A wee quiz:

1. Is Bermuda in the Caribbean?

2.Which state of the United States is Bermuda closest to?

3.Bermuda is a protectorate of what country?

4.Who discovered Bermuda and what country was he from?

5.Which Shakespeare play is set in Bermuda?

6.What are two signature sounds of Bermuda life?

Answers:

1.No
2.North Carolina
3.Great Britain
4.Juan de Bermudez from Spain
5.The Tempest
6.Honking horns and whistling tree frogs

The trip to Bermuda was Andrew’s idea. (In case you are new here, Andrew is my late-in-life inamorato.) His three-pronged reasoning went like this: We both love the ocean, Elena is an Anglophile and Andrew could get in some Ancestor Worship.

Andrew’s father, Robert, born in England, was a “classics man” at Oxford and headmaster of Saltus Grammar School in Hamilton, Bermuda from 1934-1948. Andrew’s mother, Lorna, moved with her two small sons—Andrew’s half-brothers–to Bermuda after the war where she met and married Andrew’s father. Hence, the “ancestor worship.”

Andrew, himself, was born in Charlotte, North Carolina. Bermuda sits in the middle of the Gulf Stream at the same latitude as Charlotte. A few days in Andrew’s hometown was a natural way to break up a seven-hour flight.  Not that I ever complained about the many nine-hour flights I have taken to England, ha ha.

Andrew arranged for us to go in style not counting having to get up at 3:00 in the morning. A town car picked us up, we had TSA pre-check and we flew First Class. I was made to understand that FC was not what it used to be but I had no complaints except for the lack of a blanket for my cold feet. Not that I ever complained about my travails in steerage on nine-hour trips to England, ha ha.

My immediate impression of Charlotte was of fragrance, green-ness, bird song and humidity. We stayed in an Airbnb in a lovely and peaceful setting with the occasional barking and mauling of two magnificent dogs, Lucy and Maisie.

House where Andrew grew up, showing the room he set on fire

Andrew showed me the house on Brandon Road where he lived, age 5-20, minus the dreadful years in a boarding school. He pointed out his bedroom window and the porch he’d climb onto when he went out in the middle of the night to tear up the town. Also, the room he set on fire while making patterns with lighter fluid on a slate floor. I imagined him coming out the front door in the mornings, banging the screen door and coming down the walk to get into mischief with David and Preston. He showed me Myers Park elementary where Mrs. Creed taught him how to study and the playground where he and Preston set off a Molotov cocktail. And the dip in the road where, experimenting with various substances, he saw Jesus in a magnolia tree. Or something like that. Whatever it was, he decided afterwards to stop with the various substances.

Hugh McManaway guards the entrance to Myers Park. He was an eccentric in the neighborhood when Andrew was a child. He played the organ at the Presbyterian church and the saw in the local drugstore, directed traffic (unofficially) at the corner of Queens Road and Providence Road, talked to himself and to everyone he met. No one had a name for what was going on in his head.  After his death, he was celebrated with a statue at the intersection where he directed traffic.

Hugh, Elena, Andrew in Charlotte. Photo by a neighbor who was out working in his yard.

I saw the Elizabeth neighborhood where Andrew lived with Sarah and Edgar. He kept his Harley in the dining room and revved it up and rode it right out the front door when he left the house. Sarah must have been an unusual woman to have put up with that.

We spent our full day in Charlotte with Andrew’s music-making friends from days gone by: Chris, Buddy and Deborah. Chris, master of deadpan humor, I already knew. We started at his House of Whimsey in the Merry Oaks neighborhood with breakfast and a tour of his garden, also whimsical. Chris is a bit that way, too. His cat, Sweetie Pie, allowed me close enough to pet her once and spent the rest of our visit glaring at us.

Caribbean beach hut in Chris’s garden

We three went to see Deborah and Buddy. Briar Creek runs through Deborah’s wild and glorious garden. Deborah grew up near the patch of country where I spent my 18th summer: the intersection of Virginia, West Virgina, and Kentucky i.e. Hatfield/McCoy territory. I was thrilled to talk with her about the Appalachians, about gardening and her reading for four hours a day (oh bliss.) Buddy writes and we had a good long natter about that.

The five of us sat around most of the day, talking and laughing. I had been dreading this, thinking I would be bored listening to hours of reminiscences. They pulled me right in. I felt welcome and enjoyed and entertained. I laughed until I cried. With people I had just met.

The next morning, we were on the Billy Graham Parkway unnecessarily early, getting to the airport and breezing through TSA with two hours to spare.  Then I spotted the First Class lounge and was glad for the extra time.

“Oh, Andrew,” I gushed. “There’s all this free stuff!”

“You know it’s not free, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

There was a full breakfast available and a separate kiosk for Avocado Toast, something American Airlines seemed inordinately proud of. I had as much tea as I could put in me—because it was “free”– and helped myself to a dozen tea bags. The chairs were comfortable and I was able to write. Once a flight or two had left, it cleared out and was quiet.

Our plane was small, only four people in first class. I didn’t have time to sit down before the air hostess was asking me if I wanted something to drink.

“What do you have?”

“Anything you want?”

“A decaf tea?”

“Well, we don’t have that.”

Andrew ordered a “co’cola.” He really wanted to say that. Co’cola. I was pleased for him because he hadn’t shared my pleasure in the first-class lounge. To top it off, I was first off the plane. First among all the jaded individuals used to flying with benefits and “free” stuff.

Another first for me: our pre-ordered taxi driver was standing in a line of people holding up phones and tablets. There were our names on Shane’s tablets. He led us to his taxi and once again I was in England, trying to get in on the right side of the car. The roads are narrow and people drive like maniacs—also like England.

Tigger

Our Airbnb was a cottage on South Road in a section of the island called Paget. We were welcomed by Tigger, a young orange Tabby who came in and jumped first on my lap and then Andrew’s. Steve, our official host, ran us down to the market where we collected enough food for supper and breakfast. We walked backed in the hot, humid air, dodging the mopeds, cars and buses that whizzed by like vehicles in a video game.

The water is a brilliant turquoise, the foliage thick as a jungle. Birds, frogs and crickets make a wild orchestra that rehearse all day and night. We walked around the corner and down to Elbow Beach in the evening. The waves roared, around us and washed onto our feet. The moon rose and we took it all in, our arms around each other.