, and came prepared in case I needed a slice for the road.

The next day we decided to check out Cap Juluca. Obviously they'll let anybody in this place.

Mother Nature ensured that we didn't overstay our welcome.

Ferryboat Inn may not be as fancy as Cap Juluca, but the burgers are better and that guy Christian is somewhat ok, too, now that he's married to Jenn.

Someone who is more than just ok is Marjorie, who made an entire casserole dish full of homemade scalloped potatoes just for me. Which I proceeded to inhale at a rate that would make Joey Chestnut break out in a sweat.

Of course, we made sure that we weren't the only ones who ate well at FBI that day.

Later, the guys dropped me and Trina off at CuisinArt while they checked out Christian's new venture, AXA Brewery. [NOTE: AXA Brewery is currently closed but should be back up and running soon. Save water, drink beer!]

Meanwhile, over at CuisinArt, Trina and I were busy contorting ourselves into their egg chairs and making people jealous of our frozen mojitos.

It had been a long day -- even more so for those of us who downed a bushel of potatoes at lunch -- so we picked up dinner at B&D's for a well-deserved night in.

The next morning Trina and Scott kept to their routine of breakfast at Straw Hat, while Angel and I made a pit stop at Shoal Bay West.

We split up for lunch, too, with Trina and Scott at Blanchard's Beach Shack and Angel and I just down the beach at Ocean Echo.

For lunch, we feated on Caesar salad, shrimp curry, and pepperoni pizza before retiring to our rafts.

The four of us couldn't stay apart for long, though, and met up that afternoon at the Dune Preserve.

But the swim platform at CuisinArt beckoned, and after our encounter with the Pee-king Duck, we were powerless to resist. And so we sloshed aboard, chistening everything in our paths with frozen mojito.

Trina was triumphant, while I pretended not to know her. I'm sure Scott can relate.

It was our last night on island, and I had a perfect night planned -- sunset and Sancerre at Coconut Palm, followed by dinner at our beloved Dolce Vita.

Abbi surprised me with a gargantuan veal parm, and Angel and I surprised Trina with an early birthday celebration.

The next morning we were set to depart on the ferry back to St. Martin. It was a Sunday, so we negotiated a deal: If Ferryboat would open that morning just for us, we'd provide the sausage and egg sandwiches and the entertainment (a.k.a. Trina in any sort of hat).

Although Marjorie was at church and didn't join us, she still did the Lord's work the night before and prepared some rum punch for us to take to go.

Now that is how you travel first-class.

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Where to next? Burgers, bourbon, and bumpkins in the Hudson Valley; a very special birthday trip to Antigua; summer on Anna Maria Island . . . and TWO MONTHS(!!) in Anguilla. Click here to subscribe and you'll be notified when a new post goes up!

Want to know what we're eating in the meantime? Follow me on Instagram @escape.from.new.york. Hope to see you there!

As longtime readers of this blog already know, Angel and I are experienced Caribbean travelers. And as such, we have endured our share of only-in-the-islands hardships. There was that warm Chardonnay served in plastic cups in Abaco. The private beach dinner in Anguilla sans the tiny decorative pineapples I'd requested. And, probably most horrific of all, that Christmas Day on Tortola when I almost didn't get to eat lunch.

But none of these prior calamities could have prepared us for our pre-Covid visit to St. John.

Beautiful St. John, with its striking green mountains and stunning beaches. Peaceful St. John, with its chill vibe and charming people. Scenic St. John, with its steep switchbacks and sweeping overlooks.

And utterly terrifying St. John, with spiders the size of saucers and billipedes (that is not a typo) the size of hot dogs and bumblebees so huge they look like flying avocados. St. John, with its nightly cacophony of frogs? howler monkeys? Tasmanian devils? that sound like an angry flock of seagulls fighting over a single French fry. St. John, where the charming cottage we rented featured a screen door that never managed to bang around the same way twice, leaving us unwitting participants in a nightly guessing game of "Is it just the wind...or is it a masked intruder hoping to find more than just the 16 pairs of shoes I brought?"

There is an old adage that a particularly bad scare can so startle a person's heart as to shave one year off their life expectancy. After surprises on St. John ranging from finding an enormous waterbug on my face towel (apparently it's possible to scream so loud that you startle them) to an unidentified creepy-crawly in my hair (more screaming, plus some wild Elaine Benes-style thrashing) to taking a pitch-black outdoor shower at night during a blackout (in the interest of preserving my few remaining shreds of sanity, I refuse to even speculate) . . . I am pleased to announce that I am inexplicably still alive given that, according to the old adage, I should have died approximately nine years ago.

Our nightly Battle of the Bugs began on the Sunday before Christmas, when we foolishly arrived with suitcases full of clothes and brightly wrapped presents instead of cans of Bop and beekeeper suits.

None of this, of course, was the fault of Sago Cottage, a charming, spotless West Indian style cottage in Calabash Boom.

We didn't want to venture too far on our first night on island, so we headed down to Coral Bay just in time for sunset at Aqua Bistro.

What beats fried calamari, tacos, rum punch, and a Bushwacker for dinner?

Obviously that was a rhetorical question.

Angel awoke bright and early the next morning, while I planned ahead for a cottage with no window blinds.

Finally I roused myself enough to get dressed and take in our fragrant surroundings.

Soon it was time for lunch, so we headed down the mountain to Skinny Legs.

Skinny Legs is proudly blender-free, but that didn't stop us from ordering up a Painkiller, a rum punch, and then the deadly Melee -- a blend of all six Cruzan rum flavors and a thimble full of fruit juice.

After lunch we decided on a swim at Cinnamon Bay or, as we were calling it after that Melee, Cimmaninn.

After that, things got wild.

That evening we dressed casually for dinner at The Longboard, only to find that the wait was more than an hour. Too hungry to hang on, we instead somehow managed to luck into an outdoor table at one of the best -- and most popular -- restaurants on the island, Extra Virgin.

Although we had reservations for later in the week and hate to repeat a restaurant on vacation, Extra Virgin's gracious service, fabulous drinks, and excellent food definitely warrant doubling or even tripling up.

_{Holiday Horchata with fig and vanilla infused bourbon, coconut, almond horchata, and cimmaninn. I mean cinnamon.}

^{Grapefruit margarita with house-made grapefruit sour...swoon}

^{Gnocchi with tomato cream and basil}

^{To-die-for housemade ricotta with mushroom and sweet corn saute}

^{Fettucine with colossal king crab and shrimp}

^{Apple crisp with homemade vanilla bean ice cream and just a smidge of whipped cream.}

The next morning we awoke to a gorgeous sunrise. Not on purpose, of course. We're not psychos.

We do sometimes dress alike, though, which I guess is close enough.

For lunch, we decided to drive into town to check out the Banana Deck.

This place serves greasy cheeseburgers, extra-cheesy fried mozzarella sticks, and Caesar dressing with enough mayonnaise in it to choke a wild donkey. In other words, I loved it.

For his part, Angel had the grilled fish sammie with a spicy BBQ sauce that damn near melted his face off . . . which means he loved it, too.

After that lunch, we thought it best to sequester ourselves at one of the more private beaches to avoid prying questions like, "Mommy, did that lady swallow a beach ball?" So we headed off to Oppenheimer Beach in hopes of snagging one of the very few parking spots.

Success! Oppenheimer turned out to be one of our very favorites of the trip.

It certainly didn't hurt that we had it all to ourselves.

When we'd finally had our fill of the sea, we headed back to Sago Cottage, stopping along the way to sample a Tropical Whiskey Punch at the Danforth and dodge some goats before cozying up in the hot tub in time for sunset.

That night was Christmas Eve, and we'd booked dinner at Rhumb Lines.

The wait for our food was a long one thanks to the holiday, but eventually we feasted on potstickers, Szechuan tuna with "Puff Daddy" noodles, and a delicious shrimp Pad Thai.

The next morning, I opened my Christmas presents, thanked Angel for his thoughtfulness, and then ran off with another man. Well, motored, actually. What can I say? The heart wants what it wants, and what mine wants is pizza.

We showed up at the dock ready to jam.

^{That mask was supposed to look like Santa's beard. This guy was ahead of his time.}

We spent most of the morning on the slide, even reenacting "A Christmas Story," since it was Christmas day.

Soon it was time for one of the catamaran crew members to make the run over the to the floating pizza shop, Pizza Pi, to pick up lunch. They don't normally take passengers with them, of course, but I can be very persuasive. Or pathetic. Whatever.

At first Angel had no idea where I'd gone, but it didn't take him long to figure out that where there's a pizza, there's a Tracey.

There might even be some rum punch.

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After a Christmas Day sail full of pepperoni pizza and rum punch, there was only one thing left to do afterwards: Grab some margaritas.

We ended up at Greengo's, a festive spot in Mongoose Junction.

By this point in our trip, I had almost made peace with the creepy-crawlies that were intent on terrorizing me wherever I went. At home, I styled myself as a modern-day Rambo, a can of BOP in one hand and an electric bug zapper in the other. At night, I rolled myself into a tight burrito made of bedsheets and topped with a thick layer of Deep Woods OFF. I steadfastly refused to use any light that didn't have a lightswitch after a particularly traumatizing incident involving a waterbug on a lampshade, and on occasion I even encountered an insect small enough to dispose of myself with my flip-flop, instead of my usual method of dropping a stockpot over the multi-legged beast and screaming bloody murder for Angel. In other words, I had the situation mostly under control.

Until we arrived home from Greengos and all hell broke loose.

There was a blackout. And to be honest, I'm not sure which was more terrifying: Having to use the outdoor shower in the pitch dark, or having to go to Christmas Dinner without the benefit of a mirror or a hairdryer.

Luckily our dinner was quite the distraction: a round of Copa Cabanas with Plantation overproof rum, lime, orange, and pineapple juice; tuna tartare; decadent Coquille St. Jacques; and the Caribbean version of a turducken: Lobster stuffed with shrimp stuffed with crabmeat, all topped with a creamy, citrusy sauce.

The next day we set off for the Art Bar in Cruz Bay. There, I treated Angel to a rum tasting to occupy him while I shopped their selection of beautiful hand-made jewelry.

We'd so enjoyed our earlier dinner at Extra Virgin that we decided to give their new sister restaurant, 1864, a try for lunch.

There, we enjoyed moules frites, a fabulous smashburger, and 1864's excellent focaccia.

Soon the beach beckoned again, so we set off for a soak.

After an afternoon in the hot sun, we'd worked up a thirst.

New Favorite Drink Alert: the R&R, made with St. John Brewers' draft root beer mixed with Cruzan vanilla rum.

The afternoon had turned cloudy, and by the time we got back to Sago Cottage, it had started to drizzle. Not that we let that spoil our fun.

By evening it was raining in earnest, so we decided to snuggle in with a couple of pizzas from Pizzabar in Paradise and a bottle of red wine, enjoying the sound of the rain drumming on the tin roof.

We spent the next morning taking in the spectacular view from the cottage.

Eventually we decided to check out nearby Salt Pond Bay, which is where we learned that "a trail good for all skill levels" still means that you should actually wear shoes.

Somehow we managed to make it to the beach with our ankles intact.

Happily, the day began to clear up, so we made a beeline for the Paddle-In Tiki Bar at Maho.

There, we discovered the Friend of the Devil, a Painkiller with bourbon instead of rum. I have no idea how I'd never thought of that before, but it's never too late to make a good cocktail even more deadly.

It's just a shame they were so stingy with the nutmeg.

Lunch was at High Tide, where we enjoyed crunchy coconut shrimp, spicy blackened fish, and a Caprese sandwich served with a tasty little pasta salad.

For dinner, we stuck close to home with some BBQ at Oasis, where we might as well been this potted plant for all the attention the bartender paid us.

And they were out of the mac & cheese, which is a far greater crime than just ignoring me.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, which was perfect for what I had planned for our last full day.

We piled into the Jeep and set off for Hansen Bay and what would be one of the highlights of our trip, Lime Out.

I was practically giddy at the thought of not just tacos and Painkillers at Lime Out, but floating tacos and Painkillers, and so I was crestfallen when we learned that the pedal boat we planned to rent to get over there was not available, having filled with water from the rain the day before. But those tacos beckoned, and so Angel and a kind stranger managed to lift the massive pedal boat and drain it so we could pedal over to Lime Out.

Finally, having pedaled our little hearts out, we arrived at Lime Out, tied up our ride, and clambered "aboard."

We whiled away the afternoon with cocktails, tacos, and new friends.

Soon it was time to pedal back.

Of course, it's not every day that you find yourself pedaling away from a floating taco bar in the middle of a secluded bay at sunset and hear someone call your name, and I'll admit that my first thought was that I was hallucinating from one too many Painkillers. But there was Sandra, the caretaker who'd led us to Sago Cottage when we first arrived on St. John, and her partner Ronald on their sailboat, waving and inviting us aboard as we pedaled by.

Ronald went ashore to pick up Angel from returning the pedal boat, leaving Sandra and I alone to take silly selfies.

Sunset from a sailboat with new friends and a belly full of tacos and Painkillers? Not a bad way to end our last day.

It was our last night on island, so we headed back to what had quickly become a new favorite, Extra Virgin Bistro.

The next morning we soaked up the view one last time, said goodbye to our goat friends, and grabbed a quick lunch at the Westin before dragging ourselves to the nearby ferry dock.

On the way back to St. Thomas, we were treated to a rainbow spanning the horizon, a symbol of hope in many cultures. Angel's hope was that we'd return to St. John someday.

Mine was that I'd never see a billipede ever again.

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You may have spent the pandemic baking bread, organizing your closets, and learning to play the ukulele, but I spent it watching Tiger King and not blogging. But now I'm back, baby, and there's at least a year's worth of trips to catch up on! Up next? Anguilla, Antigua, and anyplace else that will permit disease-ridden Americans to enter the country. Click here to subscribe and you'll be the first to know when a new post goes up!

Like most people, I love to travel but hate to fly. The crowds, the jostling, the lines, and, worst of all, the hours of unrelenting boredom relieved only by the occasional bag of pretzels (stale) or temper tantrum (mine). And so, when I learned that a trip to Cape Town would require a 14-hour nonstop to Johannesburg, followed by another 2-hour flight to Cape Town, I jokingly thought, "Man, this place better have literally everything. I want beaches and mountains and wineries! I want chi-chi restaurants and waterfront bars and postcard views! I want rolling vineyards and world-class wines and great food and a vibrant downtown and historic architecture and sweeping vistas and. . ."

Impossibly . . . Cape Town had all of it.

In fact, Cape Town is the only city I've ever visited that's so scenic, drivers pull onto the shoulder of a busy highway, jump out of their car, and literally risk death just to take a selfie.

I, of course, would never do something so silly just for a photo.

And as if all that weren't nearly enough . . . they also have penguins.

In the end, Cape Town was such an embarrassment of riches that in the time it would take you to read a day-by-day, chronological recounting of our trip, you could have just flown there yourself. And so, here's my (mostly) A to Z list of the most beautiful, breathtaking, and beguiling reasons to visit Cape Town. [NOTE: This trip was pre-Covid. I wouldn't spend 14 hours on a plane now unless, well, it was going to Cape Town.]

AZURE
We decided to have Christmas Eve dinner at Azure, the five-star restaurant at Cape Town's 12 Apostles Hotel. Twelve apostles, twelve days of Christmas, seemed appropriate.

Azure overlooks both Camps Bay and Lions Head Mountain, and even though just one of those would constitute a spectacular view anywhere else in the world, this is Cape Town, where such views are the norm. It's like Malibu and Tuscany went on a wine-fueled bender, resulting in the world's most beautiful baby.

And you know the food is good when it can distract you from the postcard views outside.

Plus, the dessert was smokin'.

BUITENVERWACHTING
One of the things I loved most about Cape Town was how far in advance they take restaurant reservations...that is, until September rolled around and I found that my first and second choices for Christmas lunch were already booked. That, however, turned out to be one of the best things that's ever happened to me, because otherwise I'd never have discovered Buitenverwaching [Bite-en-ver-VACHT-ing] and their delicious, decadent, top-five-meals-in-my-life Christmas spectacular.

I originally thought we'd dine outside on the patio, but the gracious reservationist, Lanita, recommended the glass-enclosed terrace for a better view. She did not steer us wrong.

Our seven-course lunch included mozzarella espuma; marinated tuna with pan-fried baby gem lettuce and black garlic; quail saltimbocca with curried popcorn jus, chorizo, and truffles; and braised beef with crispy morels and taro crema.

All paired with Buitenverwachting's excellent wines, of course.

So much wine, in fact, that I could have sworn they served my dessert in a little Santa sled.

In fact, the only bad thing I have to say about Buitenverwachting is that they continue to torture me with emails regarding all of the other spectacular-sounding food and wine events they're hosting, so much so that we have considered moving halfway around the world to Cape Town just so we can become regulars here.

I mean, it's not the world's worst plan.

CHAPMAN'S PEAK
Chapman's Peak is located on the western side of the Cape Peninsula, between Hout Bay and Noordhoek. The western flank of the mountain drops precipitously into the Atlantic Ocean and a road, known as Chapman's Peak Drive, hugs the near-vertical face of the mountain. Obviously this is not dangerous at all.

Part of the road is carved directly into the mountain, which handily combines acrophobia and claustrophobia for those who are short on time.

DELAIRE GRAFF ESTATE
In the U.S., Graff is known for outsized diamonds and Oscar-night jewels. But in over-the-top Cape Town, Graff is known as a paradise for wine enthusiasts, foodies, spa-goers, and art collectors . . . and those inclined to pick up a $1.2 million diamond over lunch.

Delaire means "from the sky," and it's a fitting name for a vineyard nestled on the Helshoogte Mountain Pass, which links two of South Africa's most famous wine-growing regions, Stellenbosch and Franschhoek.

Our day at Delaire began with lunch on the terrace, where we enjoyed excellent food, stellar views, and solicitous service.

Breathtaking as they are, the mountains aren't the only African works of art around here.

Though the day's weather was perfect, it was easy to see how cozy the indoor dining room would be in winter.

After lunch, we retired to the wine lounge for a customized tasting.

The wines were fantastic; so much so that we placed a very large order to be shipped home. Otherwise we'd definitely have picked up a 10-carat diamond on our way out.

ERNIE ELS
One of the highlights of the wine-country town of Stellenbosch is La Gratitude, a gorgeous 17th century Cape Dutch style mansion that houses apartments, offices, and a restaurant owned by South African pro golfer Ernie Els.

Upstairs, the private Founder's Club is a chic, clubby spot to retire with a whiskey after dinner.

But on this day, the warm, sunny weather dictated that we retire to the garden.

Oh, look, it's my living room window.

FETA CHEESE AND FANCY COCKTAILS
Trust me, I wasn't expecting feta to be on the list of reasons to visit Cape Town, either. But when you split your time between New York City and the Hamptons, where feta is stingily doled out with tweezers in pieces that are both the size and price of pearls, you know a world-class bargain when you see one.

I was, however, expecting fancy cocktails from this cosmopolitan (heh-heh) city, and Cape Town did not disappoint. One of our favorite spots was The Bungalow, a chic beachfront spot in Clifton.

Another was Ginja in the V&A Waterfront, a stylish spot with killer views of Table Mountain.

And still more feta.

GUARDIAN PEAK
Guardian Peak's philosophy, "Live with Wine," is built on the winery's belief that wine and food should be inseparable in our daily diet. Huh. Apparently I've been on a diet my entire adult life.

Nestled under the towering peak on Stellenbosch Mountain for which it is named, Guardian Peak's stunning estate includes a winery, restaurants, expansive terrace, and well-stocked shop.

=

After a customized tasting, we moved indoors to a window-side table for a multi-course lunch.

Yes, "ladies"-sized cuts of beef. Obviously they haven't met this lady.

l

HIKING LION'S HEAD MOUNTAIN
I usually prefer to do my hiking in ballet flats and white pants, or on a bike so I don't have to walk. But when I heard that Lion's Head rewarded a beginner-level hike with sweeping views of the entire city, I bought a pair of cute boots and decided to give it a go.

As we drew nearer, the enormity of the mountain, and the stupidity of our task, became clear.

But it was a beautiful day -- Christmas Day! -- and so we foolishly stumbled off into the bush with no water, no sunscreen, and no sense.

Obviously I had no business being on a sheer vertical rock face with nothing but a flimsy chain between me and death by clumsiness...but the views made the risk worth it.

And did I mention the ladders? I mean, if using one just to clean your gutters is dangerous, then using one to climb up a mountain is downright suicidal.

Sure, it was an unconventional way to spend Christmas morning, but that was nothing compared to the penguin-palooza to come.
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JOY
The oldest residential neighborhood in Cape Town, Bo Kaap is known for its charming, joyfully colorful houses.

Formerly known as the Malay Quarter, Bo Kaap is the historical center of Cape Malay culture in Cape Town and the oldest surviving residential neighborhood in the city.

KHAYELITSHA
A shameful relic of apartheid, Cape Town's Khayelitsha district was formed in the early 1980s when Xhosa-speaking Blacks from the Eastern Cape moved westward to Cape Town in search of work. The apartheid regime sought to solve this "problem" by establishing new Black neighborhoods -- including Khayelitsha, which means "new home" in Xhosa -- on the outskirts of Cape Town, then forcefully relocating the Black population to these districts. In reality, the Xhosas' "new home" is the world's fifth-largest slum.

Heartbreakingly, cardboard boxes and corrugated-metal shipping containers, which stretch as far as the eye can see, still serve as home to almost 400,000 people.

Khayelitsha photos are not mine.

To help the residents of Khayelitsha or one of Cape Town's other districts, visit Arm in Arm in Africa.

LA PETITE TARTE
If Khayelitsha is the worst of Cape Town, then the city's trendy De Waterkant neighborhood -- an area once inhabited by slaves but now home to both Blacks and whites -- shows that cultural diversity makes an area more vibrant and interesting. Today De Waterkant features cobblestone streets, sidewalk cafés, a diverse popuation, and a great little bistro, La Petite Tarte.

It's like they knew I was coming.

La Petite looks like a shabby chic farmhouse, minus the stray cats and plus the extra charm.

La Petite's menu was so good that we couldn't just order just one entrée. Which is how we ended up having bobotie, a Croque Monsieur, and a chicken pot pie for lunch.

What is bobotie, you ask? Pronounced "ba-BOH-tee," it's a classic South African baked casserole of curried ground beef with a creamy, custard-like egg topping. So kind of like a spicy Shepherd's pie, if Shepherd's pie was one of the best things you'd ever tasted.

We even behaved ourselves.

Just kidding.

MOUETTE
La Mouette, which means "the seagull," is housed in an Tudor building in Sea Point that was once home to the town's mayor.

It was the perfect choice for Christmas dinner, suffused with soft amber light and warmed by cozy fireplaces.

The visually stunning five-course tasting menu didn't hurt, either. Who wouldn't want parmesan custard(!!!) with cauliflower and hazelnut crumble; braised short ribs with celery root tacos; burrata with honeycomb and arugula oil; and herbed gnocchi with edible twigs and and truffle snow, all topped off with a gorgeous passionfruit curd with coconut and mango sorbet for dessert?

Most charming of all? The chef had saved all of his original, handwritten recipes from his early days as a cook, then framed them for display when he finally got his own restaurant.

Now that's the kind of place I can (celery) root for.

OWL COTTAGE
We knew we'd be doing a lot of driving on this trip -- from Sea Point to Stellenbosch, Clifton to Constantia, and points in between -- and so we chose our home base carefully. That turned out to be the chic seaside suburb of Hout Bay.

We decided to stay at Owl Cottage, a charming bungalow in the Victorskloof area with a veranda overlooking the sea and Chapman's Peak, and a sweet, flower-filled patio out back.

Inside, the cottage was bright and spacious.

And my sister made sure it was decked out for Christmas, with a pair of homemade, safari-themed stockings.

They were perfect for smuggling home a couple of blocks of feta.

PENGUINS
After lunch on Christmas Day, I got the best Christmas present of all time: A trip to Boulders Beach in False Bay to the see the penguins.

African penguins are obviously adorable, but they are also hilarious, clumsily waddling about, falling asleep at inopportune times, and adopting a little spread-eagle stance when it's time for a rest.

ROUNDHOUSE
On our first night in Cape Town, we knew we'd be exhausted from the flight and ready for some pampering. And so we chose The Roundhouse, an upscale spot nestled under Table Mountain and overlooking Camps Bay.

Founded in 1786, the Roundhouse was originally built as a guardhouse for the Dutch East India Company, as the location was ideally situated to keep watch of enemy ships. Today it is ideally situated to have a great arrival-night meal, which on this night included cured trout with miso and tahini puree; steamed kingklip with burnt apple and fish-bone cream; beef in Rooikrans (an evergreen also known as acacia cyclops) coal oil; lamb belly with carrot and cashew puree; and Karoo Farm ostrich with caramelized milk, turnip, and sunchoke.

Dessert #1 featured buffalo yogurt with carrot and satsuma sorbets and white chocolate caramel, while Dessert #2, which was described only as "coconut, rose, lychee, green tea," featured ice cream "soil" and a swirl of dry ice.

STELLENBOSCH
Affectionately referred to as "Stellies," Stellenbosch is South Africa’s second oldest town and the epicenter of the Cape Winelands region.

It's also great place to wonder why you don't just move here already.

TOKARA
Tokara Estate is situated over 1,300 feet above sea level on top of the Helshoogte Pass outside Stellenbosch. I have no idea how to pronounce "Helshoogte," but after a wine tasting here, the variations are endless.

The drive alone to Tokara is worth the trip.

In addition to wine, Tokara offers tastings of its four different types of extra virgin olive oil.

V&A WATERFRONT
The Victoria and Alfred Waterfront is the oldest working harbor in the southern half of the world. It also offers one of the most stunning vistas in the city, which is saying a lot in a place like Cape Town.

No, we didn't ride the Ferris wheel. When I miraculously made it down from Lion's Head alive, I decided not to push my luck with any more high-risk activities.

WHISKEY
World-class whiskey in wine country? You bet your bitters there is.

Home to one of the largest whiskey collections in the Southern Hemisphere -- over 500 whiskies from nearly every producing region in the world -- Bascule Bar in the Cape Grace Hotel complements the hotel’s nautical vibe, located as it is down a narrow stairway leading to what might well be the hull of a ship.

You can even get your own whiskey locker.

X, Y, Z
Look, I got nothing for these letters. We played no xylophones, we ate no yams, and we covered the zebras in my safari posts. So how about some more penguins?

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You may have spent the pandemic baking bread, organizing your closets, and learning to play the ukulele, but I spent it not blogging. But now I'm back, baby, and there's at least a year's worth of trips to catch up on! Up next? Anguilla, Antigua, St. John, and any other island that will permit disease-ridden Americans to enter the country. Click here to subscribe and you'll be the first to know when there's a new post to get you through the continuing hellscape that is the year 2021!

Over the past few years, as we've watched more and more of our friends hit the Big Five-Oh, Angel came to realize that no matter how big a blowout celebration was held, a birthday still lasts, well, one day -- or maybe a week, if one is lucky -- and then it is forgotten, like so many sets of keys and pairs of glasses and other things that (I hear) one misplaces when one reaches the other side of 50.

And so, the least selfish man on the planet suddenly and uncharacteristically declared that when he turned 50, he planned to keep the party going . . . all year long. "The Year of Angel," as it came to be known, gradually took shape, ranging from a bourbon tour of Kentucky (with detours to the Louisville Slugger factory, the Muhammad Ali museum, and Churchill Downs, all a gift from his generous friend Robert), to Yankees spring training in Tampa with his baseball buddy Brian, to a birthday-night dinner in Anguilla, to a cigar-and-mojito fueled trip to Havana, to the, er, wildest trip of them all: An African safari.

Our adventure began with a short, scenic flight from our home base in Cape Town to Nelspruit Airport in Mpumalanga, and if you think that's easy to say, then you didn't have nearly as many sundowners on your safari as I did on mine.

From Mpumalanga, we boarded a tiny bush plane bound for the Arathusa Airstrip.

That's airstrip, not airport.

After exhaustive research in which I ruled out (1) all of the ultra-luxurious lodges that look like Ralph Lauren ads and cost more per night than my monthly take-home pay, and (2) those that allow very small children -- obviously a natural fit given that safaris feature large and sometimes deadly wild animals, a guide carrying a loaded rifle, and the expectation that everyone will be quiet -- we settled on Arathusa Safari Lodge.

Luxurious enough to offer essentials like hot showers and air conditioning, but rustic enough to require an armed escort to our suite at night, Arathusa has just thirteen suites, nine of which face a waterhole (now dry due to South Africa's ongoing drought) and four of which are remotely located within the bush.

Sought after due to its prime location within the Sabi Sands Private Game Reserve, which itself is adjacent to the vast, unfenced Kruger National Park, Arathusa also featured a comfortable outdoor bar and lounge, a large swimming pool, and -- incredibly, given its far-flung location -- some of the best food we've ever had on any vacation, anywhere.

We booked early and had our choice of suites, ultimately deciding on Marula, one of the four remote bush suites and the furthest one from the main lodge. Given the suite's luxe furnishings and private swimming pool, you might not think we were really roughing it, but that's only because you didn't see how far Marula was from the lodge's cocktail bar.

Thoughtful touches, like a soaking tub for two and an outdoor shower, completed the suite.

And what Marula lacked in privacy when showering indoors, it made up for with the private dipping pool and secluded patio.

We weren't completely alone, though.

Upon our arrival, we had been greeted at the airstrip by one of the guides, who ferried us over to Arathusa just in time for lunch.

Most people who spend time in the bush are fearful of contracting malaria or being mauled by a wild animal; I, of course, was worried that I might starve to death (and had packed a bag full of granola bars just in case). And so I should have known -- when Arathusa staff didn't even let us see our suite before whisking us off to lunch -- that my fears were not only unfounded, but ridiculous: Arathusa fed us so heartily, and so frequently, that I am pretty sure Angel once faked a headache just to avoid stuffing down a three-course lunch mere hours after the mid-morning snack, which itself had been preceded by breakfast and a pre-breakfast snack. Me, I'm down with any place where lunch is the fourth meal of the day.

That afternoon was our first game drive.

Concerned that the late December summer foliage would obscure our viewing, we'd brought along a high-powered zoom lens . . . which turned out to be almost completely unnecessary.

Though it was only our first drive, we were thrilled to spot three of the Big Five . . . and their babies.

We also saw the first of many, many impala, a medium-sized antelope native to Africa.

We came to prefer the evening game drives to the morning ones for several reasons -- no 4:30am wake-up call; the opportunity to bask in the late afternoon heat; and returning to the lodge in the soft blue twilight -- but the main one was . . . sundowners.

Scheduled roughly halfway through each evening game drive, sundowners are the South African version of happy hour.

And that is how I had the best gin-and-tonic of my life, at a makeshift bar in the bush, under the late afternoon warmth of the African sun.

The second half of our inaugural drive was just as awe-inspiring as the first.

That evening, exhaustion from the long day of travel started to catch up with us, but Arathusa had a little surprise in store before we could return to the lodge: Dinner in the bush, under a dark sky blanketed with stars.

It was the experience of a lifetime.

It had been a day filled with incredible firsts, and I was worried that we would barely sleep trying to process all we'd experienced. But the thought of getting to do it all again -- but this time at 5:30am -- was a powerful motivator, and we willed ourselves to sleep . . . counting impalas.
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CLICK HERE TO READ PART 2!

The next morning -- early, early morning -- was our first pre-dawn game drive. We roused ourselves at 4:30am, which was just enough time to shower, brush our teeth, and get over to the lodge for Pre-Breakfast 1.

We set off on a completely different path from the day before (as we would do for every game drive), spotting kudu, waterbuck, and the ubiquitous impala along the way.

Pre-Breakfast 2 was served mid-safari at roughly 7am.

Afterwards, our talented tracker, DeBeers, led us to a Cape buffalo and a stunning, elusive leopard, rounding out in just two safari drives the Big Five we'd hoped to see.

As well as the baby elephants I couldn't see often enough.

After the game drive, it was time for our third meal of the day, Official Breakfast.

When we arrived back at our suite after stuffing ourselves silly, we discovered that some visitors had been monkeying around the place.

That afternoon was spent lazing around the pool in hopes of seeing a passing elephant (me) and passing out cold from lack of sleep (Angel).

On the evening game drive, another surprise: Animals we never expected to see in Africa, like turtles, owls, saddle-billed storks, and technicolor lizards.

And a few we did expect, like hares, mongoose (mongeese?) and vultures.

Plus zebras which, amid all the green, looked suprisingly more exotic than any other animal we saw on safari.

As well as the "usual" kudu, hippos, and lions.

Dinner that night was held outdoors in Arathusa's boma, a wooden enclosure traditionally used to house livestock.

After dinner, we hung around the bar for a bit . . . because the armed guard who escorted us back to Marula each night had spotted some leopards near our front door.

Which has to be the best excuse I'll ever have for ordering another round.
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Another morning brought another pre-dawn wake-up call, and another surprise: Rare African wild dogs, an endangered species with only four remaining populations in Africa, one of which is in Kruger.

The painted dogs were beautiful, but can anything beat the cuteness of a baby giraffe who thinks you can't see him?

Later, more lions and some wildebeest, though -- lucky for the wildebeest -- not at the same time.

That afternoon, we joined one of the rangers on a nature walk around the Arathusa property.

I won't lie: I think I'd rather have seen a rabid wild dog than this giant termite mound . . .

And whatever the heck this is.

Our last evening safari didn't disappoint: We saw leopards and zebras; Angel got to ride back to the lodge in the tracker seat; and one of us went, well, full bush.

Our last dinner under the boma was a celebration of food, wine, and the friends we'd made along the way.

We were scheduled for one last morning game drive before checking out. It started out a bit drizzly, so we donned a couple of oversized rain ponchos and headed off into the bush.

Eventually the drizzle changed over to a much-needed heavy rain, and we returned to the lodge, chilly and soaked, for a fireside breakfast.

I told you we were roughing it out there.

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Next up, a week in Cape Town, one of the most over-the-top cities we've ever visited. Because looking like a dizzyingly beautiful combination of Santa Barbara, Tuscany, and Aspen isn't enough; Cape Town also has a food scene like New York City; a vibe like Southern California; a design sensibility like Paris; world-class wines like Napa Valley. . . and PENGUINS.

What's better than a waterfront food festival with a view of the Manhattan skyline and over 100(!) vendors representing the city's best restaurants?

Attending that food festival on a glorious 80-degree October day . . . with my sister Trina . . . who was in town for the weekend to celebrate my birthday.

Of course, that meant the entire weekend was something of a food festival, but first things first. After a quick change of clothes (meaning that Treen changed into my clothes and I changed into hers), we headed over to Williamsburg, an uber-hip Brooklyn neighborhood that would be a food and drink paradise even without Smorgasburg.

It is no exaggeration to say that we tore a hole through the place, feasting on everything from cheeseburgers and cheese steaks to BBQ pulled pork sandwiches and banana pudding . . . and a heck of a lot in between.

Of course, we didn't eat all of that one sitting. We took a cocktail break . . . and then went back.

Drinks were had at Hotel Delmano, which is not actually a hotel . . . though after a few of their expertly-crafted cocktails, you might wish it was.

As beautiful as Hotel Delmano is, the day was even more so, and so we snagged two sidewalk seats for a little people-watching with our libations.

Trina and I agreed that our favorite was The Alibi, made with pineapple-infused tequila, cinnamon, vanilla, lime, and molé bitters.

And after two rounds, we discovered that even the bathrooms at Hotel Delmano are beautifully designed.

After our return to Smorgasburg for Round 2, it was back to Manhattan . . . to get ready for dinner.

We decided on a low-key evening of chips & guac, Mexican street corn, and frozen hibiscus margaritas at Fonda, followed by dancing until the wee hours at an 80s club in Manhattan's edgy Alphabet City neighborhood.

Opened in 1979, the Pyramid Club is not an 80s-themed club but an actual club born in and still firmly planted in that decade, never having changed its decor, its prices, or its commitment to the East Village gay and drag scene in the last 40 years.

We had a really good time. Some of us more than others.

The next morning it was time to shake off the night's excesses with some pizza. But not just any pizza: The crispy, crunchy, burnt-just-right-on-the-ends square pizza topped with 'roni cups at Emily in the West Village.

After lunch Angel headed off to run some errands, while Trina and I decided to enjoy the gorgeous weather with a stroll from the West Village down to TriBeCa.

Eventually we found ourselves near the piers.

We weren't just meandering, though; we had a destination in mind: Grand Banks, an oyster bar aboard a historic wooden schooner, the Sherman Zwicker, which offers spectacular views of lower Manhattan.

After the sun set, we headed over to Bubby's, a TriBeCa comfort-food institution that I used to frequent when I clerked downtown.

That evening we had plans for a birthday dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, Left Bank, which I love for its ever-changing menu of seasonal favorites and cozy atmosphere.

After we finished our entrees, Angel revealed a secret: Those "errands" he ran after lunch consisted of driving to the Hamptons to pick up a cake that I'd long admired at our local grocery store, King Kullen -- a traffic-filled odyssey that, mid-afternoon on a gorgeous fall Sunday, took roughly six hours round-trip. When I asked him why he didn't just pick up the cake at one of the dozens of other, closer King Kullens on Long Island, he explained that he didn't want to risk that the same cake from a different store might look even a tiny bit different from the one I liked.

He even made (yes, made) matching wrapping paper for my gifts.

A sister who flew to NYC for the weekend just to force down 7,000 calories a day with me, plus a husband who spent 6 hours in the car to get me the perfect birthday cake?

Either they're crazy, or I'm really, really lucky. Or maybe a little bit of both.
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If you have to undertake a recon mission, Anguilla is a pretty good place to do it.

So when I finally convinced my sister and her husband to join us for their first-ever trip to Anguilla (after what we both agree was 20+ years of non-stop nagging), I knew a recon mission was in order. It had been 6 long months since our last visit, but it was only 6 short months until theirs. And so someone had to come down ahead of time to make sure the resorts were still open and the beaches were still there and the cheeseburgers still tasted the same . . . right???

And as luck would have it, generous friends stepped in to make our unexpected trip less of a burden, offering up not just free places to stay, but places with warm hospitality and spectacular views and private swimming pools. And so Mission: Newbies was born.

We made our way to the west end of the island, where a friend had invited us to stay at her beloved home, Octagon Villa, in her absence -- a bold move if ever there was one. I mean, knowing that I've walked into others' homes uninvited and critiqued their decor, what might I do with an actual invitation: Commandeer an entire bedroom just for my shoe collection? Bolt ironing boards to the floor in every room? Not just raid the fridge, but strap the thing to my back and carry it home?

It turns out I did none of those things, but only because it took the entire duration of our stay for me to learn the layout of the house. That's because, true to its name, Octagon Villa is a gated compound of eight individual pods surrounding a large, private swimming pool, with each free-standing pod containing one room of the house.

This unique layout is absolutely perfect for those travelling with kids or with another couple, since the amount of privacy is unsurpassed. It's also perfect for folks like me who love indoor-outdoor living, as even moving from the kitchen to the living room affords a quick trip outside. (And the walkways are covered, for folks like me who are allergic to rain.) If, however, also like me, you hear the phrase, "Your other left" with alarming frequency, it may take a little getting used to, as my days were spent something like this:

Me: Think I'll go to the kitchen for a diet Coke.
Me (opening door to Pod 1): Whoops. Living room.
Me (opening door to Pod 2): Shoot. Master bedroom.
Me (opening door to Pod 3 and giving the washing machine the side-eye): Dammit! You know, I'm not really thirsty after all.

Angel, whose sense of direction is superb, of course had a field day with this, calling out "In the bedroom!" every time I yelled for him, then giggling as I made my rounds of every room in the house before finally finding (and vowing to strangle) him.

Having settled in after an early-morning arrival, we set off for the one thing I actually can find: Ferryboat Inn.

There, we planned to meet up with Rob and Julie, who had become fast friends after they spent nearly a week helping us look for my ring on our last trip; now, they'd agreed to spend an afternoon admiring my new bling and watching me gobble down cheeseburgers. Gluttons for punishment, I tell you.

They even played hide-and-seek with us.

By the time lunch was over, I was a little tipsy, a lot stuffed, and my face hurt from laughing so hard, so we decided to spend the balance of the afternoon doing nothing more than hanging around the villa. There, we discovered a bunch of other features to love, including a pool so private you could go au naturel in it (not that I would do such a thing -- ahem), a panoramic view of Shoal Bay West from the roof deck, and one of the lushest gardens I've ever seen in Anguilla.

It even had a chicken. In a tree.

I know it's hard to top a chicken in a tree, but Octagon also has three ginormous bedrooms, each of which is roughly the size of an airplane hangar.

Indeed, the rooms were so large and comfortable that eventually I gave up trying to find the other pods, since each bedroom already had everything I needed: A huge attached bathroom, a flat-screen TV, and a color-coordinated mini fridge and coffee maker.

In fact, Octagon is stocked as though the Zombie Apocalypse -- or my Boy Scout husband -- is coming any minute: Virtually everything in the house comes in triplicate, quadruplicate, and more, from coolers to candles, blenders to bottled water, dinnerware to dry goods . . . you could be happily holed up here for years and never run out of anything.

But the outside world beckoned, and so we set off for a late afternoon visit to the Dune Preserve.

Dune Preserve reminds me of the tree houses and pirate ships we used to play on as kids, with the welcome addition of alcohol.

Before we knew it, we were enjoying a spectacular sunset at Rendezvous.

The day had gotten away from us, so we raced back to the villa for a quick change of clothes, then set off for dinner at E's Oven.

Back at Octagon, we took a quick dip in the pool, then headed off to bed.

And it only took me two tries to find my bedroom.

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We decided to spend the next day at Ocean Echo.

The day was windy and the waves were bigger than we are used to, but it was too cold for these big babies anyway (March . . . brr!), so we spent most of the day occupying ourselves with other pursuits.

This poor guy. He never knew how close I came to grabbing that pizza and making a run for it.

That evening our friends Diana and Carl had invited us over for cocktails and snacks at their place on Barnes Bay.

Diana is always impeccably dressed like a chic Parisian woman and Carl looks roughly 20 years younger than his actual age, but for some reason we really like them anyway.

In addition, they were fabulous hosts, even kindly arranging to cap off our visit with this spectacular sunset.

We had already made separate dinner plans, so Angel and I headed over to nearby Picante to get our faces melted off.

We tried a few new things on this trip -- Theron's spicy chili, the grilled chipotle prawn burrito, a basil mojito -- as well as Old Faithful, the seafood enchiladas.

The next morning, a disaster of unprecedented proportions befell us: Due to a fender-bender near Four Seasons, the power went out.

No power meant no iron, and no iron meant that I had to scare up an outfit that didn't look like it had been balled up and shoved into the bottom of a hamper (or, you know, into a suitcase too small by half). By some miracle I'd hung up the dress I'd worn to Ferryboat, and so I suffered through the ultimate indignity -- not only did I have to be seen in public in a dress that hadn't been freshly ironed, but I had to be seen in public in a dress I'd just worn two days earlier.

Decked out in my vêtements vulgaires, we headed over to Cap Juluca, where I hoped that my messy bun and artfully rumpled dress gave off an air of "too rich to care," rather than "I just showered in a swimming pool and am wearing yesterday's clothes . . . again."

Oh, did I not mention that no power also meant no water pump for showers? Thank heavens for that very private swimming pool.

Luckily most folks at Cap are too busy looking at the stunning beach and stylish renovation to notice a fashion faux pas.

Or they just dismissed me as some weird picture-taking blogger . . .

Or that nitwit who went for a swim in the decorative pool. Whichever.

Renovated Cap has several new restaurants, including an updated Pimms, a poolside cafe, the casual, waterfront Cip's, and the Cap Shack beach bar.

Eventually we headed back to the villa to see if the power had been restored, and sweet baby Jesus, I was saved! I happily headed out to lunch in a clean, freshly-ironed dress.

Clad, at long last, in clean pressed clothes, we made the short trip across the salt pond for lunch at a longtime favorite, Tratttoria Tramonto.

At our usual corner table, we tucked into penne with basil pesto; a wild boar prosciutto panini with parmigiano, arugula, and white truffle oil; and the most gorgeous tomatoes I think I've ever seen (or tasted).

After lunch, we alternated among reading, napping, swimming, and sipping.

And, you know, ironing everything left in my suitcase . . . just in case.

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