Sometimes it’s good to venture outside one’s comfort zone, trying out something new and unusual, something that one would by default be drawn to dismiss as not in line with his expectations, or taste.
I’m conscious that this can sound odd, but spending time in a luxury hotel in a sun-drenched tropical island is something as opposite to my usual idea of time off, pretty much as atheism is alien to Mr Cruz. Yet, the lady that has to put up with me is often down there, and I eventually decided to kiss my preconceptions goodbye and to join her in one of her trips, visiting the island nation of Bermuda.
I don’t know whether my attempts at not looking too bewildered by the hotel have been successful – proclaiming loudly that no other hotel I’ve stayed in had an espresso machine in each room didn’t help, I think – and I still find it quite hard to accept the existence of a fault line – between have and have nots, between Eloi and Morlocks, between tax dodgers and labourers – that runs precisely along ethnicities, whites on one side and blacks on the other.
But there’s no denying that Bermudians are amongst the most hospitable and kind peoples I’ve had the chance to meet and, even if they were as snobbish as a Parisian waiter – and they aren’t – a walk from Horseshoe to Warwick bay at 9 AM in the morning, before the hordes of newlyweds arrive, when it’s just you and a few joggers and you can let your mind drift to the time when people sailed on wooden bathtubs, is something I could honestly get quite used to.