My expectations for our trip to Bermuda this year were pretty straightforward: I wanted to spend time in the sun, go swimming as often as possible, read a lot, and eat fish and chips. I can say proudly that I successfully completed all of those missions, with gusto, even. This was our third trip to Bermuda (I know!), and it was just as much fun as the last few times. I feel a bit luxurious telling people where I was, but I suppose I should get over that part. Bermuda is an interesting place; it’s such a tiny island that you can navigate entirely by walking, taking the bus (or ferry), or by renting a moped. It feels exotic (the colors there are SO VIVID it doesn’t seem real, and that doesn’t come across in the photos very well at all), yet it’s still quaint and comfortable. Also, it’s British, so that adds a certain something, too.

We stayed in St. George, which is the more historic of the parishes, and sits on the far east coast of the island. Our first few days were spent exploring the town, scoping out restaurants and touristy shops, and really, a hell of a lot of time by the pool at the club. It was exactly what I wanted. Of course, the thing you remember vaguely is that it’s hot. Duh. But the thing about it is, yes, it’s hot, but it’s a different sort of hot. The sun is just SO DAMN BRIGHT and hot down there that you have to be even more super cautious about it than you would normally. I was paranoid (which isn’t a bad thing) so I kept escaping into the shade or inside. Getting burnt on the first day would have been extra special, I’m sure.

The few days leading up to our departure were full of warnings about Hurricane Bertha. From pretty much everyone I know. I was getting text messages and emails with the huricane’s projected path… and truly? I didn’t even want to THINK about it. Nor did I want to look at the weekly forcast that my dad printed out before we left, the one that was basically seven days of rain clouds. Once we arrived, though, it seemed that the weatherfolk from the U.S. were not necessarily exaggerating, but certainly doing what we Americans do best: panicking. Anyway, the hurricane did hit the island on Tuesday, and yes, there were torrential rains and gale-force winds. For us, though, it meant a day inside, playing cards and watching tv and reading. I suppose you could say it was a bit of a bummer, but I was glad for the break from the sun. As the eye of the storm passed over, we walked downtown and got some giant beers at one of the bars, and we made it back to the condo just as the second half of the storm hit. So that was definitely fun.

One of the things I remember most about our previous trips to Bermuda is eating fish and chips. I don’t like most seafood (I have issues with food that is too … smooth), but I LOVE fish and chips. After ordering it the first two nights out, I decided to turn it into a mission. I was surprised at how different it was: batter vs. breaded, as well as a few different types of fish (not that I would be able to tell you which was which). I had fish and chips every night except for two: the night of the hurricane, and the last night, when we ate at an Italian restaurant that simply didn’t offer it. Anyway, here for the record, is my conclusion: the best fish and chips in St George’s Parish, Bermuda can be found at Blackbeard’s Hideaway (the bar/restaurant overlooking Achilles Bay), OR at the Whitehorse Pub. I think I preferred Blackbeard’s (I actually had that on two separate nights), but the Whitehorse fish and chips was also very, very good.

Our touristy excursions were not as frequent as on previous trips, but we did take one day to head down to the larger town (and capital of Bermuda), Hamilton. We took the high-speed ferry, which was my dad’s idea, and what a great one it was! We’d done this on a previous trip, and it’s the coolest way to see the island from out on the water.

The ferry stopped at the Royal Dockyards (where our cruise ship docked last summer), and then headed into Hamilton, where we did some more shopping, and I attempted to get a photo of a Bermudian businessman in his shorts and high socks. I need to work on my street photography, because I was too shy, and they were everywhere, with their short-sleeved dress shirts, ties, Bermuda shorts, and high socks. It was just so damn charming.

After the trip to Hamilton, we took the pink bus to one of the more famous restaurants on the island (at least among my family members), the Swizzle Inn. The Swizzle Inn is famous for the rum swizzle, which is a fantastic drink made with Gosling’s dark rum, Gosling’s gold rum (Gosling’s is the company that makes the BEST Bermuda rum) and some combination of fruit juices and spices. And they’re so strong that one teensy tiny glass makes a pretty good dent.

But the most interesting part about the return voyage was the bus trip itself. First, let me just tell you that the roads in Bermuda are NARROW and hilly and windy and did I mention narrow? Because they’re narrow. There are very few cars on the island; it’s mostly mopeds and the public bus. And everyone beeps and waves at each other. Our bus driver must have known everyone on the island, because he was beeping and waving to practically every other car. And it was nice to see. But the best part was when a car had pulled out into the road, trying to get a better look before his turn. And the bus comes barreling around the corner, on a collision course. And he’s beeping, toot toot toot, and waving, and then the other guy’s beeping and waving, and the bus screeches to a halt inches from the car. And the bus driver lets the car go, and they’re waving and laughing and beeping and best friends forever. While I’m sitting in the back row with my mouth hanging open. That would never happen in the U.S. Never. There was no cursing or yelling, just smiles and “oh hey, sorry about that heeheeeee”. It was just so adorable.

We weren’t planning on renting a moped this year, because the club had a shuttle that could take us to the beach and the restaurants just out of walking distance if we needed it. I, for one, wasn’t too sad, because mopeds scare the crap out of me. I don’t know why, but I just have no interest in driving one, unlike my siblings, who have been talking about it for at least the past ten years. But Dad couldn’t resist, and we rented a moped for a few days toward the end of the week. I went out with him one afternoon for some sightseeing and photo-taking, and it was totally worth it to get some really good shots of the beaches (Tobacco Bay and Achilles Bay), the old Club Med hotel that’s been empty and abandoned for at least ten years, the fort on the hill, and the gorgeous white cemetery overlooking the ocean. I let John use my camera later that day for some more up-close shooting, and he got some really awesome pictures too. It was like a little adventure within the trip, and I’m glad we changed the plan on the moped after all.

The interesting thing about Bermuda as a whole is that it’s ringed by reefs, making it virtually impossible for many ships to dock on the island. (Part of the whole Bermuda triangle? Maybe. You can buy maps of famous shipwrecks in Bermuda, and they happened all the way around the entire island.) The harbor in St George is one of the smaller harbors on the island, and it can only be accessed by what locals call The Cut, an incredibly narrow inlet leading out to sea. Only the smallest cruise ships can get through, which is why most can’t dock in St George at all (and our behemoth ship last summer was so large that it could only dock in the Dockyards). On a previous trip, we ventured out to the cliffs edging the cut to watch the cruise ship leave, and we did that again this year. It was so crazy to see all the people on the ship waving to us as it squeaked through the cut.

Now, don’t get me wrong, the rum swizzles were good (and I can’t wait to make some of my own using the mixes my aunt and uncle gave me this week) but they don’t hold a candle to what may very well be my favorite drink other than beer, the dark and stormy. (Which is also Bermuda’s national drink!) It’s made with Gosling’s dark rum and ginger beer, and it’s crisp and spicy and refreshing and packs a wollop if you make it with the 150 proof Gosling’s. My dad scouted out a pamphlet in the lobby of the club advertising the “Dark and Stormy Trail,” in which you travel to certain restaurants around the island, get stamps for ordering a dark and stormy, and then collect a diploma, tshirt, polo shirt, or hat depending on how many stops along the trail you complete. Did we win my dad a diploma and a tshirt? Hell yes we did.

Of course, we couldn’t visit Bermuda without spending at least one day on the pink sand beaches, which are beautiful, beyond gorgeous, but somehow, to this girl born and bred on the Jersey Shore, seem like pretend beaches. The water is warm? There are no waves? What’s going on? But we had a great time, and of course we hit up the beach bar for some cold drinks while we waited for the shuttle to take us home.

It was a bit bittersweet to come home (and not just because it was so damn hot in NJ when I returned that I felt like the heat of Bermuda tempered me for the weather here, which was backwards)… but it was a great trip, and I have to say that I really benefitted from the week of sun and sand and fresh air, and came home with a belly overfilled with fish and chips and dark and stormies and a camera packed with hundreds of photos. And I can’t argue with that.

I got home from Cape Cod last night, and as I sit here trying to write about the week, I’m finding it a bit difficult. It was a busy week, filled with lots of time spent with my best friends, at the beach and exploring the Cape and visiting places I remember from my visits as a kid, eating lots of fried food and making fires… and yet, it was also an incredibly lazy, relaxing week spent reading and curling up on the couch and playing video games and cards and just sitting around.

I’ll be honest and admit that my expectations were a bit high for this week. My friends have been to the Cape together before, and have been full of exclamation-marked stories of beach fires and barbecues and the beach. Add that together with my own memories of Cape Cod and my extraordinary excitement about finally going back, and I suppose I could have been disappointed. And yeah, I was a bit nervous about being one of the few single people with a large group of couples. But the very honest truth is that it was exactly as fun as I expected, more so, if that’s possible, and these guys have been my friends since college, and it was beyond cool to get to spend some time with everyone beyond a game of poker or someone’s birthday party.

It would be hard to say what my favorite part of the trip was, but the two beach fires are certainly making a run for it. The first one was Sunday night, a few hours after I arrived, still a bit glassy-eyed from six hours spent driving. We packed up the cars full of firewood and kindling and s’mores fixins and headed to the beach. Of course I was going to bring my camera, but I was sort of – okay completely – terrified that I’d ruin my beloved camera with sand or surf or smoke. But it was okay in the end.

In some ways, it was just like your standard campfire, but as you wiggle yourself a comfy seat on the sand and warm yourself by the fire, you hear the crash of the waves in the distance, even though you can’t see them. And the air smells salty and it’s quite possibly the most relaxing feeling on earth. It was a bit cloudy the first time, but our second fire night was completely clear, and when I’m telling you we saw a lot of stars, I really mean that I’m not sure I’ve seen that many stars before. That night, we laid down towels and mats and just lied back and looked at the stars, with toasty feet and sandy toes and I think I drifted off for a little while. But then! We be-glowsticked ourselves so we could use the glow-in-the-dark football and frisbees (so we could see each other as we threw to each other in the complete darkness) and there’s something so hilarious about watching someone walk through the sand when all you can see are glowsticked wrists and waists.

Here, I would probably take some time to wax poetic about the food on the Cape, but I pretty much lived on fish and chips with a side of clam chowder all week, so I can’t give a very thorough review of the cuisine. I will say, though, that the fish and chips was awesome each time I had it, and the cup of clam chowder I had at the Chatham Squire (the restaurant my parents recommended very highly) was beyond spectacular.

Of course, we also consumed our fair share of beer during the week, between games of Asshole and beer pong and one attempt at 3d beer pong. We learned new card games and after I bought Uno cards, we played A LOT of Uno. Maybe it was because it rained so many of the days (also the reason we never made it to a Cape Cod Baseball League game…) but somehow I think we would have played cards regardless. It’s funny, because playing cards is one of the strongest memories I have of childhood trips to the Cape, learning how to play Gin, so it felt completely perfect to be sitting around a table playing Rummy 500 and learning a Chinese (Vietnamese? I can’t remember now) version of poker very late at night.

We didn’t go to the beach as much as we could have, but Patt, Pete, Irma and I went for a little while one afternoon and that little dose of full-on sunshine was just right. We were too busy taking trips to Orleans and Chatham and doing other things to spend too much time at the beach, and I like that.

We didn’t make it to the old Cape Cod haunts I wrote about last time, but there’s only so much time in a week and there were bigger, better things to do (like the beach fires and mini golf and grilling in the garage). A few of us went down to Chatham one afternoon, though, so I got to visit all of the stores I remember, and bought some magnets and taffy. The little things like that are what I’ll remember.

The week went fast, with people coming and going each day, and with different groups of people there were different things to do. That was one of the more interesting parts. That and figuring out where I’d be sleeping each night. It was disappointing that it rained as much as it did, but it didn’t stop us from doing anything (other than baseball!). I’m glad we at so many s’mores and it was fun to tease my friends about baseball trivia (because except for one, they aren’t baseball fans at all) and I didn’t know how much I liked Cash Cab before. The drive home was much better with a copilot to talk to the whole way, especially once we hit the post-Yankees/Mets game traffic driving through the Bronx toward the George Washington Bridge (two. hours. in. stop. and. go. traffic. But I did talk to a few other Mets fans, thanks to the Mets sticker on my car). Once we dropped Patt and Irma off, I had another hour to go, and you know what? I got pretty sad right about then. Maybe it was the seven hours I’d already spent in the car, or maybe it was that I was super tired and incredibly hungry by that point, but maybe it’s just that I had a really, really good week. It was really hard to come back to a dark, empty apartment last night, especially after a week spent living with anywhere from four to ten other people. But I’m relaxed and happy and refreshed and a tiny bit more tan, so I can live with that.