After returning from St. Lucia, I’m finding it difficult to put all of my feelings into words. The island was a haven for me, during a particularly trying time, and it wasn’t solely the remoteness of the country that brought me some much needed tranquility. The companions I found myself traveling with soon became more than just journalistic comrades in arms — they quickly became friends. I’ve rarely traveled with people who are still more than amiable after only a few hours’ sleep. The last time I can recall this happening was when I was on Semester at Sea, and we were young enough back then that hangovers did little to affect our next day’s mood.
Back in LA, I’m finding it hard to adjust to the metropolitan way of life. I’d much rather be zipping over a rain forest canopy or gliding over the wreck of a 160-foot freighter, scoping out corals and sponges the colors of which Crayola has never even imagined.
I once met a therapist who told me that a patient of hers ditched his sessions in favor of seeing Cats on Broadway twice a week. He claimed it relaxed him far more than having his head shrunk, and was less expensive. I’m betting that a twice-yearly trip to St. Lucia would have the same beneficial effects.