Authors note: After an exhausting 10,000 miles, I needed some time off. I went to San Salvador, Bahamas with my friend Annette and a BIG bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin. We stayed at a Club Med, where the employee's dominant nationality is French. If you are French, or you have fond feelings for someone who IS French, I suggest you pretend that the word "French" is a synonym for someone that you DO dislike.

7. BAHAMAS

November 15 - 8:00 am
Miami, Florida -- Miami International Airport - somewhere on runway.

Departing for San Salvador, Bahamas in five minutes. We're on a plane that would strike absolute terror into the hearts and souls of anyone who has fear of flight. The plane was completely boarded and everyone was nestled in their seats about ten minutes ago. So we were all wondering just what we were waiting for -- I mean, why not leave early for a change?

That's when the pilot came on board like some lounge-act comedian. It's a rear-ramp aircraft, and he comes bobbing up the steps with his Ray Bans on, looking as cool as can be. His hat is slightly off-center, his tie is pulled down loose from his neck and he appears to be unshaven. It's time for the Bahamas and things are just not taken as seriously here. I imagine this exchange between a passenger and a flight attendant:

"Hi. I have this canister of toxic nerve gas and it won't fit under my seat."

"Oh - just give it to me and I'll put it in the overhead, sir. Or would you prefer to just detonate it now?"

November 16 - 3:05am
Club Med Columbus Isle, San Salvador, Bahamas -- Beach.

The crashing surf is my music; the pale moonlight my lamp.

A quick run-down about Club Med: the concept here is an All-Inclusive Vacation. Pay one (fat) price and you're covered for a week. Food, water sports, accommodations, hangovers, etc. -- it's all in there. If you want other drinks (besides the free wine and beer at lunch and dinner) then you have to purchase "bar beads." The purpose of this is so you have absolutely no idea how much you are blowing on drinks. You've got a handful of plastic beads colored yellow, white and orange and the bartender takes out five yellows and two oranges: so how much is that? It usually hurts to try and do the math, so you just forget it until you have to go buy more beads, which you conveniently charge to your room. The Big Kick In The Ass comes on your last day, when you have to settle your room charges.

So I drank about thirty yellow beads of beer tonight (six beers) along with two homemade martinis. (I brought a big bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and a bottle of Martini vermouth.) Then I went to dinner.

Dinner is usually group style, so you sit with people you don't know at tables of eight. This is kind of cool, as you get to meet people from all over the world. Unless you meet a typical French person. I don't know what it is, but they just downright don't like us (Americans). However, the French girl that I was sitting next to was nice so I started talking to her. Well, this made for a rather awkward atmosphere, as I had a female dinner companion on my right. People at the table just got the wrong idea.

Annette and I have been friends for almost ten years now. That's it. This is the first time we've gone on vacation anywhere together. This Club Med is about 90% couples and 10% singles. No matter, as I'm here to edit my book and drink. Annette is here to get some sun and drink. I can already tell that if we don't spend carefully planned time apart from each other this week, we'll end up killing each other in some horrible, bloody fight. I think this is because our friendship is really based on friendly phone calls and Christmas cards. It hasn't been tested in a closed-room environment.

The soles of my feet are bloody scraps of skin that look like they've been attacked by a cheese grater. My refusal to wear shoes will be the death of me.

That Cohiba sure tasted good yesterday. In fact, it tasted just slightly worse this morning when I woke up. Besides injecting your tongue with Novocaine, I can't think of any way to avoid the "cigar taste" the next day. It's just one of those things, like taxes, death and car insurance.

18 November - 2:15 am
Seaside Bar.

I've now taken to speaking Spanish whenever possible. I pretend I'm speaking French and I just don't know any better. Anything I can do to aggravate these poor, misguided Euro-snobs.

It's no secret that the French don't like Americans and it becomes painfully obvious when interacting with these prima donnas on a daily basis. Swift, cleverly placed arguments spark up like wildfires around here. I just play dumb (enforcing the French opinion of us Yankees) or get loaded.

Annette and I were a bit drunk tonight at the main bar. We were seated outside, and roughly two dozen of the French were within earshot for this conversation:

"What the hell did we ever do to the French? I mean besides bomb their embassy on accident during that Libyan skirmish 10 years ago? What did *I* ever do to them?"

Annette laughed nervously and took a long drag on her vodka and cranberry juice. She has distaste for the people, only she's not so vocal about it.

"What have they given the world?" I asked. "That hunk of shit called Le Car? Champagne? What else?"

"They've got the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower," Annette says with confidence.

"Goddammit!" I blurted, pounding my fist on the table, "I'm talking about tangibles. We can move the museums and the monuments to Portugal!"

I smiled wide while I did a visual scan of the bar area. No one was paying attention to me. I lowered my voice to the casual conversation level, to see if anyone cocked an ear.

"What have they given to mankind?" I said, not expecting an answer.

No immediate response from anyone. I sat way back in my chair and turned my eyes up to the ceiling.

"What happened when Hitler invaded France?" I shouted, my voice echoing off the rafters of our lofty, open-air bar.

"I don't know." replied Annette, taking another long hit on her drink.

I shot up from my laid back position: "Goddamn nazis rolled the whole country in like six hours or something. No resistance. No challenge." I finished my last inch of my beer and then added: "Just defeat."

"Vuarnet sunglasses, croissants, good wine, brie, french fries..." Annette spoke like she was reading a shopping list.

"Fuck all that," I snorted. "They've got nothing and we've got it all. That's why they despise us."

Lurching up from my seat I pointed to Annette's almost-empty highball and said, "You ready?" She nodded and I glided into the bar where I paid an exorbitant amount of beads for two drinks, directly to a French-owned company: Club Mediteranee'. (See parent company on French Stock Market under same name, if you are interested in investing).

I don't have anything against anyone, but when snide comments and snippy remarks are tossed my way simply because of my nationality, I feel the need for immediate rebuttal.

19 November, 1997 - 2:30:00 pm
Sailing shack on main beach.

Time for a little sailing jaunt. 16-foot Hobie Cats are the vehicles for our methods of madness, as the wind is whipping through the island today with some gusto.

"Have you ever sailed before?" Inquires the American debutante, masquerading as a sailing instructor.

I've been to San Diego a few times with Kevin and others, where we've spent hazy, Jagermeister and beer-filled days and nights on a 29-foot Catalina that his parents keep there. I mention something about this to her.

"Did you actually sail this boat?" She asks, glaring at me with an impatient stare.

There have been a few trips on Kev's sailboat, and although I certainly haven't commanded the damn thing in hostile waters, I wasn't exactly puking over the side. Kevin has taught me enough about sailing to take this stupid Hobie Cat out. Toss a six-pack on the thing and get that sail up!

But my hesitance to answer her immediately costs me.

"Stephan is going out with a lesson right now," she says. "You can tag along."

Stephan (pronounced: I-am-a-french-bastard-call-me-Steff-ON) is the sailing instructor and Tricia is a sunburned young lady from Minnesota that is on her fourth lesson with Steph-on. We hop in the Hobie 16 and speed away from the beach.

I get a full fifteen minutes to captain the catamaran, including a brief moment where Tricia becomes visibly shaken when one side lurches out of the water due to a massive gust of wind. It's blowing rather fiercely out here.

"Push zee rudda slightlee away from you," Steph-on says.

"Si senor," I say as I push the rudder away from me. The boat drops back down and we're back on both skids. The heavy winds make me think that I'd like to navigate some of this by myself.

"So how many lessons do I need until I can go out by myself?" I ask Steph-on.

Steph-on studies me with a penetrating eye for a few seconds, then smiles and says, "Come back tomorrow for another lesson."

I think about telling him some of the horrific tales I have from surviving weekends in San Diego with Kevin and others on the Catalina. Let me tell you something, french-weasel... I survived the Jagermeister trip of '95 - give me that damn boat. I'm not coming back here for another lesson. In fact, the only reason I'll be coming back to your sailing shack is if I can muster up the strength to push that damn Hobie into the water sometime tonight when no one else is around. Then we'll see, won't we?

20 November - 11:13 am
San Salvador, Bahamas, Room 323 - my bed.

I'm a couple hours late for cocktail hour, which specifically starts whenever you get out of bed. I've been staring at the ceiling above my bed for over an hour, trying to piece together what happened after I opened that bottle of gin last night and started making some martinis. This was all in an effort to save bar beads... now it appears to have saved some space in my memory as well, as I seem to draw a blank.

1:10 pm Seaside Bar

I'm sitting at the bar that is right next to the clear and cool waters of the Bahamas. The ocean possesses a beautiful sapphire appearance, while the sun envelops the entire island chain in a blanket of mid-80's warmth. The baby powder texture of the sand, in its off-white color, squishes between my bloody toes. This could very well be nirvana.

This is scribbled on a cocktail napkin I found in my pants this morning:

"The land of the tiki torch and highly flammable coconut rum"

This scientific discovery regarding the volatility of the coconut rum was observed from afar last night. Two white rum hounds from Los Angeles, wearing Lakers jerseys (who the hell wears a Lakers jersey in the tropics?), were spitting mouthfuls of this toxic concoction into a tiki torch flame. It made for some fantastic fireworks. I have to admit, I wish I bought a bottle of that rum during yesterday's tour of the island. Watching people recoil in fear at the ball of flame that you can create is a fine, commendable act.

2:22 pm
Seaside Bar.

Annette is sipping a Diet Coke. I'm sucking down an aptly named drink, "The Monster." It looks like Nyquil-on-the-rocks and tastes much, much worse. Annette has dropped out of the drinking jamboree, and I can tell that this damn drink will be a nail in my coffin -- it's made with vodka and Jim Beam for chrissakes! These two ingredients should only be mixed in the event of war. I should take a nap.

22 November / 6:40 pm
Miami International Airport.

It's over. The week of paradise has come to a close. Now I just want to get home. We're only 600 miles from where we started this morning at the Club Med, but we're still eight long hours from home. A day's work from home. What? I'm contending with a hangover of biblical proportions while four screaming children are playing some game they call "Dog Pound" underneath my chair and all around my area. One of the little girls screams loud enough to pierce clean holes in thick glass, and I'm ready to take her heart out for this. I can't get away from her, as we're boarding in five minutes.

10:02 pm
Dallas / Ft. Worth International Airport
MD Super 80, Seat 14B

I hear this during the emergency/information portion of the flight:

"If you are unable or unwilling to perform the emergency exit activities, please contact a flight attendant..." Un-willing? I can see the carnage and mayhem unfolding before my eyes: smoke wafting about the dark cabin, people gagging and choking; others screaming. Blood and brain matter sprayed about the cabin from the heavy impact of the crash (and the unwilling bunches that refused to leave their seatbelts on); me standing at the emergency exit and some guy running up with his laptop in tow: "Open that fucking door!"

Me, standing there like a bouncer to a New York City Dance Club on Saturday night. "No way man." Is that what they mean by unwilling?

And what the hell is going on with the Electronics Devices Ban during takeoff and landing?

The thought of tumbling to the earth in a flat spin because some poor bastard is playing Tetris on his Gameboy, or some other sap is listening to "Spirit in the Sky" on his Walkman, is too tough to fathom. In fact, I'm not sure I want to be sitting inside a 100,000 pound aluminum canister loaded with high octane jet fuel, if someone playing Donkey Kong on board can single-handedly punch this fucker into the dirt at 450 MPH.