Returning to Virgin Gorda, through the frigid danger of ice and snow, in Boston, the living was easy. Going to the airport, without gloves, counting on the heat in the taxi, number one. Leaving all sweaters and jackets and coats on hangers, all by themselves.

Because of an impending weather system, we lodged one night at the airport’s Hilton Hotel. It is a stark and large place, where you can see the skyline of the city, planes arriving and departing, bridges rising as hundreds of travelers appear and disappear. It was a gray and blank afternoon. We were thrilled to be leaving!

Anticipation of travel these days has hills and valleys. The fun of looking forward and the rules that monitor our every move. Never before did I think I would be standing bare feet, walking through machines that take pictures and beep. More rules.

There are a few advantages to this. People talk in lines. There seems to be less rush-push. We must be patient and that’s that. So, preparing is done with more care, more thought and less to carry. There are, after all, many new rules. But the glory will be the lift-off and the few hours trip to a beloved destination.

The Hilton was decorated with ginger-bread houses and small, electric trains zooming round and round a tree. Just like there used to be. The lobby was bustling with staff and guests, and the usual porters helped us with the luggage up to our room. Night zoomed by and early the next morning, it was time to check out. It was a long way through the various wickets to find Gate D. Always, it seems the farthest away. Showing passports four times, slowly, the trail of passangers wound our way. Coffee beckoned and we bought a newspaper. 

But, the wonder of all is a small moment I will tell you. Leaving our room, there was a giant corridor to the elevator. All empty and quiet at that time of day. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a gentleman appeared, in his wait-staff regalia, a black tuxedo. He was quite far away, maybe thirty or forty feet. He was carrying a large silver tray, graciously arranged for room service. I suddenly began to sing an old favorite.’Good Morning,Mr. Walker’, the pride and true song of forty years standing that is the essence of Caribbean music from that era. It was a perfect thing to do. The waiter, himself from somewhere in our climes, I believe, from his beautiful accent, sang the second line, I sang the third and we wafted down this ‘early morning’ empty hall, singing.

In a world where people marry for money,or think about it and drag their feet with the prospects, the old-fashioned refrain of this famous song,from 1968 matches modern day sentiments,eh?

‘Good Morning, Mr. Walker, I come to see your daughter.

‘Oh, Miss Rosemarie, she promised she would marry me.

I tired of waiting, I come to fix the wedding……’

Singing that big favorite, in that hotel, on that morning, with a total stranger, I will never see again, was a special moment. We can all discuss the marriage arrangements anytime we like, but leaving Boston for the Calypso world of the Caribbean, singing my way to the elevator was a total surprise for me and for my unexpected duet.

Who will play Mr. Walker here on Virgin Gorda? We shall see.