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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA

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Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!


#69. My honeymoon was in Ocho Rios, Jamaica.

My gorgeous new bride and I stayed for a week in a resort called Ciboney Ocho Rios, now defunct. (And taken over by Sandals, I think. Are those guys the McDamnedDonalds of luxury spas, or what? Would you leave just one independently-managed, quirky little place for those of us who don’t appreciate your ‘activities managers’ and watered-down mixed drinks? Pretty please?)

Anyway, we had the time of our lives. Our honeymoon was everything it was supposed to be, right down to staying in the upper floor of a two-story cabana with it’s own pool… and having no downstairs tenants that week. Private swimming hole — rrrraaawwwrrr. And the resort was spectacular — four restaurants, two enormous pools (with swim-up bars, no less), a stretch of sandy beach, semi-private jacuzzis, and an office where we could go, anytime we wanted, to book events outside the spa. We’re pretty low-key kinds of honeymooners, it turns out, but we did go on an afternoon horseback ride, and took a trip to Dunn’s River Falls. And both were wonderful.

Now, if you’re planning a honeymoon or romantic vacation of your own, I can give you this piece of advice: go the all-inclusive route. Ciboney was all-inclusive (other than the two jaunts outside the grounds), and it was the best decision we ever made. Want food? Pick a restaurant, sit down, and eat. Thirsty? Hit a bar, a swim-up bar, or raid the bottomless fridge in your room. Want something else? Um, well, there’s probably someone to help you with that, too. Honestly, I only remember eating and drinking that week, as far as the free shit goes. We’re not a high-maintenance couple.

I only hope we can do it again someday. (If there’s anything but Sandals left by the time we’re ready, that is.) I don’t do a lot of things well, folks, but flopping around in the sun with a drink in my hand, eating three meals of tropical delicacies a day, and having moonlit midnight swims with my honey are three things that I could get very good at, if only I could get the practice. And ordering drinks at a swim-up bar? Oh, yeah. I could be world-class at that. A regular guru.

Anyway, that honeymoon was absolutely the best week of my life. I wanted for nothing, I had no responsibilities, and I couldn’t be late, because I had nowhere to be. My wife and I spent the entire week in a thick musky fog of love, hot sun, and cheap Jamaican liquor. I can’t imagine a better time.

Well, okay, except for one tiny exception. The part of the resort by the beach was separatr from the cabana area. So we had to take a bus from one site to the other. That wasn’t the problem, though. The busses ran regularly, and we had no particular scheudule to adhere to, anyway. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the resort next to our beach, with all the loud drunken assholes and annoying teenie-bop music. It was a Sandals, of course. Unbelievable. Can no one stop the spread of this wretched blight?

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