Image from here.

Poor Kyle and I are holidaying in/on the Cayman Islands [I’m always in a quandary as to whether people stay in an island or on an island…].

It should come as no surprise that we are enjoying ourselves immensely…

…even though we have squinty Sailor Moon eyes (someone forgot his sunglasses, and someone else took hers off to make the first someone feel better about his sore-eyed plight).

But the Sacrifice for Love only lasted about a nanosecond.  Someone should have bought himself a new pair of sunglasses before we left.  Poor Kyle.

Some of my more astute readers might have noticed a comment on a recent post, wherein Shalynna casually mentioned that Poor Kyle and I should come stay in her house in/on Grand Cayman while she was house-sitting for someone else.  She probably didn’t think we’d really take her up on it.

But we did. Fully.

See, here’s the thing: I really wanted to take a holiday to anywhere that has never seen snow.  Poor Kyle phoned me, all excited, and said, “Did you see the comment about the Cayman Islands?”  I hadn’t, so he read it to me, and I said, “I’m pretty sure she was just saying that as a nice thing to say—she couldn’t have been serious.”

Readers, whether Shalynna was serious initially may always be a mystery.  The fact is, she got serious really quick when I emailed back asking if she was serious.  ‘Til the day I die, I will always be a little embarrassed that I sort of invited myself to live in Shalynna’s house in/on the Cayman Islands when she might have only been making small talk…but for now, I’m very glad I did.

Wouldn’t you be glad?

She has been the niceset, sweetest hostess I could ever wish for: She left treats for us on the pillows, maps and travel books and magazines for our convenience, and a spare cell phone in case of emergencies.  (For the record, my own sister lets us stay at her house every time we visit AZ, and she is also an amazing hostess, even though we’re family and I’m from Mesa and don’t need hosting…she does it.  We got treats on our pillow there, too.  Treats, treats, treats, all day long.  I like treats!)

After a red-eye flight to the island, we rented a right-side driving car, which was perfect for the left-hand driving streets of the Cayman Islands.  (The Cayman Islands are a territory of Great Britain, so the driving is just like it would be in England, which is heart-stoppingly frightening.)

Poor Kyle almost killed us only once, and I may or may not have heard the first three letters of a four-letter word escape his terrified lips.  But we got over that, and have already burned 1/8 of a tank of fuel (which is saying something for the tiny economy car we rented) driving up and down the streets of Grand Cayman.  We can’t get enough of it.

So far, one huge difference between the Cayman Islands and everywhere else I’ve been in my life is the way they bury the dead.  I’ve seen three or four cemeteries right on the beach, with headstones stuck  in the sand like I used to do with pencil stubs at recess back in elementary school.  It’s very interesting, and I must admit that if I have to die, being buried in/on paradise might not be such a bad idea…

…but all that stuff aside, I hope I don’t die while I’m here.  My mom is convinced that since the Cayman Islands are *so close* to Mexico (they aren’t really that close—they’re a lot farther from Mexico than Arizona, truth be told), Poor Kyle and I are going to contract Swine Flu and die, and probably be buried in the sand just like these other dead people.  Call me an idealist, but I think we’re safe.

This island motivated Poor Kyle to shave his crusty beard—surely nothing bad could happen in a place this good.

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