COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 1)

Once we became snorkeling and vacation addicts, William and I researched new spots and discovered the much-lauded Cozumel, an island off the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. Because it sits on the world's second-largest coral reef, Cozumel is an ideal location for snorkelers and scuba divers alike. It called to us.

We chose a brand new "all-inclusive" five-star resort. Its website boasted of snorkeling access directly off an infinity pool. Photos enticed us with crystal-clear waters lapping a rocky bank. It called to us.

The resort didn't have a private beach and we were fine with that. We didn't need a beach. With only 175 rooms, each with a large Jacuzzi tub, we figured we would avoid noisy tourists.

Weather reports indicated it was Yucatan's rainy season. Rainy (but warm) was all right and snorkeling in a drizzle is completely doable and actually quite lovely.

We were also aware that hurricane season wouldn't officially end until after November, but Cozumel and neighboring Cancun hadn't been struck since July. As we were already into October, we felt we'd be fine. Entranced by the resort's online photos, we saw what we wanted to see and we read what we wanted to read because: It called to us, and we were willing to take the chance.

We booked a one-week stay and left on an overnight flight Friday, October 14.

A perfectly logical thought ran through my mind: There have been quite enough hurricanes this year; I'm sure they've run out. Even though we'd seen coverage on the handiwork of Dennis, Emily, Katrina and Rita, this was my thinking despite scientists' warnings in May of 2005 that the hurricane season would be "above normal" and active. As it turned out, 28 tropical and subtropical storms formed and 15 of those became hurricanes that year.

We arrived in Cozumel on Saturday, entered the hotel and were greeted with glasses of chilled champagne. Nice touch. We sipped, looked up and gasped. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, there it was: a vista of blue-green ocean dancing in sunlight. Exactly like the photos. Around the infinity pool guests lay on chaise lounges, browning their bodies. Next to them, colorful exotic drinks sat on small tables.

William took my hand and I kissed his cheek. Vacation. We would spend time together. Perfect. We look like the people on the website.

I nibbled a guacamole appetizer and William registered at the desk. I suddenly regretted we'd only booked one week. From our air-conditioned room we stepped outside to a large balcony. Tropical humidity embraced us. A hammock rocked in the breeze and waited for someone with a book. The Mexican Caribbean spread before us in a stunning endless view.

KAUAI, HAWAII: Spring, 2005

Travel versus vacation. Here's how I see the difference:

Travel = in motion.

Vacation = stationary.

William was raised in a household where true vacations didn't happen. His family trips always included an obligatory visit to some relatives or some other function. The idea of just tanning on a beach or lolling in a hammock didn't exist for him.

I grew up in a home where vacations were barely affordable, but made to happen because of my father's determination that we abandon the city and explore "God's country." Dad folded up our gigantic orange tent and packed it along with sleeping bags and cooking utensils. He stuffed everything into, and on top of, our small car.

Mom gathered up stray pots, Melmac dishes and a Coleman stove. To this day, the scent of summer pine evokes memories of dawn in a forest camp and waking up to the smell of that hot canvas tent beginning to bake in the morning sun. Of my mother, frustrated to the point of tears at having to whip up one more meal in the midst of dirt and cigarette butts while Dad trucked the kids off for a day of trout fishing.

Travel set William on edge. He didn't want to get the money wrong, or make language errors, or offend another culture. Because travel didn't particularly interest him, I assumed he felt the same about vacationing. But I also thought he might actually get a kick out of a few weeks in paradise. In a place where "What do you want to do?" is answered with "Doin' it."

Nothing but sleep, sun, food, drink, books, Scrabble and, even for a couple of weak swimmers, a little snorkeling.

I did some research and found a house to rent for two weeks in Kauai. William wouldn't have to worry about currency or language. But as we packed I could see his edginess start. What to bring? What would we need? At LAX he barely spoke to me and on the plane my mood cranked up to pissiness.

I'd arranged this trip and he was being a bear. Couldn't he at least try to have fun? As we shuffled off the plane, we were enveloped in warm, breezy air. He remained silent. We lined up for our rental car where it was decided that I'd drive and he'd navigate. These decisions were made using maybe eight words.

I wanted to scream. We pulled on to a two-lane highway edged in red earth, rolled down the windows and sped past green hills on one side and a crystalline blue sea on the other.

The ocean crashed white foam on long beaches. Tropical air filled our car. William's arm dropped out the window and I could see him nearly liquefy.

I could live here, he said.

Like that the tension was gone.

We launched ourselves into a vacation of oceanic discovery, long, languid days of relaxation, and a commitment to vacate forever, whenever we could. William, never an early riser, was suddenly up at 6:30 every morning. He mapped out snorkeling excursions for us while I packed our lunches.

We hiked through forests and over cliffs to sandy paradises, where we would often be entirely alone. We read, snorkeled, napped, played Scrabble, ate our lunches and soaked up sunshine. In the evenings we sipped wine while I made fresh fish and salads for dinner. We went to bed early and slept deep.

Vacation became a new word in William's lexicon. It sat right next to dream.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 5)

On a June evening in 1997 Prince Charles lowered the Union Jack in Hong Kong. Fireworks lit up the sky and rain poured on the harbor. People said, "Heaven cried on Hong Kong that night."

Hong Kong is neither city nor country, but a "Special Administrative Region." Many feared that as the British flag was lowered she would no longer remain a free democracy, but rather would become a controlled state under the thumb of Beijing. China promised Hong Kong "universal suffrage," meaning free elections, but they've reneged on that agreement and created a politically tender climate of regular public protests.

Still, every night joyous laser light and firework shows exploded over Victoria Harbor. They ricocheted blues, reds and greens across our faces as William and I walked the promenade. On just such a night we celebrated my birthday.

Should anyone ever ask How would you like your birthday in Hong Kong? don't think and don't hesitate. Silently nod because here's what could happen:

You put on a string of pearls and stroll the harborfront to the Star Ferry dock. You slip across the brilliantly lit water in a cool breeze with your loved one who, after years of careful training, understands that during such a ride a kiss is required and there you are lip-locked and surrounded by skyscrapers reflecting myriad colors.

You've entered a movie called: Hong Kong.

Then it's up to the tippity-top of the Peninsula Hotel and the Philippe Starck-designed Felix bar for a strawberry champagne cocktail and a stunning view of the cityscape. After that, a window table at a restaurant in the Kowloon Hotel for delicious grilled New Zealand lamb.

A few kisses later it's a creamy, dreamy, sweet vanilla cone from the Mr. Softee ice cream truck parked on the side of the road and you walk home with your true love. Happy Birthday indeed.

My last day in Hong Kong was spent on a final tour of our neighborhood: the grocery market, the teddy bear museum next door (which featured a ten-foot tall specimen), the mall below our apartment for any last-minute shopping (I resisted), then a stop for one of my favorite Hong Kong food items: tea.

In the Metro stations, clinical-looking shops serve "Chinese Urban Herbal Teas." The sales staff wears lab coats with badges identifying them as Customer Ambassadors. Condensed tea is siphoned and mixed with fresh fruits into a cocktail that far surpasses Jamba Juice.

The drinks bear titles of enlightenment: Wake Up Passion, Excellence Memory, Morning Blessing, Speed Up Power, Awakening for Spring, Delivery of Happiness, Living Present, A Blue Clear Sky, and Immunity Warrior.

On my final pass of Hong Kong I marched up and ordered: A Beautiful Life, please.

And I got it.

The Chinese translation of Hong Kong is: A Sweet-Smelling Harbor.

I couldn't agree more.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 4)

I would be leaving Hong Kong with little more than a glimpse into a world that would take PhDs upon of PhDs to get straight. A staggeringly beautiful culture complicated with a cruel and dark history. Like many great societies, the Chinese have been both the victims and perpetrators in their story.

In the 17th century, when the British lusted after the silk and tea of China, they offered trade to the Emperor.

Sure, sounds good, but you don’t have anything we want.

The English dug through their closets.

Hats?

No.

Biscuits?

No thanks.

Our fabulous accents?

Hmmm...nope.

One day a British brainiac, contemplating the problem, looked out at his English garden. Flowers. We know everything about flowers.

Specifically, poppies.

They convinced the Chinese that opium was a terrific cure for diarrhea, which it was, but no one considered the side effects. The English went to Turkey and India, filled their ships, and thus began the opium addiction of millions of Chinese men. And women. And children.

Opium quickly moved from medicinal to recreational use and the preparation and smoking of an opium pipe became as formal a ritual as the tea ceremony.

One day in 1800 the Emperor peeped over the walls of the Forbidden City, saw his doped-up citizens tripping down cobblestone streets and thought, This is nuts.

He dispatched armies to every town, village and hamlet with instructions to systematically destroy millions of crates of the stuff. Too late. An addicted population led to a corrupt military and Western suppliers weren't about to give up their bounty. Illegal trade became the modus operandi.

Many other countries — including the U.S. — had jumped onto this profitable bandwagon. In 1839 the governor of Hunan ordered twenty thousand chests of opium burned at the port of Canton. He also levied heavy tariffs on foreign trade, seriously pissing off the English. In response, they readied their cannons, floated their ships into the harbor and took aim. The French and Americans added their firepower and so began the Opium Wars.

The Chinese didn't stand a chance against the advanced military tactics of the Westerners and suffered humiliating defeat. In 1842 Hong Kong was ceded to the British.

Eventually the Chinese Empire itself fell. So here we had an addicted population, a criminal army, questionable authority and a massively growing population: fertile ground for the Communism that followed.

My favorite spot in all of Hong Kong was the Hong Kong Museum of History. In a time travel-like experience the region's story is spelled out both in miniature and life-size reenactments. I marveled at the full-size rendition of a music company both onstage and backstage and felt a rush of guilt over my harsh assessment of Peking opera. There were the towering bun-trees of Cheung Chau — the bread shellacked into a glossy finish — and a trolley car like those in Wan Chai.

A miniature replica of a 19th-century walled city told the story of the outlawed opium. Before me, little soldiers gathered wooden crates of opium to burn. Barricaded outside, tiny addicted citizens covered their mouths in horror, unable to stop the destruction of their fix.

This museum was remarkable. I tiptoed around in silence because no one else was in the place other than docents encouraging me to see this and that. I have never met a single relative or friend who has been inside this detailed wonder. If I were as rich as an emperor, I'd fill a plane with friends and hand out tickets to the Hong Kong Museum of History.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 3)

Cheung Chau had the bucolic atmosphere I'd been missing. The island is small, walkable, serene and green. There were forests and hills where butterflies fluttered and birds sang. Those lovely notes hit my ears fresh; I hadn't heard birds in a long time. I parked myself on a bench overlooking the harbor and ate a picnic lunch. No crowds. Absolutely charming.

Every year in May, people in Cheung Chau spend a week celebrating the Bun Festival. Thirty-foot metal cones are built and covered with buns. Real, baked-in-an-oven buns. The purpose of the Bun Festival is to thank the gods for keeping everyone healthy, and the traditional sacrifice is to eat vegetarian for the week. Even the island McDonald's participates by serving veggie burgers.

Parades, dragon dances and fireworks were scheduled for the week after I was there. For me it was satisfying to observe townspeople preparing and I had no desire to return for the crowds.

After my lunch I started a hike up into the hills. Brightly colored baby lizards slid across the cement path, birds sang and I was utterly alone. Really heavenly.

And then:

Cicadas. A racket of sound struck from above. Dolby Surround-worthy and loud. The devil's cry. The buzz was familiar — because you hear it in horror movies all the time. I twirled and looked up into the trees. Nothing. There was nothing to see, only the roar of — what is it? — their wings, their feet? What?

The fracas sounded like they were about to swoop down and swarm my body. My heart raced and I started to run, stumbled and nearly fell into:

A charcoal pit. And in the dirt, a beer bottle and an empty pack of Marlboro Lights.

This could well have been the remains of some family's weenie roast but I wasn't sticking around. My bucolic adventure was over. I raced down the hill and was back on that ferry, on my way to kill Jason with his stories of suicides in these hills.