When the Caribbean Becomes a Ghastly Form of Torture

If you're used to being active you're likely to find even the most idyllic destinations to be somewhat boring. What does one do to occupy the day? Yes, the winters are cold if you are an inhabitant of a city like Boston, Chicago or New York and the poster of the couple holding hands or lying on settees in all-inclusive resorts like Sandals, which advertises to the tune of the Dirty Dancing theme “Now I had the time of my life…,” can seem appealing until you get there and find yourself squabbling while self-satisfied looking post-coital couples display their unattainable lotion-covered bodies in the sand. One of the requirements for resort life is to read those  mindless commercial novels by authors like James Patterson, but if you're someone who takes literature seriously you’ll undoubtedly find that they’re the equivalent of going to Red Lobster when you’re looking for one of those quaint little fishermen's shacks on the Maine coast. And how is it possible to relax amidst the constant humming of air conditioning units in the warrens of identical looking buildings. You never seem able to locate your room. Then there's the procrustean cheeriness of the adult counselors who will not tolerate even a crumb of real emotion. However, the worst thing it’s possible to do is to go to one of those very exclusive resorts on a French island like St. Barts where all the women you can’t have are topless. That's truly torture.