Anguilla, Stage 5: Accept the Things You Cannot Change

The next day Angel was feeling even better than the night before -- well enough, in fact, to re-heat the last of his E's Oven leftovers and swat me away when I volunteered to act as his royal taster to make sure he wasn't being poisoned (again).

It was our last full day on island, so we set a brisk pace to make sure we could include everything we wanted to do.

As you can see.

As lunchtime drew near, we set off for Tropical Sunsets, where we knew they'd make us an off-the-menu guavaberry colada. Both the color and the taste of a guavaberry colada are a bit reminiscent of Pepto-Bismol, and Tropical Sunsets has comfy loungers, so we decided that this visit was actually part of Angel's treatment plan: He would take his "medicine" and spend the day resting.

Angel ordered a simple turkey club, while I decided that if I wasn't going to get another Ferryboat cheeseburger on this trip, then I was going to drown my sorrows in BBQ sauce.

Incredibly, even though Angel was feeling better than he had in days, he still managed to have a near brush with death, this time thanks to a stealthy toothpick hidden in his sandwich, which he almost swallowed.

The rest of the day passed much as the ones before it: Swim, rest, repeat.

I even managed to get some exercise, walking all the way down to Gwen's for one of her super-sized rum punches.

It was our final night on island, and we were going to Dolce Vita, come hell or high water or hospitalization.

It was Dolce Vita's last night before closing for the season, and while Angel had warned me that they would probably be out of many of their regular menu items, I was secretly hoping that in an effort to get rid of every single thing in the kitchen, we'd be asked to "pitch in" and devour plate after plate of gnocchi and lasagna and risotto until it was all gone.

We settled in at our usual table (is there any bigger thrill than being able to say you have a "regular" table at Dolce Vita?!), then put in an order for two glasses of wine and the tuna tartare.

Angel was feeling better, but still not 100%, so he ordered a side of meatballs as his entrée. I've taught him well, y'all.

As it turns out, Angel was right about the menu, so I had to settle for the lobster pasta in pink sauce being served with shrimp instead. Oh, the sacrifices.

Our flight wasn't scheduled to leave until early afternoon, so the next morning we found time for one last swim at Shoal Bay before packing our bags.

As we bobbed in the water and buried our feet in the powdery sand, I felt the evil tentacles of Stage 5 of Anguilla Vacation Grief, acceptance, begin to wrap themselves around me. The clock was ticking, and soon -- whether we accepted it or not -- we'd have to board the plane and head home. And so we made the most of our last few minutes.

(Did you know there is actually a word for this? We can thank our German friends for torschlusspanik, which refers to that panicky sensation of time running out.)

When we arrived at the airport, we learned that our flight was delayed by an hour, giving us time for a quick lunch and postponing the acceptance process by another 60 minutes. The Roti Hut is just down the road, so it seemed like the perfect spot to grab a bite and still make it back to the airport in time for our flight.

Now, I don't know if it's because I am dressed in street clothes, or because the breeze inexplicably dies down, or because the temperature somehow shoots up by 25 degrees, but every time we head to the airport after a trip to the tropics, it is always the hottest day of the entire trip, unbearably hot, and I invariably develop a bad case of THTDH ("The Heat is Too Damn Hot"). (Angel suspects that I fake overheating just to avoid carrying my own luggage. I don't, but I will keep that idea in my back pocket for when it's time to do laundry or take out the trash.) And so it was at the Roti Hut -- a place with less air circulation than a hermetically sealed space capsule -- that a most severe case of THTDH set in and I nearly passed out in a pool of my own sweat.

I fanned myself with the menu. Angel pursed his lips and blew cool air on me. Finally I gave up and chugged a bottle of Heineken, then ordered a second one to serve as a cold compress for my sweaty forehead.

Right as I was on the verge of heatstroke, the roti arrived and I managed to perk back up. That's because what Roti Hut lacks in ambiance and AC, it makes up for with the roti: They were soft, pillowy, just-spicy-enough, and loaded with perfectly fork-tender chicken and veggies.

Too soon, it was time to head back to the airport. As we unloaded our bags from the trunk and bid farewell to our sand-covered rental car, I began to accept my fate and allowed Angel to drag me to the gate.

It wasn't easy, but chugging that Heinie at the Roti Hut definitely helped.

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Angel recovered from his stomach bug; I recovered from my heatstroke right after Angel carried my luggage into the airport; and soon it was on to the next trip! Come along for a butterball turkey bomb in the Hudson Valley, a "best of" tour of the City of Gluttony Love, a freaky-tiki good time on Anna Maria Island, a fritter-eating contest in the Conch Republic (the smart money's on yours truly!), and one very hoppin' hula hut in the Hamptons. Oh, and that luggage-less trip to Anguilla! Click here to subscribe and you'll receive an email from Travellerspoint when a new post goes up.

Can't wait that long? Follow me on Instagram @escape.from.new.york to see what we're eating and drinking in the meantime!