A Travellerspoint blog

By Popular Demand....What's Up Next????

a.k.a. The Neurotic Travel Planner's Sanity Guide

Are you a travel planner or are you more of a "wing it" type of person? I am definitely a planner.

I genuinely overdo everything. "Is today your birthday? Look! I made you a birthday cake with a fondant sculpture of your face." "It's girls night! I made a list of all the places we can go along with a precisely timed itinerary and a breakdown of prices and suggested tips. Isn't that FUN?" "Potluck dinner? I made a 19 layer salad with hand foraged mushrooms and dressing that I made from my own herbs. I also made special pottery bowls to serve it in. Surprise!"

I just HATE when things suck. So when I’m planning a trip, I spend a neurotic and unhealthy amount of time trying to prevent any sucky elements from disappointing me during my travels.

It works.

This means that I typically have a travel calendar planned nearly a year in advance. This keeps me sane.

I know, I know. This is unhealthy. I need to get a life.

In the meantime, enjoy taking a peek at what we have coming up!

(I apologize in advance for photos shamelessly pirated from the internet)

FLIP THIS HOUSE: GUANA CAY EDITION....tune in as Matt and Vicki try to turn a beach house into their own little piece of paradise....with a special bonus edition: a side trip to Eleuthera!

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Girls Trip to Asheville: 8 Women, 3 beds....it has to be interesting.

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Getting our hiking fix at the hike-in only Charit Creek Lodge in Big South Fork: It's not Montana, but it'll do.

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Tortola, BVI: It's time for a trip to the Virgin Islands that doesn't include Mothers in Law.....

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Honduras: Yes, I said Honduras. I know it's the murder capital of the world, but it also has this awesome deserted island where Matt and I will spend 3 days alone and either have the time of our lives or commit a murder/suicide out of boredom. That will be followed by 4 days in an awesome villa on Roatan to make us forget what it was like to live without electricity or ice cubes.

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Matt's Big 5-0 Blowout on Jost Van Dyke: 16 Friends on the barefoot island....how awesome is that?

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Plus a regular smattering of weekend trips just to keep things interesting. Stay tuned, friends, it's going to be a helluva good time!

Posted by vicki_h 16:47 Archived in USA Comments (5)

It’s My Birthday. I'll Eat if I Want To.

48 Hours of Gluttony in Music City.

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It all started when Matt asked me what I wanted for my birthday.

I puzzled. I planned. I pondered.

I came up with…..nothing.

There was absolutely nothing I wanted that I didn’t already have.

Is that not AWESOME?

That alone should have been a remarkable birthday gift, and right then I should have taken any money that might be used on my birthday to buy a goat for a village in Africa, but I am far too selfish for that, so I thought, “Why not DO something instead of GET something?”

And what do I like to do more than anything?

Eat.

Birthdays are the one day a year that you can throw all your inhibitions away and eat yourself into a happy (birthday) food coma. Everyone knows that calories don’t count on your birthday (or holidays, vacations, Saturdays, after midnight, and following any emotional trauma).

I should also point out that eating is also a fantastic distraction from the aging process.

So Matt agreed to load up and head to my eating destination of choice.

I chose Nashville.

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We tend to forget about Nashville. It’s so close, but we never really think of it as a “destination.” To us, it’s just that big city in the middle of the state.

However, it has recently experienced a surge in popularity thanks to the new show Nashville, the inexplicable popularity of country music, and a brief stint as Taylor Swift’s home a choice before she decided NYC was infinitely cooler.

I’m pretty sure its popularity is not attributable to the fact that Billy Ray Cyrus lives there.

While we weren’t paying attention, Nashville became Nowville.

Or, in my case, Noshville.

Nashville’s restaurant scene has exploded in the past few years. A slew of new restaurants have popped up and I wanted to try as many of them as possible.

It seemed like a good time to head down the road for a visit to our mid-state cousin. Home of the Grand Ole Opry. Birthplace of Country Music. Honky Tonk Capital of the World. And baker of more biscuits than you can shake a stick at.

Day 1: Pass the biscuits.

We arrived in time for breakfast at my insistence (and despite Matt’s futile efforts to sleep late). There is no sleeping late when there are biscuits to be eaten.

We drove straight through what I think of as Nashville’s neon corridor of misery, that stretch of Broadway that is littered with neon boot signs and places promising line dancing and country karaoke. It’s like Las Vegas and Dollywood rolled up into one hot, flashy country-fried mess.

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If you are looking for a blog post filled with Robert’s Western World, The Bluebird Café, Printers Alley, and the Ryman….you should probably move on.

I was looking for an experience that was a bit less common. I wanted to take the road less traveled.

Unfortunately, the road less traveled appeared to have been taken over by hipsters.

Forget Nowville or Noshville. When we weren’t looking, Nashville had turned into Hipsterville.

For those of you that aren’t sure you know what a hipster is: 1) you’re lucky, and 2) I’ll give you a hint. You know that new coffee shop that just opened up in your town? The one with the glass contraptions that look like something from a chemist lab and that have the menus hand printed on the back of a recycled brown lunch bag? That 19-year-old faux junkie with the handlebar mustache and the mustard yellow fedora who is choreographing your coffee experience for 8 minutes with his pour-over method using sustainable, fair trade aged Sumatran roast….that’s a hipster.

And if you take a picture of your double upside down cacao cortado with soy, you might be one too.

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I have no shame in admitting it. We are moderately uncool middle aged people. The entire hipster movement is simply baffling to us. I don’t understand the sudden popularity of Victorian-era facial hair, unicycles, and men wearing skinny jeans, rolled up, with boots that look like something my great-grandfather likely wore to milk his cow.

However, hipsters take their food seriously. So, there is something to be gained by a moderately uncool middle aged person if he/she is brave enough to enter the hipster domain.

I had planned our eating carefully, and it included a vast number of hipster joints. Make no mistake, hipster joints make GOOD FOOD. You just have to get past the …..hipsterness of it all.

The first thing you have to do is look past the dim and ineffective vintage light bulbs and rough-hewn unfinished wood that is likely covering every surface to appreciate the wonder that is the menu. Don’t let yourself be immediately discouraged by the barrage of hipster-speak that assaults you from the menu. Dig past all of the locally foraged, ethically sourced, artisanal, salvaged, sustainable, stone-pounded, bicycle delivered weirdness and what you’ll find is really good food.

Move past the bone marrow, sweetbreads, and scrapple. Focus on key words: beef. potatoes. jam.

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Biscuit Love Brunch was a great place for Matt and I to start.

Like any good hipster restaurant, Biscuit Love started as a simple food truck. They recently moved from serving up hot handfuls of butter and flour on Nashville’s city streets to a bona fide brick and mortar restaurant. They only serve brunch, are only open until 3:00, and you can pretty much get anything on a biscuit.

When we walked in, there was a line. Apparently this was an “order at the counter, get a number, have a seat,” kind of place. We waited about 15 minutes.

I am BAFFLED by the number of people that can wait in line for 15 minutes, STARING AT A MENU, and are not prepared to order when they reach the counter.

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I did not have that problem when it was my turn at all. It was 9:00 a.m. and I was ravenous.

Bronuts and an East Nasty,”I blurted out so forcefully it made Matt jump.

Hey man, I was hungry.

I was then presented with a credit card slip to sign and leave a tip. REALLY?

I waited in line 15 minutes to order my own food and get my own beverage and you now want me to tip someone to bring my plate to me? Before they bring it to me?

Apparently, I do not understand the new counter service trend. If you’re making me serve myself, what are you asking for a tip for?

I prefer to wait and see if the person bringing my plate comes out dressed as a clown and makes me a balloon giraffe to go with my biscuit. THEN they will get a tip.

After a very short wait, my plate of bronuts arrived.

These biscuit-doughnut hybrids were made of fried biscuit dough, coated in crunchy sugar, filled with lemon marscapone, and sitting on top of fresh blueberry compote.

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That should have been enough, but then the East Nasty showed up: a crispy fried chicken thigh with smoked cheddar sitting on a flaky biscuit smothered in sausage gravy.

Nasty indeed.

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After breakfast, I wanted a really good cup of coffee. If there is one thing hipsters know how to do well, it’s make coffee.

Unfortunately, Biscuit Love had only moderately prepared us for the full-on hipster establishment experience.

Barista Parlour was the whole enchilada (an organic, locally sourced spaghetti squash, cotija, and lime infused yam enchilada, of course).

We found what we believed to be the Barista Parlour, a non-descript building with a cement block exterior. The doors were all locked, so we walked until we found a concrete courtyard surrounded by high concrete walls. I was starting to wonder if this was a coffee shop or an elementary school in Mexico City. We eventually found the right door and stepped inside.

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Residing in an old car stereo shop complete with roll up garage doors, this place was so hipster that it made me instantly want to put on one of my granny’s old dresses and a vintage cardigan. I suddenly wished I hadn't washed my hair and had grabbed a slouchie beanie on the way out. It was like walking into an Instagram photo. I saw a barista in a toboggan and a leather apron, despite the fact that it was 95 degrees outside. There were small children wearing unnecessary scarves and the all of the chocolate bars had at least 65% cacao.

In lieu of the customary hipster chalkboard menu, the only menu I could see was a small elaborately custom-made affair attached to a wooden board affixed permanently to the area just below the register. As I waited in line, I realized this would give me about .86 seconds to consider my order, while the uber cool barista stood in silent judgment. I had to order before the crowd behind me started angrily waving their beanies and vintage copies of The Catcher in the Rye at me.

Apparently, I was supposed to know what was on the menu before I arrived. I was already failing my hipster exam.

My level of discomfort on a scale of 1 to 10 was about a 4.

Matt’s was a 27. He immediately decided he didn’t want anything and ran to the safety of the bathroom.

I distracted myself by perusing the colorful shelves filled with fanciful appurtenances (I feel like this overelaborate description is necessary to reflect the true atmosphere of the Barista Parlour). There were colorful French macarons, artisan chocolates, gluten-free cookies, and hand-made pop-tarts. There were vintage motorbikes and a wall shelf filled with vinyl record albums.

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When it was time to place my order, I was blessedly quick, simply choosing the first thing I could read without my glasses.

I took my number to my table (apparently a phenomenon here in Nashville….there did not appear to be any restaurant at which one did not receive a whimsical number on a stick to affix in some manner to one’s table). As I tried to decide which industrial upcycled table to sit at, I passed the condiment table. No doubt in a place like this, where coffee making was considered art, adding sugar to your cappuccino would be like putting ketchup on your langoustine at Le Bernardin.

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My coffee could come out tasting like cardboard and turpentine and I wouldn’t dare risk the disapproving stares of the other patrons to get a scoop of Splenda. I wasn’t going to be making that walk of shame. Besides, they probably only had Sugar in the Raw or honey anyway.

After about 15 minutes of careful brewery magic, the barista in the toboggan brought me my Caramel Whiskey Latte.

No wonder the condiment table looked dusty. Who needs it? The coffee was AMAZING.

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Apparently, all you need is a leather apron to make an astonishing cup of coffee.

It was time to leave the hipster-cool of the City. We’d had all we could take for a while. We needed to go somewhere that didn’t require tattoos or facial hair to fit in.
We easily found our conspicuous oversized Land Rover parked in a sea of tiny electric cars and bicycles and made our escape.

Our first stop was at Love Circle, a grassy hill with a panoramic view of the city skyline. Technically the hill belongs to Metro Water Services and technically it’s considered trespassing on the water reservoir that exists up there and technically it’s illegal to park …..but we had been emboldened by our middle aged foray into the youthful hipster world, so we went for it.

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Next up was a drive through Nashville’s prestigious Belle Meade neighborhood. We were planning to make a stop at the Belle Meade Plantation, but after driving past mansion after mansion, we felt poor and dejected and decided the only thing that would make us feel better was pie.

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We stopped at the famed Loveless Motel and Café to see what they had to offer. They have been serving the best biscuits in Nashville since 1951, and it is said that the recipe remains unchanged today.

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Unfortunately, I was full up on biscuits. Not just full up, EAST NASTY full up.

We couldn’t decide on one pie, so we got a pie sampler, because when you are too full to eat one piece of pie, you should just go ahead and get three. The sampler included banana pudding (okay, not technically a pie, but who cares), chess pie, and coconut pie.

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Pie is always good, but next time, I want the biscuits.

We then took a beautiful drive on a section of the Natchez Trace Parkway, which extends 444 miles from Nashville to Natchez, Mississippi. I could only imagine what it must look like in the fall.

Note to self: Come back in the fall. Drive parkway. Eat biscuits.

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We hopped off the parkway at quaint Leiper’s Fork, a scenic village surrounded by farmland just southwest of Nashville. It’s a place filled with farmers, artists, and musicians. Home to the famous Puckett’s Grocery Store, where live bluegrass mingles with meatloaf and collard greens, the village was filled with quaint shops and galleries.

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And this old Jeep Willys which I must have or die.

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Shopping made us hungry, so we headed back to the City for a late lunch.

Having had enough hipster fun that morning, we decided to go as un-hipster as possible: Arnold’s.

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If Arnold’s writes something on a paper bag, it’s because that’s what was nearby. Arnold’s is not cool. Arnold’s is not hip. And Arnold’s doesn’t care.
Arnold’s has been serving up “meat and 3” lunches out of a colorful cinder block building for over 30 years. Nothing is fancy, food is served cafeteria style, and tables are communal – you simply squeeze in where you can find space.

We arrived late, at 2:20. They stop serving at 2:45, so imagine our surprise when the line still stretched out the door. No matter, we had nothing but time.

When we got inside, we had plenty of time to review the menu on the wall. Everything looked like it was cooked in pork fat or fried in lard. It was like heaven.

The good thing about the line at Arnold’s is that it gives neurotic orderers ample time to consider every possible combination of the meat + three before actually having to settle on just one.

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Should I get meatloaf with creamed corn, fried okra, and green beans? What about catfish with mashed potatoes, tomato pie, and collard greens? Oh wait, maybe roast beef with white beans, fried apples, and candied yams????? What about the cole slaw??? DEAR GOD, WHERE WOULD I FIT IN THE COLE SLAW?????? Is there a meat + 4?

While I was suffering a mild panic attack at being limited to only 3 side items, we came to the food line.

Desserts came first. These people have their priorities in order. I immediately forgot all about side items.

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We did not plan to get dessert since we had eaten bronuts, biscuits, and 3 pieces of pie that morning….but they had the pies right at eye level. They were staring at us. “Pick me, pick me,” each one chanted, like a homeless puppy at the kill shelter. We just had to take one home.

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With a choice between roast beef, meatloaf, chicken n’dumplings, fried catfish, or fried shrimp…it was a tough call. I almost ordered the chicken n’ dumplings, but then I spotted the whole roast beef, rare and juicy, as they were hand carving it to order.

“Roast beef, fried green tomatoes, macaroni & cheese, and greens, please,” I said with no hesitation.

Matt went for the meatloaf, corn pudding, green beans, and mashed potatoes swimming in rich gravy.

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We. Ate. Every. Bite.

Shameful.

Delicious.

It was late in the afternoon and we really needed a post-binge nap, so we made our way to 12 South, an eclectic (and yes, hipster) neighborhood just outside of downtown. Not that long ago, this was just considered a rough part of town. Now, it’s one of the hottest neighborhoods in Nashville where you can buy a vintage guitar, drink a craft cocktail, eat a gourmet popsicle, and try on a pair of hand-stitched jeans all in one 10 block stretch only 2 miles from downtown.

It’s no secret that I am not a fan of hotels. Beyond that, I make every effort to seek out the most unique accommodations I can find. I’m not satisfied with the ordinary. I want extraordinary.

The 12th Avenue South Urban Oasis was my idea of perfect. It was Matt’s idea of a fancied up garage, but that was because he didn’t get it.

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Nestled quietly and privately behind the dazzling Savant vintage store on 12 South, this place was literally an “oasis.” Once we entered the gate, it was quiet and peaceful. It was hard to image the hustle and bustle of 12 South was so close.

The garage had been lovingly restored and decorated by the owner of Savant with her own fabulous antiques and unique finds. It was bright and airy. I felt like I had stepped into a magazine shoot.

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And no, it was not entirely lost on me that I was sleeping in the Barista's Parlour's less evil twin.

I loved everything about it.

Well. Almost Everything.

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We enjoyed the cool retreat of the Urban Oasis during the 95+ degree afternoon. Line dried white linens covered the windows to block the sun and the big, blue vintage Westinghouse floor fan created a perfect naptime breeze that went nicely with the ice cold a/c.

When the temps started to drop and we felt like we could eat again, we headed to East Nashville to explore some off the beaten path places for dinner.

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“Off the beaten path” is not Matt’s favorite. It’s really his least favorite. He likes safe, conventional, right-in-the-middle-of-the-damn-path types of places, but it was my birthday, so he chose to be a good sport.

East Nashville is a mixed bag. Not too long ago, it was considered a down-on-its-luck undesirable part of town. However, thanks to urban sprawl and a mix of creative and artistic types, it enjoys a trendy, progressive vibe and continues its upward movement.

Thrillist recently named it one of the coolest neighborhoods in America.

Sounded like a good place to eat.

As we crossed the river and entered East Nashville, I saw a fixed gear bicycle shop, a sign for handmade paletas, and an artisanal chocolate shop with several guys outside with scraggly beards.

There had to be good food nearby.

The hardest thing to decide was WHERE to eat. East Nashville is literally riddled with awesome new places to eat and drink. The place is silly with them.
I had a mental list. We’d see how many we could get to.

We started at Mas Tacos. Another place that started as a food truck, Mas Tacos was supposed to have killer Mexican food.

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We found it easily enough, housed in an old deli building with a faded Winnebago parked beside it. Between the sketchy looking exterior and the freakish line, Matt was already giving me the death stare.

“It’s my birthday,” I said.

I wasn’t sure how many more times that line was going to work.

The line moved fast and in minutes we were inside. The décor in the cinderblock and linoleum building was eclectic and cool. We found ourselves in a dimly lit, rustic room with mismatched chairs huddled around small tables, cacti scattered about, quirky artwork, old-school oscillating fans (no air conditioning), and an old jukebox playing free songs.

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The menu overwhelmed us. There were simply too many amazing choices. The taco choices ranged from fried avocado to cast iron chicken to quinoa sweet potato. There were Cuban beans and grilled corn, sweet plantains and pozole verde.

We ended up with pork tacos, sweet plantains, tortilla soup, and elote (grilled corn with crumbly cotija cheese and lime juice).

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It was all good, but the show stopper was the tortilla soup. Laced with lime, chili, and cilantro, it was chunk full of white meat chicken, fresh tomatoes, grilled corn, peppers, tender avocado slices, and puffy delicious strips of deep fried tortilla.

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Okay, apparently I really liked the corn too.

As I was eating it, I heard someone singing “I’ll make love to you” by Boyz II Men. Thinking it was the free jukebox, I realized it was me.

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Mas Tacos is BYOB, but why would you want to when you can get one of their house made agua frescas? We couldn’t choose between watermelon-lime and pineapple-cilantro, so we got one of each.

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Pretty sure we could eat a second meal if we gave it a little time, we walked over to the Holland House Bar and Refuge for some drinks.

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Facial hair and full sleeve tattoos were obviously a bartender requirement, we noticed as we were seated at the enormous 4-posted bar. The mixologist wore suspenders and held a bottle with an eye dropper. The crowd was chic and vintage. We were definitely in the right place for a craft cocktail.

I ordered the Shennong’s Delight, a light and refreshing (but powerfully strong) blend of Tito’s vodka, lemongrass, orange curacao, ginger, lemon, and champagne. Matt had the Sailing to Byzantium made of El Dorado 5 year rum, crème de cassis, vanilla, lime, and black walnut bitters.

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We only planned to have one drink, but they were so good, we decided to have another. We had spotted a bottle of Leblon cachaça behind the bar. The only good thing that had come out of our trip to Brazil (besides the fact that we made it home with all internal organs intact and found that Matt only had the flu and had not contracted some terminal disease) was our love of a real caipirinha. I say “real” because almost NO ONE in the U.S. can make one properly. Something about the simple ingredients “limes, sugar, cachaça” perplexes them and they insist on adding all manner of other things. We decided to give the suspendered, tattooed, mustached bartender a shot.

He nailed it.

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I felt confident that we could eat again before throwing in the greasy white napkin, so we headed out to find the holy grail of hot chicken, Prince’s Hot Chicken in East Nashville.

If you have heard about the hot chicken phenomenon, it started in Nashville. If you haven't, then you are missing out. There’s a lot of hot chicken in Nashville these days, but it all started with Thornton Prince.

Legend has it that Mr. Prince was quite a philanderer. He came home one morning after a night of womanizing demanding his breakfast and his lady decided she’d had enough. She made him breakfast all right. She made him a breakfast he would never forget, putting every manner of hot spice she could find in the kitchen cupboards into his fried chicken. She wanted him to HURT.

When he took the first bite, she smiled in smug satisfaction, waiting for the cry of pain. Instead, he LIKED IT.

He liked it so well, he made her make it for all of his friends. And so, Prince’s Hot Chicken was born.

Today, Thornton’s great niece owns and operates Prince’s Hot Chicken where you can indulge your craving for skillet-fried, cayenne-swabbed birds piled on white bread with pickles.

Prince’s was not exactly located in the “up and coming” part of East Nashville. It was in the “down and out” part.

We found Prince’s in a defunct strip mall, sandwiched between a wig store and a nail salon. The interior was a sea of green linoleum and vinyl table cloths.

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It was clear that no one in the throng of people hanging around outside or waiting inside was a “visitor.” You could tell these people were here every day, waiting for their deliciously greasy bag of to-go chicken on their way home from work.

We stood out like a pair of hot pink suits at an Amish funeral.

Matt gave me his best “Please, don’t make me” look, but I made him go inside anyway.

Matt’s internal comfort meter was starting to tip to the “I’m about to run” point. I pushed him up to the counter.

As we ordered, two 20-something guys in matching J Crew outfits came in. They looked like they had just hopped off their yacht. I looked at Matt. “You can relax,” I said. “You are no longer the most conspicuous person in here.”

The chicken comes on top of white bread and is served with a pile of pickles. You can get mild (hot), medium (really hot), hot (scorching), xhot (blistering), xxxhot (you will die). Prince’s Hot Chicken is not to be confused with buffalo style chicken. The pepper is violent. It’s nuclear.

The chicken is fried in a cast iron skillet and is then doused with an unholy combination of cayenne and lard. The liquefied fat and pepper oozes into all of the nooks and crannies in the crunchy chicken, dripping onto slices of gooey white bread underneath. I am sure the bread is to keep the nuclear mess from seeping off the plate and into the eyes of any small children that may be standing nearby, lest they be blinded for life.

Legend has it that ordering the XXX will require medical intervention.

We ordered ½ a chicken in the medium. It came with instructions for CPR.

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The fire started slowly, at my lips. Then it spread down my throat and eventually consumed my entire digestive tract. I had read that I should be careful not to touch my eyes, should have plenty of napkins (for the sweat), and that I should use the slice of white bread that comes tucked under the chicken to counteract the heat. I quickly shoved a slice of white bread into my mouth, followed by a gulp of sweet tea.

Dear sweet Lord, but it was GOOD.

When we were finished, that ½ chicken looked like roadkill that had been picked clean by every buzzard in a 20 mile radius.

The verdict: Hot chicken rocks.

Too full for any more food, we decided to wrap up the night at a new bar in 12 South. This way, we could walk home if we had too many drinks, or if we started convulsing from the hot chicken.

I forgot to wash my hands and spent the entire drive back to 12 South concentrating on not scratching my eye so that I didn't blind myself.

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Embers Ski Lodge was modeled after every apres-ski bar I had ever been to back in my skiing days. There was a faux fireplace, a wall sized mural of a snowy mountain, snowflake lights, and rough-hewn logs decorating the walls. The menu had all of the kitsch of an old ski movie, with vintage ski photos, “black diamond appetizers,” and “bunny hill desserts.”

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Even the drinks were themed.

I ordered the Ski School, which was described on the menu as “vodka, vanilla, passion fruit, butterscotch, sparkling.” Imagine my delight when what came out was a foamy delicious, butterscotch tasting cocktail in an old school champagne glass with an adorable little sidecar of Prosecco.

“You sip the sweet cocktail, and then follow it with the dry bubbles.”

It was genius.

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We had packed a lot into one day and were we were TIRED.

It was time to head to bed. I went to sleep trying not to think about this…..

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Day 2: Help! I’ve Eaten….and I Can’t Get Up!

As soon as my eyes opened, I checked the squirrel. He hadn’t moved. Good.

I was still full from the day before, but that didn’t stop me from dragging Matt out of bed to go in search of breakfast. We had eating to do.

There were so many great places to grab breakfast, but we decided to stick close so that we could see a little bit of 12 South.

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I didn’t realize there were so many cool shops. Like Imogene & Willie. Set up in a refurbished filling station named after the owner’s grandparents, this place is apparently famous for their hand-made, high end jeans.

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Or White’s Mercantile. Modeled after an old general store, this upscale shop had everything from baby soft bath robes to vintage cocktail stirrers.

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This neighborhood was a feast for the eyes, but I needed a feast for my belly.

We stopped at Edley’s BBQ. A BBQ joint that serves breakfast? Why, yes. Yes indeed.

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With a never ending need for biscuits to be filled, I ordered the Tuck’s biscuit: a fluffy, homemade buttermilk biscuit topped with savory brisket, and over easy egg, pimento cheese, and red and white sauce.

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Matt had been so envious of my East Nasty the day before that he ordered his own nasty biscuit, Edley’s Nashville Nasty, topped with fried chicken breast and drowning in sausage gravy.

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BBQ and eggs might be my new favorite dish.

We strolled the neighborhood before I decided it was time for COFFEE.

To its credit, 12 South has its own excellent coffee shop, so we had no need to return to the uber hipster Barista Parlour which was one part Instagram portrait studio and one part disheveled beard and ironic mustache gallery.

The Frothy Monkey was just a really good coffee shop.

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Obviously.

These lines were getting ridiculous. So far, we had waited in line for EVERY MEAL. It was time to start going to some places that took reservations!
The coffee was worth the wait. My cappuccino was excellent and Matt was able to order a hot chocolate without fear that the barista would judge his non-coffee choice. No need to flee to the bathroom this time.

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We spent the rest of the morning shopping our way through the 12 South neighborhood.

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They even had a quaint little farmer’s market set up. I bypassed the South Carolina peaches and went straight for the Georgia peach truck. You can’t tell a Georgia girl that they don’t grow the best peaches.

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We grabbed a post-breakfast, pre-lunch ice cream at Jeni’s. Simply amazing ice-cream, this is literally the one thing we have to eat every time we are in Nashville.

It's more likely that the 16-year old workers simply placed the containers wherever was closest so that they could return to discussing whether or not to go to the Minions movie, but I liked to think the ice-cream gods put the brown butter almond brittle right next to the darkest chocolate just for me.

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Next up, I had a surprise for Matt.

When we were in Las Vegas once upon a time, Matt went to have an old fashioned shave. He loved it.

I had read about a place downtown where you could get a straight razor shave, so I had made him an appointment.

I knew by the time I saw the door sign, I had made him an appointment at an ultra-hipster salon.

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By the time I saw the inordinate volume of taxidermy, string lights, antlers, and mason jars – I knew.

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When they offered me free wine in a jelly glass while I waited, I didn’t care.

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Matt truly enjoyed his shave, even if he did have a stuffed fox staring at him while he got it.

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I was all jazzed up on cheap hipster wine, so it was time to eat something. We headed to Germantown to try the new Butchertown Hall, a new place claiming to specialize in smoked meats and sausages using primitive wood-fired cooking techniques.

The name conjured up images of meat and fire. Imagine my surprise when a sleek, tall white building rose in front of me. The interior was clean and artsy, full of caged rocks and barren branches in vases. It felt more like an Anthropolgie store than a meat house.

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The smell, however, was all meat. I was immediately struck by the smoky delicious aroma.

We arrived at an off time, almost 2:00. Thankfully, there weren’t many patrons, because Butchertown Hall does not take reservations and if I had walked Matt up to one more food line, I believe I would have had a mutiny on my hands.

We were seated immediately and set about the task of ordering cocktails. I couldn’t resist the winter-spiced grapefruit mimosa. Matt went with the oak roasted bloody mary.

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The smell of the place had woken our inner caveman, so we ordered accordingly.

MEAT. CORN. POTATOES. BREAD.

Was a more manly meal ever conceived? I literally felt my testosterone level rise as we ordered.

We ordered the oak smoked pork carnitas and the house made chorizo sausage. Both were served with house pickles, thin sliced onions, thick flour tortillas. We also ordered the potato salad and grilled street corn.

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It gave me the meat sweats.

I needed another beverage to slow the heart palpitations, so I got tried the Paloma, a tangy combination of tequila blanco, Pimms, lime, grapefruit, and black cardamom.

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Obviously, that lunch required another nap.

We woke up refreshed and ready to hit the streets in search of more food.

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I felt like Matt deserved one meal that didn’t involve lines, table numbers, mason jars, lack of air conditioning, or general fear for one’s safety, so I had made reservations at Josephine.

Josephine was less than a block from where we were staying on 12 South, so we were able to leave the car at home and enjoy a walk on a beautiful summer night.

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When we walked in, Josephine greeted us with soft lights, white linens, and gleaming glassware. There wasn’t a chalkboard, piece of butcher paper, or recycled, hand-cut, distressed piece of salvaged furniture in the place.

It was elegant without being pretentious. It was filled with middle aged adults in normal adult clothing. There was no unnecessary facial hair. It was just what we needed.

We started off with the pretzel bread and housemade mustard. That was followed by the tomato gazpacho with lump crab and lime for Matt and the arugula salad with fresh peaches and goat cheese topped with mint, honey, and lavender for me.

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For dinner, I opted for the housemade fettucine with tomato, lobster and basil. Matt had the scallops with grilled romaine.

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We received a wonderful little surprise with our check – a delightful little box of ginger cookies with the recipe attached.

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We were tempted by dessert, but this trip was about variety, so we felt compelled to indulge our dessert whim elsewhere.

We made the short walk down to Urban Grub where Matt found a chocolate peanut butter bar and I fell in love with the vanilla bean doughnuts with bacon toffee cream cheese ice cream (say that 3 times really fast), caramel, and chocolate covered bacon.

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Those doughnuts were like warm, soft little pillows of sugar.

They almost made me forget about sleeping in the same room as that squirrel.

Almost.

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Day 3: It's Not Over When I'm Full...It's Over When I Hate Myself.

It wasn't over yet. I didn't want to go home thinking, "I should have eaten that."

We kissed the Urban Oasis goodbye and headed out for our last meals.

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Yes, I said "meals," do you have a problem with double breakfast? Because if you do, you should just stop reading now and go get your smug self some carrot sticks.

To complete the Nashville trifecta of perfect coffee, I followed the Barista Parlour and Frothy Monkey with coffee from Crema, not from the original location, but from the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Pinewood Social.

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Pinewood Social was like nothing I have ever experienced. From the outside, it was a simple brick warehouse. Inside, it was a virtual playground of food and drinks, presented in every bizarre venue possible. First, there was the "Living Room." Plush sofas and overside chairs, vintage tables and throw rugs, as well as a tech table suitable for even the most particular Mac user filled the space, offering up endless nooks and crannies to cozy up in.

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Then there was the bar and restaurant, vintage bowling alley, and a pool deck complete with lounge chairs, cabanas, and an old air stream serving up pool drinks and tacos. When I was there, I didn't think about how absurd it was, I only thought about how incredible the food was.

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My Crema Cubano was perfect, complete with the requisite coffee art. We also snacked on an avocado omelet with crispy fried fingerling potatoes. I say "snacked on" because this wasn't actually breakfast.

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For our grand finale, we headed to Sunday Brunch at Husk. Pulling up to the elegant historic Italianate home, I felt like it was 1880 and we were arriving for Sunday supper. White gloves and a parasol would not have been entirely inappropriate.

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Husk didn't disappoint. We went out in grand style with White Lily biscuits with black pepper and sausage gravy; french toast with peaches, peanut butter, maple and chantilly cream; and chicken fried steak with gravy and a farm egg served with sausage and potato hash.

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As with all good things, it had to come to an end eventually.

I'm not sorry I went and ate half of Nashville. Sometimes, a gluttonous weekend is good for the soul. It's a reminder in our gluten-free, non-dairy, low fat lives that life is rich and is meant to be enjoyed.

Unfortunately, at my age, that enjoyment comes with a price. I am spending the entire month of August on the Whole30 no dairy, no soy, no grains, no sugars, no legumes, no alcohol diet to undue all the damage I have done with this summers sinful vacation eating.

Don't feel too sorry for me. I'll be back off the wagon for a 2 week jaunt to Abaco next month.

Until then, eat well, my friends. Eat well.

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Posted by vicki_h 19:04 Archived in USA Tagged food south tennessee eating nashville josephine husk 12_south mas_tacos hot_chicken leiper's_fork Comments (4)

Guana Cay....Anything but Boring.

a.k.a. I think I'm getting to old for this S**t.

July 4th and Abaco.

Like tin foil and a microwave….neither is particularly dangerous alone, but put them together….and POW!

Explosive.

Time it right and you end up with 3 days of high-energy events….the Stranded Naked Cheeseburger Party…..the 4th of July……and Nippers Sunday Funday. Add to that 8 adults in varying stages of insanity and immaturity, and you have a situation just waiting to happen. Or many situations.

This trip made my 38th birthday on Abaco look like a tea party. Like diarrhea after a bad street taco, it was the gift that just kept giving, replete with “What the ?!” moments.

Hold on, folks. This one’s a doozy.

Day One: Up and At ‘Em!

When I was a kid, this is how my Dad woke us up every morning. He’d beat on our door and shout, “Up and At ‘Em!!” in the most annoyingly cheerful voice ever.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I figured out what the phrase actually was, ending a long standing belief from my childhood that my Dad inexplicably shouted “Up and Adam” at us every morning.

All 8 of us piled up in the Chieftan in the wee hours of the morning. Destination: Guana Cay.

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We had 5 days of fun planned and wanted to get the party started as early as possible. I mean, when you intend to spend the next 5 days going full throttle, why not start at 4:00 a.m. just to ensure the maximum level of exhaustion?

Thanks to Darvin, the man who can do anything on Guana Cay http://www.everythingguana.com/, the boat was waiting for us at the ferry dock in Marsh Harbor as soon as we touched the ground. We hit the ground running.

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We’ve decided that the perfect first day is accomplished by boating straight to Lubbers Landing. Austin and Amy give us the perfect place to relax, unwind, and breathe the city air out and the island air in.

We spent the afternoon with good food, good friends, and the best drinks in Abaco.

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Austin’s going to have to start giving something other than Patron for mastering the “around the pole” game. I bet if he was giving out free shots of Tortilla Gold Matt wouldn’t be so good at it.

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By the end of lunch, we were 100% in island mode.

After lunch at Lubbers, we hopped over to Tahiti Beach for a quick swim. The sandbar was out in full force and the afternoon boat party had started. We all enjoyed a soak in the bath warm water.

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But for this group, flying to the Bahamas, boating to Lubbers Landing, and beaching on Tahiti Beach wasn't enough. Hell no. This trip was about seeing which would kill us first, overconsumption or exhaustion, so we headed to the beach at Man O War. Why not go for total collapse on the first day?

Rest is for sissies.

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We finally made our way to Guana Cay late in the afternoon. We hadn’t even been to the house yet. Our luggage was in the boat and we had been climbing on top of it all day. It was starting to get as limp and soggy as we were.

We only stayed at the house long enough to unpack and get showers. Then it was off to Grabbers for sunset.

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Having recently become big fans of “wing night” at Orchid Bay’s Sunsetter restaurant, we headed that way for some $4 wings.

Dinner took “island time” to a whole new level. You see, wing night is very popular. Even though it was 9:00 p.m., the restaurant was packed. AND we had a table of 8. With a table of 8 in the Bahamas, you might as well be asking the restaurant to feed the entire country of China.

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An hour later……

We managed to eat in less time that it had taken to get a water refill.

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There was nothing left to do but head home and fall into bed, exhausted.

Day Two: Time to Get Stranded Naked!

It was the day before the 4th of July and that meant one thing: The Stranded Naked Cheeseburger Party on Fiddle Cay.

No one gets stranded. Or naked.

Sorry.

However, it is the world’s most awesome beach party. Bob and Patricia Henderson work tirelessly each year to throw this most amazing FREE event. Hosted on uninhabited Fiddle Cay, where hundreds of boats surround the islands sandbar, Bob and Patricia give away 1200 Cheeseburgers, 600 hotdogs, 250 pounds of Fries, 100 gallons of Margaritas, and 100 gallons of Boat Drinks.

It is an unforgettable event.

It’s like Bourbon Street and Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville had a baby. And Las Vegas was the Godmother and any Orlando water park was the Godfather.

You never know what’s going to happen.

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When Matt told me we were taking a group of 8 down for this year’s event, I knew the boat we normally used wasn’t going to cut it.

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Unfortunately, it is a very bad idea to try to rent a large boat for the single busiest week in Abaco at the last minute. By the time I knew we needed a bigger boat, there were no bigger boats.

That’s when I found the Regal. As soon as I saw her, I knew it was love.

From her hydraulic Flexiteek swim platform to her convertible rear facing chaise lounges to her wet bar and Bluetooth sound system….she was a thing of beauty and I knew she had to be mine.

And she came with a Captain.

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Sure, this meant we would have a witness to our debauchery, but it also meant there was no risk of being stuck on the sandbar for an extra 4 hours while our boat captain “slept it off” on top of the chips in the cuddy cabin.

Worth. Every. Penny.

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The ride over was awesome. Even Matt was able to relax instead of having to be the “responsible one.”

No one had to be responsible today.

Except Joey.

I’m sorry, Joey.

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Captain Joey had us anchored off Fiddle Cay just after 10:00 a.m. I was amazed at how many boats were already there so early.

I could smell burgers cooking on the grill. People were lazily drifting about on floats. Margaritas were being poured. The sun was shining.

It was shaping up to be a fantastic day.

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We managed to get in the cheeseburger line early, so there was almost no wait time. I think I’ve told you before that I don’t believe in waiting in line for food. Not even really good food. Not even really good FREE food.

The line was blessedly quick.

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That was good, because when I looked up from my hamburger, grease and ketchup smeared on my cheek, I saw Matt coming toward me with the Yeti cooler in tow.

Holy cats.

When Matt straps the 45 lb Yeti on like it’s a fanny pack…..a serious party is about to get started. I had never been so happy to have a bundle of greasy meat, bread, and potatoes in my belly.

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I threw an extra handful of pickles down my throat just to be on the safe side.

My recollection of the events after lunch are somewhat fuzzy and play in my head to Flo Rida’s theme song from the Hangover…….Thankfully, I made it out of there with all my teeth and no tattoos that weren’t temporary.

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Poor Joey. Somehow he managed to wrangle all of us back onto the boat before the tide went out and he ended up having to spend the night with us on the sandbar.

I don’t blame him for not wanting to spend the night with us.

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Instead, he took us to No Name Cay to feed the pigs before heading back to Guana.

I was a little apprehensive. I had read about a couple of people getting nipped by the pigs in recent weeks.

Having a group of somewhat intoxicated adults waving food around at a bunch of wild pigs seemed to me to be the Bahamian equivalent of “Hey y’all…..watch this….”

As such, instead of all of us running up on to the beach to feed the pigs, we elected a Pig Ambassador, who represented the strongest among us.

Of course it was Matt. Did you really think it would be anyone else? The man hauled a 45 lb. Yeti around all day like it was a beer coozie, for goodness sakes. He’s tough as iron.

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Besides, the rest of the group was in no shape to be feeding pigs.

Captain Joey deposited us safely back at the Guana dock in time for a beautiful sunset at Grabbers.

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We took stock of the day’s injuries.

We had: one black eye, one bruised arm, one bruised ankle, two bruised legs, one cut foot, two blisters, and one toenail completely devoid of polish (hey, to a woman, this is an injury!).

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Good thing we had a nurse in the group.

A wedge salad with the fresh catch of the day was just what the doctor (or nurse) ordered.

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When we returned to the house, an Abaco forum member ( http://abacoforum.com/ ) whom I had met briefly the day before had left the sweetest note and two t-shirts for Matt and I, as thanks for the inspiration he finds in my travel blog.

IS THAT NOT THE SWEETEST?????

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Robert – if you’re out there, I have 3 things to say:

1. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You made my day!

2. I’m sorry we didn’t see you at Stranded Naked. I was apparently too busy drinking out of strangers’ champagne bottles.

3. I kept both t-shirts. I will give Matt his when I feel he has sufficiently earned it. My blog, my shirts. It’s only fair.

Day Three: Red, White, and Booze

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The significance of July 4th is not completely lost on me. I am not unaware that we are celebrating our Declaration of Independence, our freedom, and the birth of the United States. It’s awe inspiring when you think of what happened back in 1776. It fills me with gratitude and pride.

Is it so wrong that it also makes me want to cook meat over fire, drink, and watch things explode?

Even in the Bahamas, many places recognized the U.S. holiday. We had chartered the Regal for a second day to take us to Pete’s Pub for their annual July 4th Pig Roast.

I was surprised when Joey showed up for a second round. I was sure he’d had enough of us the day before, but there he was, undaunted.

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We thought about stopping at Pelican Cay on the way, but the water was rough and Joey suggested that it would be best to get to Pete’s before it got so crowded that we were unable to get space at the dock and were forced to swim in.

As soon as I heard the words “swim in” I decided I could see Pelican Cay after lunch.

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Pete’s was pretty quiet when we arrived. They weren't serving lunch yet, so everyone grabbed drinks, found seats, and enjoyed the relaxing vibe.

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Everyone except me. I was busy stalking the smoker.

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Smelling that meat made me feel very sorry for vegans.

Smoked meat is the monster truck of the food world. It’s the guy at the gym in the too small muscle shirt who is deadlifting weight so heavy that the veins in his forehead start to bulge. Regular grilled meats ask politely if you’d like a taste. Smoked meat will punch you in the mouth and scream “HELL YES!”

Seriously, the smell of that meat turned me into the carnivorous equivalent of a crack addict. I quickly scribbled a note on an old napkin.

Dear Guy at the Smoker,

I will give you $10,000 if you will walk away from the smoker. Now. Just go to the bathroom for 5 minutes. That’s all I need.

V.

It didn’t work. He was guarding that smoker like his life depended on it. It would have been easier to get a hotdog from a hobo than to sneak anything past that guy.

And just when I thought I couldn’t wait another minute…..I was handed a stunningly beautiful combo plate loaded with slow smoked shredded pork and a crispy chicken leg quarter. As though that wasn’t beautiful enough on its own, they loaded the plate down with potato salad, slaw, corn and rice, and baked beans, which immediately threw me into a full on food frenzy.

MUST EAT ALL THE FOODS.

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I love the 4th of July.

Thank you, Thomas Jefferson. I choose to celebrate with a chicken leg.

The DJ was late, so we all headed for the water after lunch. We waited. And waited.

AND WAITED.

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No DJ.

We left.

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It’s probably a good thing. If the DJ had shown up, there would have been more drinks. There would have been dancing. There would have been even more drinks. By the time we left Pete’s, we’d have been pickled.

That would have made it harder to jump off when the boat caught on fire.

Yes, you read that correctly: WHEN THE BOAT CAUGHT ON FIRE.

One minute, you’re innocently drinking moonshine and dancing on the boat……

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The next minute a life jacket is shoved at you as you are told to get the F*** of the boat.

There are times when the universe likes to remind you that you are not in charge. Usually, the reminders are not easy and are slightly painful. They are a lot like playing with a cat. One minute, you think you are having fun and the next minute, “OUCH.” That sonofabitch just up and bites the hell out of you for no reason.

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We were having some boat drinks, playing some music, and dancing on the Regal when I noticed black smoke starting to pour into the main cabin.

I have slow reflexes when I am NOT drinking. When I am drinking, my reactions are akin to someone in a coma. My flight or fight response is clearly broken and Matt often reminds me that I seem to lack the natural, God-given fear that creates a healthy sense of self-preservation in most people.

Naturally, my reaction was to move some things and lean down to see the smoke better, because that is certainly what most people would do when faced with a sudden boat fire.

That’s when Joey shoved a life jacket in my hands, moved me to the back of the boat, and said, “Jump off. NOW.”

I jumped.

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I had been filming the boat dancing and realized that I still had the GoPro clutched in my sweaty hand.

The playback of the incident is funny. I’m not crying. I’m not panicking. I’m not screaming for help. The only sounds that can be heard on the audio are the sound of the water and me repeating over and over, to no one in particular, “I really hope the boat doesn’t blow up because my camera is still on it.”

Priorities, people.

Everyone, including Joey, was scattered about in the ocean watching the boat burn, hoping it wouldn’t explode.

Because, well, then my camera would blow up.

Obviously.

So, there we all were, drifting alone or in pairs on the current, slightly drunk, silently worrying about sharks, and wondering what the hell we were supposed to do now.

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As I drifted farther from the others, I started trying to remember all those “lost at sea” stories that I have heard on Good Morning America. What did they say to do? Float on your back? Swim? Do you punch a shark in the nose or in the gills? Did I remember to put on sunscreen?

If a Vietnamese fisherman can survive for 4 days, surely I could make it a half hour.

I silently cursed myself for not grabbing that bag of pretzels before I jumped off.

Luckily, one thing you can be sure of is that a motor yacht with plumes of black smoke pouring from it will quickly get the attention of other boats.

We had no need to be worried.

Embarrassed maybe, but not worried.

Some nice folks from Florida pulled us out of the water, one at a time. We looked a hot mess. Some of us were fully dressed, some had life jackets half on/half off, there was smeared mascara, someone only had on one shoe, we all smelled like diesel fuel, and there were more bruises. You’ d have thought we had just endured a capsize, not a simple jump into the water.

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Moonshine and boat fires don’t mix, y’all.

Once everyone was on the boat and Joey was sure the engines were not going to explode, those nice folks from Florida even helped us get all our stuff off the boat. Even my flip flops made it!

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And yes, the camera was fine. (I know you were secretly worried)

I can’t thank Steve, Helen, Victoria, and Matthew enough. They saved the day.

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With the fire out, Joey stayed with the Regal while we were boated over to Lubbers Landing where Blue Wave had another boat waiting to take us home.

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Blue Wave handled it like champs. Thankfully, it was just a funny story instead of a tragedy.

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Just in case you aren’t sure, here is where burning boats fit into the hierarchy of funniness:

7 - EXTREMELY FUNNY: A Chihuahua in a toupee.

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6 - REALLY FUNNY: Matt in the 80s.

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5 – FUNNY: Jumping off a burning boat into the ocean (provided everyone is safe).

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4 – STILL FUNNY: Hemmorhoids (if someone else has them)

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3 – LESS FUNNY: Hemmorhoids (if you have them)

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2 – I'M NOT SURE IF IT'S FUNNY: Adam Sandler

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1 – NOT FUNNY: Exploding boats.

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That should clear that up.

By the time we got back to Guana, everyone was tense. Our day had been cut short. Our stuff (and some of us) smelled like diesel fuel. We’d had to jump in the ocean in our clothes and they had dried stiff and salty. Some of us were only wearing one shoe.

We couldn’t let the day end like that.

We put the life back in the party by making a quick stop at Nippers and Kidd’s Cove to remind ourselves that it was a beautiful day, life was fun, and there were things to celebrate.

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Back at the house, we thanked the Lord for our safe return and took stock of the new injuries of the day.

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Earlier, at Kidd’s Cove, Matt had made us a reservation for dinner. The last time we’d been on island, Forrest wasn’t around and his dad had done all the cooking. Mind you, Edmond was a fine cook, but he only had one thing on the menu…..Mahi-Mahi in a bowl of black beans and rice. Both times.

I was looking forward to seeing what Forrest had to offer. I have been told Forrest is professionally trained and is an excellent chef. After the day we’d had, a really good meal was in order.

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They weren’t quite ready for us when we arrived, so we sat at their pop-up bar across the street and had some Jello shots.

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When we were finally seated, I was giddy with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to hear what my options were.

That’s when Edmond came out of the kitchen.

“I’m cooking tonight and I’ve got mahi-mahi with black beans and rice.”

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We're going to have to teach Edmond to make something else.

We ended the day with fireworks at Nippers because apparently we hadn’t had enough smoke and fire for one day.

Happy Birthday, America.

Day Four: Just Kill Me Already

I woke up exhausted.

This trip was killing me.

I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

And today was Nippers Sunday Funday.

Oh dear sweet Lord.

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We arrived early, before the crowd, to ensure our newbies had a front row seat to the action and to allow them the “full day experience,” which is really the best way to experience Nippers for the first time.

Sneaking in late in the afternoon just for the pinnacle of madness is not sufficient.

You need to be there early, when it’s calm and quiet. The music is playing, the breeze is blowing. You have a drink, lay by the pool, laugh with friends, have a little lunch. It’s beautiful and the atmosphere is chill and relaxed.

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While you are blissfully enjoying your mac n’ cheese, more and more bodies pour in, faster than a flu virus spreading on a playground. Before you know what has happened, Nippers is a bouncing mob of sweaty bodies, thumping music, and frozen drinks being spilled on your feet by strangers and you are right in the middle of it.

And you like it.

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I gave our newbies “Vicki’s Top 10 Tips for a Successful Nippers Sunday Funday:”

1) Get there early. Otherwise, you’re stuck at what I call the SPF 70 tables – the ones with absolutely NO SHADE. You will fry in less than 20 minutes and then you’ll have to go home and spend the rest of the afternoon bathing in aloe instead of having fun.

2) NEVER leave your keys in your golf cart. Not because someone will steal it. Don’t be crazy. This is the safest place on earth. Don’t do it because every rental golf cart looks exactly the same. Do you trust 400 drunk people to know exactly which one is theirs when the leave? I didn’t think so.

3) Don’t wear heels. Heels and a swimsuit? Heels at the beach? Heels in the sand? Why? Just WHY? Please, stop the madness.

4) Leave the trucker hats at home. I’m sorry, but I am so sick of the 20-somethings that show up in their matching trucker hats from their massive yacht and try to take over Nippers with their designer swimwear and Daddy’s AmEx card. Stay in Bakers Bay for gods sakes and leave Nippers to the 40-somethings that have nowhere else to lose their dignity without being judged by a bunch of entitled young people.

5) Eat the buffet. "ALL YOU CAN EAT MACARONI AND CHEESE." There’s really nothing else to say.

6) Have the Frozen Nipper. Sure, you can drink other things but this is why you are really here, isn’t it?

7) Don’t have more than 3 Frozen Nippers. You’ll thank me for this one later. If you ignore it, I can promise your boat/dock/deck/spouse will be covered in a moderate amount of bright red vomit later.

8) Never go to the bathroom in bare feet. This one needs no explanation.

9) Don’t get in the pool after 3:00 p.m. You just don’t know what might be in there.

10) Dance badly. No one cares. Most of them dance as badly as you do. This isn’t the place to worry that you might look silly. This is exactly the place to look silly.

It appears they took my advice.

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It seems the Nippers crowd always migrates to Grabbers late in the afternoon. It’s the place to fill your stomach with some heavy food, the place to slow down, the place to regain your composure.

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Or, in the case of our group, the place to enter a dance contest, try some hula hooping, and see how many more drinks you can consume before requiring a stomach pump.

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We added the new bruises to the “bruise of the day” list and called it a night.

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Day Five: It's Not Over Until It's Over

I jumped out of bed in a panic.

It was already 6:30 a.m.! I should have the cooler packed! We should be headed to the boat! I should be dressed already!!! Where were we supposed to be today????? Beach party? Nippers??? Fireworks????? Where was I? What day was it?

That’s when I remembered we had absolutely nothing planned for the day.

Sigh.

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It was our final day and it was blessedly agenda free.

Once everyone was up and about, we all agreed that our first destination would be the lagoon. The water was a little choppy on the sea and we thought this might offer a calm place to hang out on the boat for a while.

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It was perfect.

We did nothing more ambitious than sip on some bacon bloody marys and watch the clouds roll by.

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When we started to get hungry, it was time to make a decision. We narrowed it down to 2 options:

1) The weather was looking iffy, but it was gorgeous on Guana. It seemed like a good idea to swing by Guana grocery and get stuff for sandwiches and do nothing more than boat over to the north end beaches to relax.

2) Throw caution to the wind and head to Treasure Cay.

You’ve probably figured out by now that we have more guts than smarts.

The ride over was as beautiful as it always is. I am always mesmerized by the changing colors of the water as you get closer to Treasure Cay. It’s practically electric.

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As we neared the dock at Treasure Sands, the black clouds started to roll in. We watched the clouds gather ominously…promising a thunderstorm.

The bottom dropped out just as we made it inside.

I’d like to say we didn’t mind it so much. I’d like to be a big enough person to say we’d had our sun and our fun and a day of rain was just fine. But I am, in fact, a very small person and I wanted sunshine dammit.

I learned that no amount of sulking will make the rain stop.

We were stuck in the Treasure Sands club for HOURS.

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Oh well. If you are going to be stuck somewhere, at least get stuck somewhere with AWESOME FOOD.

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All of the food was fantastic, but it was the Crichton that won my heart.

THE CRICHTON: Vanilla ice cream, Espresso, Amaretto

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Listed with the “Adult Coffees” rather than the desserts, I expected a drink. Maybe like a grown up milkshake.

However, it was not a drink that showed up. It was this awesomeness.

Sure, that may just look like ice cream, but to dismiss this is JUST ice cream would be like saying van Gogh was JUST a guy with one ear. Comparing this to ice cream is like comparing Disney World to that time you took a creepy photo with an unlicensed character in Time Square that one time when you were drunk.

IT IS NOT THE SAME THING.

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I shoved it into my mouth with such unrestrained urgency that Matt gave me “that look.” You ladies know the one. The same look your husband gives you when you eat that 3rd piece of cake at the wedding or when you buy the dress that’s $435 because it’s ON SALE instead of the one that’s $49.95 or when you drink the champagne out of the bottle. Okay, maybe these are just me? Whatever. You know what I am saying.

I looked at him and said, “SHUT UP!” but I don’t think he understood what I was saying because my mouth was full of delicious ice cream-coffee-liquor awesomeness, but my passion was conveyed and that’s what matters.

With lunch over, there was nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

And wait.

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To add insult to injury, the roof was leaking everywhere. We may as well have been outside. We bundled up in towels and wished we were eating bologna sandwiches on Bakers Bay beach.

The storm finally slowed to a drizzle and we were able to leave.

So, our calm, quiet day hadn’t been so calm and quiet. It was par for the course. With this group, anything could happen.

We cleaned up and headed to Island Flavors for dinner. It was the only place that we hadn’t eaten at yet and they had MANGO SOFT SERVE!

MANGO SOFT SERVE!!!!

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And then, five days of madness were concluded with a simple fried grouper sandwich with a side of mac n’ cheese.

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Just like that, it was ov------

Wait.

It’s not over until it’s over.

And it wasn’t over.

Guana Cay had one more kick in the pants in store for us.

Apparently, one black eye, a sprained ankle, countless cuts and bruises, one boat fire, and one thunderstorm were not sufficient.

We also needed to run out of gas on our golf cart at 11:00 p.m. in the dark.

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Sweet heavenly Moses. I was never going to survive this trip.

Day Six: TGIFO (Thank God It's Finally Over)

Survive it, we did. We made it to the airport the next morning, a little banged up, a lot tired, and still smelling a little bit like diesel fuel, but we’d had a blast.

Now it was time to go home and lick our wounds.

Guana Cay: Don’t cry because it’s over. Cry because it happened.

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Until Next Time!!!!

Posted by vicki_h 10:00 Archived in Bahamas Tagged islands tropical bahamas nippers abaco elbow_cay guana_cay grabbers marsh_harbour lubbers_landing Comments (3)

Forty is the new F Word.

A friend's 40th in Key West

People can run around saying “40 is the new 20” and “I’m not 40, I’m 23 with 17 years of experience,” all they want. The truth is, turning 40 sucks giant donkey balls.

I know. It happened to me 5 years ago.

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You have to check a new demographic box every time you fill anything out.

Young adults literally start calling you “ma’am” overnight like there’s a stamp on your forehead that says, “I AM YOUR MOM’S AGE.” The cute boy that was flirting with you at the coffee shop? Yeah, he wasn’t. He called you ma'am as he handed you your change. There was no way he was flirting with you. You remind him of his mom.

You have to start getting mammograms.

Even the DMV takes a crack at you by ensuring that your driver’s license expires on your 40th birthday, forcing you to go get a new one with a picture where you suddenly age 5 years.

It can be uber depressing.

Unless you plan something fun.

Something that makes you look forward to turning 40. Something that gives you an opportunity to look 40 right in the eye and say, “BRING IT.”

My 40th birthday in the Bahamas made turning 40 one of the most fun things I ever did.

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When my friend Alison’s husband was trying to figure out what to do for her 40th birthday, I offered him 2 suggestions: 1) hire Stephen Tyler to serenade her with “Walk this Way” as Channing Tatum provides a personal lap dance or 2) do a destination birthday.

And that is how we ended up planning a surprise trip with her husband and 8 friends to Key West.

(Personally, I was hoping for Channing Tatum)

We spent 6 months planning and scheming….. quietly, carefully. Finally, the big day came. Alison was blindfolded and told she was being taken to see a car. Instead, all of us were waiting to surprise her.

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You have to be careful surprising an almost 40 year old woman like that. At our age, we could lose bladder control. Or spontaneously break a hip.

We expected screams. We expected fainting. We expected tears of joy. Instead, we heard, “You mean I’m not getting a car?”

(I told him he should have gone with Channing Tatum)

It was time to load everyone up in the Chieftan and head south.

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It was Key West or BUST, baby.

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Day One: Key West in June....Hotter Than Georgia Asphalt

My planning was impeccable. I had the perfect place to stay. Groceries and drinks were being delivered before we arrived. A beautiful cake and balloons had been ordered. An awesome itinerary had been planned. Every detail was accounted for.

Or so I thought.

I missed one tiny detail.

It’s really HOT in Key West in late June.

Like…really, REALLY hot.

I have had some hot vacation experiences. Like that time we thought it would be a good idea to go to Texas in the summer and eat tacos with hot sauce from a street vendor on the sidewalk. That was just before we caught on fire.

But Key West in late June? It was like walking through a furnace in a gasoline suit.

Even my fingernails were sweating.

There you are, innocently waiting in line to eat when it happens. One minute, you are smiling and enjoying a beautiful day. The next minute, you burst into flames.

It’s called Spontaneous Key West Line Combustion and it can really happen. It’s science, people.

And there is only one remedy: mimosas!

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We found them at Blue Heaven. We also found lobster & grits with toasted banana bread, BLT benedicts, and PIE.

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It was early in the day, and some of our group had never been to Key West, so we thought we'd do some walking around, maybe some shopping, and let everyone get a feel for Key West.

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Within 5 minutes, we said "Screw it." It was too hot to do much walking, so we only made it as far as the Rum Bar. Bahama Bob was behind the bar doing his thing.

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The group quickly became addicted to painkillers. We had to get them out of there after the 3rd round. We had been up since 4:00 a.m. and we didn’t want anyone passing out before we even got checked into the house.

Palm Gardens was PERFECT. Two, 2 story houses, each made up of 2 independent condominium units with a king bedroom, kitchen, den, bath, and porch. We had rented all 4 which gave us private access to the pool.

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Which was good, because no one else would have fit in that pool.

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We spent the afternoon cooling off before heading to Half Shell for happy hour. It was time for oysters!

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And shrimp.

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And drinks.

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And unfortunately shaped shadows.

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Having done the “booze cruise” with the Fury catamaran a couple of times, I had decided we needed something a little classier for the birthday girl. I didn’t want Alison’s pre-birthday filled with memories of overcooked chicken wings and cheap margaritas.

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I had booked us on the sunset sail with Floridays. It was a smaller boat, a more intimate crowd, and a more relaxed atmosphere.

It was an AWESOME boat. Service was impeccable. The boat was classy and refined. The mood was relaxed.

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But, as we sipped our champagne in the sunset, I couldn’t help but wish I had a couple of those greasy chicken wings.

You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can never take the trailer park out of the girl.

To prove that point, I forced tequila shots and tater tots on everyone after the sunset sail.

We had drinks at Agave 308. It’s dark. It’s classy. It’s filled with tequila. What’s not to like?

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Afterward, we stumbled over to Amigo’s. You can’t beat Amigo’s for late night eats.

The pork carnitas nachos were simply a thing of beauty. Not to be outdone by the amazing tater tots and street corn.

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And just to be certain that everyone barfed before they went to bed, we stopped at Better Than Sex for dessert.

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Then we all ate a handful of Tums and called it a night!

Day Two: Happy Birthday!

We’d had enough drinks the day before to give an aspirin a headache.

There is only one remedy for that: mimosas!

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What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. This especially applies to alcohol and fried foods, so we headed to Camille’s for a deliciously boozy breakfast.

Every time I walk into Camille’s, I feel like I am visiting 1984. From the orange sherbet walls and colorful vinyl tablecloths to the barbies and fornicating ceramic pigs to the Pet Shop Boys pumping out of the stereo, it screams "Hello, Vicki, this is your adolescence calling." However, despite how awesomely eclectic it is, one does not come to Camille’s for the décor, one comes for the breakfast.

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Matt went snazzy with the chorizo benedict and I went old school with a fried egg, grits, and Cuban toast.

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We had rented a deck boat for the day. Destination: Boca Grande, a small uninhabited island about 14 miles from Key West with a pretty nice little beach. Renting a boat was significantly cheaper than taking a boat out for a day with a captain, and it eliminated the embarrassment of acting like total idiots in front of a stranger. When we act like idiots, we prefer to do it in privacy.

We were armed with sandwiches and adult beverages. It was time to get our boat day on.

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It only took about 40 minutes to get to Boca Grande.

As we pulled up to the beach, I noticed a lot more seaweed than usual. It wasn’t quite a pretty as it usually was, but it still beat any beach on Key West.

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We poured up some beach drinks, found ourselves a shallow spot in the water, and made a day of it.

We proceeded to go through the 5 stages of beach drinking:

Stage 1: SUNSHINE AND HAPPINESS. This is the pre-drinking stage. Everyone is basking in the golden sunshine, cup in hand, marveling at how simply amazing it is to be right where they are.

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Stage 2: LET’S GET THIS PARTY STARTED. There is always that one person that gets a little louder sooner than everyone else. A little rowdier. A little OUT THERE. That person is usually me. This time, it was all 10 of us.

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Stage 3: DUDE, THIS IS AWESOME. This is the full-buzz stage. Everyone is having a killer time. Everything is the most fun thing EVER. Especially more drinks.

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Stage 4: HEY, Y’ALL…WATCH THIS. You have arrived. You are fully intoxicated and it seems really cool to do really dorky things. Like try to put your glass in your swimsuit and try to drink out of it. Or do synchronized swimming. This is the stage where you are most likely to get a black eye or lose a tooth.

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Stage 5: I LOVE YOU, MAN. We’ve all been there. This is the stage where you love everyone. They love you. These people are your BEST FRIENDS EVER. At least one person usually cries. Personal space ceases to exist as everyone talks too close, hugs too much, and generally climbs on top of each other like a bunch of puppies in a too small box. At least this is what happens when women drink.

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It is best to follow the “I love you, man” stage with food, lest you end up in the dreaded 6th stage of beach drinking: Puking like a kid who ate all of his Halloween candy in one sitting.

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We had an amazing lunch spread. We had it all: Champagne, coconut rum, and beer. Sodas. Chicken salad, tuna salad, and turkey and Swiss sandwiches. Chips and dip. Fresh Fruit. Cheese. Crackers.

Know what we didn’t have?

A knife.

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(I realize there is a "cut the cheese" joke just dying to come in here, but it's just not going to happen, folks)

And then, somewhere in the alcohol fueled haze of the beautiful afternoon….we ran out of alcohol. Just. Like. That.

It was probably a good thing. Otherwise, we’d probably still be sitting on that beach.

Time to go!

Back at the house, we had an AMAZING pina colada birthday cake from Key West Cakes. The cake was delicious, beautiful, and they had even delivered it to our fridge before we even arrived.

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Then it was time to head to Alison’s birthday dinner.

I was not about to let my girl spend her 40th birthday somewhere mundane like Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville eating a “cheeseburger in paradise” while sipping a watery cocktail and listening to “Fins.”

I wanted her big day to be exceptional and memorial. What better way to do that than with a dinner on the beach at a private island resort?

Ask anyone “Where is the best place to have a special occasion dinner in Key West?” and you will almost always get the same answer: Latitudes. Jet Set dining at its best, Latitudes is located on the private island resort of Sunset Cay, just a five minute ride on their private ferry from Key West.

As we pulled up to the dock, we knew we were in for a very special evening.

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And we were. It was called “Heat Stroke.” And it was very special.

I had made reservations in February so that I could secure a table in the sand about an hour before sunset, knowing that the restaurant was known for its unobstructed sunset view.

“It’s going to be really hot,” the girl on the phone warned me when I made the reservation. “It’s late June and you’ll have literally NO PROTECTION from the sun. It’s brutal.”

I looked outside my office window. It was snowing. I pictured a beautifully set table in the sand.

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“We’ll take the 7:00 reservation,” I said. What did she know? WE LOVE SUN. Sun is awesome. Sun is our friend. Too hot? Pfffffft. There’s no such thing as too hot.

I remembered that conversation as I sat sweating through my tank dress, gulping down a coconut martini as fast as my throat could swallow while silently apologizing to Mother Nature for making all those snide comments about global warming. Then I started sucking down Matt’s frozen bushwacker, promising God that I would purchase some solar panels and trade in my Land Rover for a hybrid as soon as I got home if he would just cool it down a few degrees.

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Heat be damned, we had an excellent dinner. Even though our faces were sliding off into our laps, the food and setting were hard to beat.

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The cool wedge salad was a perfect first course, with fresh Florida oranges and chilled melon topped with gorgonzola cheese and a papaya dressing.

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Matt had the seafood pasta: fresh tagliatelle pasta with Key West pink shrimp, lobster, and scallops tossed in a parmesan pesto cream sauce with heirloom tomatoes and roasted mushrooms.

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I couldn’t resist the honey and ancho chile crusted waygu beef skirt steak, primarily because it was topped with two big, fat onion rings (remember what I said about the trailer park?).

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Finished up with a mango martini, the dinner couldn’t have been better.

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Cooler, yes. Better, no.

We enjoyed the amazing sunset before catching the ferry back to Key West.

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Now that the sophisticated part of the evening was over, it was time to get the party started. In order to protect the guilty, I shall not divulge the intimate details, but there may have been lots of shots, dancing on tables, a couple of male dancers and a significant loss of one dollar bills, and we might have gotten thrown out of a bar by a guy that looked just like Vanilla Ice (but not before I told him how much I loved Ice, Ice, Baby….which he did not seem to think was as funny as I did)…..but I’m not confirming nor denying anything.

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Day 3: Wakey, Wakey, Eggs & Bakey

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We woke up s-l-o-w. I don't mean slowly. I mean slow. We were slow. We had no aggressive plans for the day so everyone slept in and got up at their own pace. It was a perfect morning to do nothing more than lay around in the air conditioning eating aspirin for breakfast.

Everyone finally roused around noon, so we thought we’d take everyone to the Southernmost Point for the “photo op” since some of our group had never been to Key West.

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We severely underestimated how heat can affect a hangover.

There are many who say that heat is a good remedy for a hangover. These people say you should “sweat it out” and get rid of the toxins in your body.

These people are stupid.

And are masochists.

We should not have tried to beat the heat. We needed to sit in the shade and drink a lot of Gatorade. And think about our life choices.

Instead, we were on bicycles, sweating it out on top of pavement that had to be at least 147 degrees. As we pedaled from our place on White Street toward Duval Street, there was absolutely no shade to be found. At the 4th traffic light we were forced to stop at, we started to die slowly.

It was so hot, my biggest bicycle wreck fear was, "What if I fall off my bike and cook to death on the pavement?"

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By the time we reached the Southernmost Point, we sent the strongest of our bunch in search of water while the rest of us lay limply on the sidewalk, begging for a quick and painless death. When Matt returned (did you really think it was anyone else?), we didn’t even bother to drink the water, but simply poured it over our heads. I think I saw steam.

And yes, we got the photo op. Unfortunately, Matt was buying water and I was taking the picture so I had to Photoshop us in. I don’t think you can tell.

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When we realized we were not, in fact, going to die, we made a mad dash to Deuce’s Off the Hook Grill for some lunch in the blessed air conditioning.

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This was a first time at Deuce’s and it was a WINNER. It instantly became everyone’s favorite, and not just because of the air conditioning.

Because of the amazing fish tacos and sweet potato tater tots.

SWEET POTATO TATER TOTS, y’all!

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The food at this small restaurant was outstanding.

Go here. Now.

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We were loath to leave the air conditioning, and the tater tots, but I don’t think Deuce’s was willing to let us stay for the next 7 hours, so we had to pedal on out of there.

It was just too hot for shopping, and no one had seen the beach at Key West, so we took them to Fort Zachary, thinking we might be able to dip in the refreshing water.

Unfortunately, the refreshing water was filled with seaweed and smelled like farts.

So we sat in the shade and ate giant pickles and popsicles instead. Have you ever noticed how many penis shaped foods there are in Key West? I’m just making a point, here, people. Just making a point.

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There was nothing left to do but spend the afternoon in our pool. Even though the pool was heated, it was the coolest we’d been all day.

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Seriously….who heats a pool in Key West in the summer??????!!!!!

It was our last day, so heat or no, we were going to make the most of it. We decided to do a Happy Hour crawl for dinner, starting with oysters and margaritas at Pepe’s.

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Then, it was on to Kelly’s for wings, nachos, and more margaritas (and maybe some nachos and fish dip).

I have a tidbit of advice for Kelly's: Maybe if you let people sit OUTSIDE in your pretty courtyard during happy hour instead of making them sit INSIDE....your pretty courtyard wouldn't be TOTALLY EMPTY.

Just a thought.

Especially considering the courtyard was the only really good thing at Kellys.

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Then we did a little Duval Street Strolling. It was finally cool enough to shop!

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The final stop was at the Little Room Jazz Bar for what was supposed to be one drink. You know, since we were flying out in the morning.

One drink did not happen.

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As a dog returns to its vomit…….

Some of us never learn.

Home again, Home again!

We filled ourselves with doughnuts and bacon before heading home.

I learned that a “side of bacon” at Sandy’s means “a pound of bacon.” It was a thing of beauty.

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It had been a whirlwind, but it had been fabulous. It had been hot, but it had been fun. It had been exhausting, but it had been worth every second.

There was nothing left to do but put the inflatable margarita in the trash and fly home.

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What's next? Why, getting stranded naked in Abaco, that's what!

Posted by vicki_h 12:39 Archived in USA Tagged key_west florida_keys duval_street conch_republic Comments (4)

It's official: I am boring.

ANOTHER trip to Guana Cay.

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It’s official: I am boring.

I knew this would happen eventually. In fact, I saw a list online (which means it must be TRUE) titled, “How to know if you are boring.” Number 4 on that list? “Boring people always do the same thing.”

I went to Guana Cay again.

So, I am definitely boring.

In fact, you’ll probably fall asleep before you finish reading this.

What can I say? I LOVE IT THERE.

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I promise, there will be some more exciting destinations coming up in the fall and spring, but for now, please indulge my dreary, mind-numbing, repetitive vacation obsession with this little island.

This trip was short and sweet. It was also completely unplanned. That’s the beauty of going back to a place again and again – you really don’t need to do much more than throw a swimsuit and some flip flops in a bag and head down.

That’s pretty much what we did.

With less than a week’s notice, we decided to head down to Guana Cay for Memorial Day weekend.

You see, I was on a mission.

I was looking at houses, folks.

Yes, I know all of the reasons NOT to buy a vacation home.

First, there’s simply the fact that it costs a lot of money. Money that I could spend on other important things, like food and health insurance. Or lots of shoes.

Then, there are all of the unnecessary headaches. Maintenance, repairs, supplies. No longer is my vacation a carefree experience but it will involve things like buying toilet paper and fixing door hinges. Not to mention rusting appliances, mildew, bugs, and lizard control.

And what about the loss of the “freedom to travel?” I mean, having a house somewhere will make me feel OBLIGATED to vacation there, won’t it? Can I really enjoy myself in a mountain cabin when I know that I am paying exactly $2.74 per minute for a house that is sitting empty on an island somewhere?

Not to mention the feelings of extreme guilt and regret.

Every time I see a homeless person on my way home, I’ll have to think about the fact that I have TWO houses and they are sleeping in a tarp.

I also know that every time I look at my mom I am going to know she’s wondering why I didn’t spend that money on something more worthwhile.
Like a kid.

And let’s be frank, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, we all know that I am going to be sorry I didn’t use that money to buy machine guns, gold, and dehydrated foods and bury them in the back yard.

Sure, I know all these reasons. I know a vacation home is a poor investment. I know it is a headache. I know I could rent a house 10x nicer for way less than the cost of ownership.

But I went and looked at houses anyway.

I mean, it’s Guana Cay. Boring or not, I love it.

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Day One:

We headed down on a Friday afternoon. This was the first time we hadn’t left in the wee hours of the morning, in time to make the first ferry of the day at 10:30 a.m. Instead, we barely squeaked onto the last ferry at 5:45 p.m.

But not without a Bahama Mama from Curly Tails!

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We made it to Grabbers just in time for sunset.

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Then, we dumped the dogs off so that we could go eat dinner without 4 beady little eyes boring a hole into our very souls with their pathetic looks.

Instead, we drove away on our golf cart with 4 beady little eyes boring a hole into our very souls with their pathetic looks. Unfortunately for them, the soul-penetrating pathos they were beaming at us failed to make us realize how selfish we were being by wanting to go get food without them instead of recognizing their emotional agony.

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We went to dinner.

We decided to try Kidd’s Cove, a simple bar with a few inside tables. I had noticed their chalk board menu on our previous trip and everything sounded pretty good. It’s run by born and bred Guana Cay residents Forrest and Edmond Pinder, a father and son duo who cook up some mean mahi-mahi and also run a charter fishing business by day.

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Forrest wasn’t on island, but his dad was running the show in the kitchen in his absence.

The bad news was that Edmond was only cooking one thing that night: Drunken Mahi-Mahi.

The good news was that he was a pretty good cook!

While we waited, we ordered the house drink, "the mosquito." They also brought us out some of their sushi to try.

Sushi?

On Guana Cay?

Sure, this was the equivalent of getting a Chicago deep dish pizza in Mud Lake, Idaho, but it was free. Why not?

You know, it was pretty good.

I mean, they do catch their own fish……

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We all had the drunken mahi-mahi – tender fish stewed in a bowl of black beans, tomatoes, rice, and topped with a scoop of homemade potato salad.

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It was FANTASTIC.

Day Two:

So far, this trip had not followed the “rules of Vicki’s Guana Cay vacation.” We flew down in the late afternoon. We didn’t eat our customary first dinner at Grabbers. We ate SUSHI at a bar, for goodness sakes.

This trip had been the Bizarro version of the Guana Cay experience.

So, it came as no surprise that I didn’t wake up in time to see the sunrise.

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Bella didn’t mind.

It was Saturday and the weather was glorious, so we decided it would be a perfect day to take the boat all the way down to Little Harbour and visit Pete’s Pub.

This required a stop at Pelican Cay for beach drinks.

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Then it was on to Pete’s for lunch.

Thankfully, there was no live band and we knew exactly what the Blaster would do, so we had a nice, peaceful, relaxing, quiet, non-dancing, non-drunken lunch.

I told you this was the Bizarro trip, didn’t I?

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This gets my vote for “Worst Car Choice Ever.”

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And we’ll just call these “Boats I’ll Never Own.”

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On the way back, we made a stop at Lubbers Landing to see Austin and Amy. Guess who else we got to meet? Tiki Tim!

Yep. He’s a real person.

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If you don’t know, Tiki Tim provides a daily weather update on the Lubbers Landing Facebook page. You should check it out. Nothing says, "crazy" better than incessantly checking the weather for a place you don't actually live.

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Then it was back to Guana for a Grabbers sunset and some ribs with the dogs in tow.

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It was a quiet end to a calm and uneventful day.

Bizarro, no?

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Day Three:

The upside to spending the previous day like geriatric patients at a nursing home and being in bed before dark was that I was able to make it up in time for sunrise.

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We took a quick boat ride over to shell island where the dogs insisted on following me all the way around, forcing me to spend an inordinate amount of time shooing them away from dead things and old seaweed.

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After collecting some shells, we boated to the other end of Guana to take a second try at the Scotland Cay lagoon. We wanted to see if we could manage NOT to get stuck in the sand.

SUCCESS!

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Even Rooby, aka Cool Breeze, thought it was pretty awesome.

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In keeping with our Bizarro trip, we went to Nippers Sunday Fun Day and did nothing but watch. No nippers. No mac n’cheese. No dancing. No toilet paper on the head.

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Normally, THIS would be our golf cart. Not this time.

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Seriously? This was getting weird.

We grabbed a pizza and wings at Grabbers and called it a day.

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There was all kinds of dancing and mahem going on, but we just sat back and watched. Maybe we are getting old.

We had enjoyed Kidd’s Cove so much the first night, we went back for a late Sunday dinner. This time, there were TWO choices: Drunken Mahi or a Mahi plate.

After I got the mahi plate, I figured out it was the exact same thing as the Drunken Mahi, only it was all separated on a plate instead of in a bowl.

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That Edmond is very clever.

Day Four:

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Before we knew it, we were headed home. The trip came and went pretty quickly, but we accomplished what we had come to do. We looked at 4 houses and satisfied the ever-nagging question: Do we want to buy a house on Guana?

You’ll have to stay tuned for the answer.

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Posted by vicki_h 08:16 Archived in Bahamas Tagged islands tropical bahamas nippers abaco elbow_cay guana_cay grabbers marsh_harbour lubbers_landing Comments (6)

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