Share the road (Photo: Judi) Driving in St. Maarten - On SXM, the cars are skinny. The roads are narrow -- often wide enough for only one skinny car -- and curvy and steep. As far as I have been able to discover, this island of 70,000 residents and a zillion tourists has one traffic light. To drive, and drive well, on these roads, you benefit from some skills not seen in the States: Patience, consideration, and even good will. To wit: When meeting someone head-on, and the road's too narrow, don't zoom forward and try to cut him off. Pull over and let him by. Because tomorrow someone will pull over to let you by. When someone turns in front of you and cuts you off, don't swear, honk the horn, or flip him off. Slow down and let him in with good cheer. Because believe-you-me tomorrow you're going to need to cut someone else off. You might even consider stopping dead, even though you have the right-of-way, to let someone out of a side street. You'll appreciate it tomorrow when you can't get out, and then someone stops dead for you. Because they will. And if someone three cars ahead has stopped to let four or five cars in, and consequently backed up traffic including you, don't get angry. You'll get where you're going soon enough. And tomorrow you'll be that fourth or fifth car being let in. Drivers here look out for each other. They also look out for pedestrians (which includes humans, dogs, chickens, goats, cows, donkeys, horses, and, in one case, a sow with her piglets). And it works. It really does. As crazy as it is driving here, I am so not looking forward to returning to the States and the savagery and anger and resentment and road rage. I'm so not. Irae, man. Girls posing for us in the French Market. Children posed spontaneously for us all over the island. The remains of a gun position in Ft. Louis The foot of the scary steps up to Ft. Louis Today we went to Marigot for the French Market. Years ago this was an open-air market where they sold fresh fruits, vegetables, spices, and seafood. A few booths still do (and the smell of the spices is something you just have to experience), but these days it's mostly booths selling shirts and souvenirs to tourists (there were at least two more cruise ships in today). We injected some of our cash into the local economy and then left to seek lunch. Lunch is described elsewhere, and it was great, but not everything about our restaurant experience was positive. Have you ever been embarrassed to be an American? (That is, if you are one.) We were, today. There was a party of four couples at another table, and they were good-ole boys: They spoke loud enough to be heard all over the restaurant, they revealed (during said speaking) their cultural benightedness, they kidded (in painfully bad taste) the wait staff, they argued about (and showing their ignorance of) tipping protocol, etc. It was awful. But the worst thing was how loud they were. All of their other faults would have been tolerable if only they didn't broadcast them. Next stop on the agenda was Fort Louise, built to defend Marigot back in the days when stone forts were actually effective. Today, all that remains is an assortment of sections of walls, a couple of piles of brick near the center, and a proud French flag. And a magnificent view of Marigot. The main problem we had was the really long and steep set of stairs from the parking lot to the fort. Have I mentioned that Judi suffers from vertigo? Also that she is nowhere near as sure-footed as a mountian goat? I don't know which was worse, going up the stairs or going down. Both were terrifying for Judi and stressful for me. ("Judi, please grab my arm, not my shirt!") Then we drove up Pic Paradise, the highest point on the island. Though now I don't think we got there. Long story. We played bingo at the resort this evening. Well, Judi did. There were four rounds, and Judi won one of them! Judi won! Judi won! Judi finally won at bingo! (Judi never wins at bingo.) But wouldn't you know that the time she finally won, the prizes would be really cheesy. And when I say really cheesy, I mean more cheesy than you can possibly imagine. We're talking a dime-store child's purse, a key chain featuring a white plastic chicken (yes, a chicken), and a pair of clip-on earrings with the kind of clip that I use to attach Christmas lights to the tree. But, all the same, Judi won, no matter how cheesy the prizes. Her words: "It was an experience." Overheard at bingo: "You know that song, Red, Red Wine? I can't get it out of my head. You hear it so much on this island." You do hear it a lot. It seems that everyplace on this island there's either a band or recorded music, and that song is de rigueur. No one tried to sell us pot today. French Onion Soup with a 'tude! Lunch Seeking lunch meant looking for a place called L'Epicure Hediard, supposedly the home of an apricot cake that is too wonderful for words, and supposedly located in the Marina Royale, which is a marina in Marigot that's surrounded by a plaza of shops and restaurants. But L'Epicure Hediard was nowhere to be found, even after questioning locals. So we settled on a place called La Main à la Pâte, mainly because the wait staff seemed so friendly. (And they were.) This was our day to eat French, so we went all out (it was not a cheap meal). I started with a fish soup. It came with little bowls of cheese, croutons, and a yellow sauce. The soup was completely smooth -- pureed. The idea was to stir the cheese, et al, into the soup to suit your taste. Granting that the soup had a strong fish flavor, so you'd have to like that (which I do), it was very good. Judi started with a bowl of French onion soup which came positively clogged with the most delicious cheese imaginable. Judi: "With any French onion soup, breaking the surface cheese is a major undertaking, but with this soup, it was just the first major undertaking." Judging Judi's soup overall, she said she may never be able to eat French Onion soup anywhere else again. I don't normally care for French onion soup, but that's only because French onion soup is not normally like this. For the main course, Judi had a flank steak with blue cheese sauce, and potatoes grautin. The potatoes were very good, but honestly I didn't care for the steak. It was tough, but that may have been partly Judi's fault -- I tried to talk her into the sirloin instead of the flank, for 3€ more, but she insisted on the flank. But even setting aside the quality of the meat, I didn't care for the sauce. But she enjoyed it. I ordered the pasta (pâte) with four-cheese sauce: Cream, blue, goat, mozzarella, and parmesan (yeah, I know that's five -- go figure). It was great... though rather pungent. Not for the faint of palate. I was only able to eat about half (given that I had already had the soup, and the portions were enormous), and by then the interior of my mouth felt like it was glowing with, or radiating, the taste of goat and blue cheeses. I know flavors can't glow or radiate, but that's the best I can describe it. Taken in total, we would have been very pleased with just the soups and some French bread. But it was our French day, and we had to stretch (our tummies). That four-cheese sauce was better then any Italian alfredo I've ever had. Maybe I'll never be able to eat alfredo anywhere again....

A solitary Judi sitting in Ft. Louis