By Vicki Wheaton

Copyright caymancompass

Lynne, her niece Sharon and I are presently on our combined birthday trip cruise, sailing the briny seas of the Caribbean.

There were thunderstorms when we flew into Miami a week ago – always lovely for turbulence – and then sat on the plane until the lightning abated.

Here’s news, hot off the press! Heinous Concourse F, where Cayman Airways docks, is finally looking a bit updated. Maybe because Spirit Airlines demanded that the nightclub-at-3am carpet be replaced, and the people movers be fixed so they can actually move people.

My friends, there are tiles, the movers are moving, and we got to go to the closer immigration counters. Talk about a birthday gift! No one operating the golf carts, but 3-outta-4 was great.

While in Miami, we did the usual bits of shopping, plus we went to IKEA. I wanted to see some shelving in person that I was considering ordering. I was all excited because it’s been years since I’ve entered the halls of the blue and gold.

Welp, it wasn’t exactly all we’d dreamed.

We went to the restaurant and they were out of a lot of stuff. I ended up with the classic Swedish fare of chicken tenders and fries. The soda machine was broken. I was really thirsty, so I had to buy four juice boxes, each the size of a swollen thumb. By the way, you try to pierce the hole in one of those things with a cardboard straw. RÜBISH.

Lynne could only find spoons like soup ladles for her cappuccino. Cue the Four Horsemen.

The different sections of the showroom were ghost towns – no staff anywhere. Then, halfway through the maze, my gourmet lunch started making its presence known.

All the signage implied a straight shot to the toilets, but IRL it was one corner and throw cushion after the next.

I finally found an associate and asked for the shortest route to the bathrooms.

My hand to God, she sent me to the bathrooms showroom. I was in IKEA hell. Every path, every arrow, every sign took us through lighting, bedding, furniture, closet solutions …
Mercifully, I made it to the facilities in time. After that, we headed immediately to the parking lot, ready to drive back to the hotel in rush hour traffic and insane rain.

Giving up on furniture stores for a while, we turned to the TJ Maxxs and Macy’s of this world. Of course, we had to visit Dadeland Mall. Any Caymanians know that you cannot be in Miami and not have Dadeland on your schedule.

I remember when it was smaller and less fancy, but that’s all changed. It’s pretty upscale these days, and I choose to valet rather than drive around for 15 minutes looking for parking that isn’t US-1 adjacent.

Here’s some advice: Don’t chow down on dishes from the Pei Wei Asian Express buffet in the food court before trying on clothes.

I don’t know what batter they use on those shrimp, but the plastic fork tines straddled it like a rider on a horse. They couldn’t pierce the crispy, fried shell. I should have taken the lack of customers lining up as a sign. Meanwhile, Chick-fil-A’s staff were having to move their queue barriers to accommodate the number of people waiting to order.

There wasn’t anything I really needed in Macy’s, but a pink, flowery, fluffy dress I had tried on a number of months ago was deeply discounted. I took it to the fitting room and gave it a go. No … I still wasn’t sure. The fact that it was cheaper had not endeared it to me further. And now, despite reaching, stretching and grunting, I couldn’t get the zip back down. A really lovely sales associate helped me out, and then proceeded to say that the gown looked beautiful on me. She went into ecstasies over the vision before her, and she seemed like an honest, God-fearing woman.

I didn’t necessarily agree, but how many times have I been told to stop wearing so much black, and I look stunning in colour etc. …? Should I step outside my comfort zone? Besides, I began to feel like I’d be letting her down if I didn’t purchase it, and it wasn’t terribly expensive. So, I bought it.

When we got back to the hotel, I put it on to show Lynne and Sharon. Sharon was complimentary, but Lynne was doubtful. I also couldn’t ignore the fact that I bore a remarkable resemblance to any overweight southern belle relaxing on the front porch of her family’s Savannah, Georgia home, offering Colonel Biggins an ice-cold glass of lemonade. Lord – I was Aunt Pittypat.

I don’t think it was even fittin’ to wear such a dress without donning a large hat, and with a head like a melon, that was going to be a tall order. So much for barbecue at Tara.

When in Miami, we always go to one of our favourite restaurants – Uchi.
The one-way street upon which it resides is a bit hairy on a Saturday night, what with Ubers elbowing for position and valet staff parallel parking customers’ muy expensive Bentleys, Range Rovers and Teslas. Getting out of our car was a dicey business, but we made it into the venue in one piece.

It was an amazing meal, as ever. In fact, it was a meal and a show, as a man easily old enough to be her father/grandfather nuzzled, snogged and slobbered all over his girlfriend for a good two hours in the corner near our table. It was particularly fun hearing him chatting to her about Charles Manson, and when she said, “Who?”, he replied, “You know, the serial killer in the ‘70s.” As she was maybe 22, her blank stare was somewhat warranted.

The three of us dressed up for the night. In order to justify the purchase of a blusher/glower set I bought in TJ Maxx the day before, I applied it to my face as I got ready.

“Use the wand to apply the blush along your cheekbones …” Somebody get me Google Maps.

“ … then blend until desired colour is achieved.” Yada, yada, yada … despite toning it way down from the original, shocking shade of deep pink, I still ended up looking like a Harajuku girl.

On the plus side, Uchi was a Japanese restaurant, so …

If anyone read my previous column about our plans to swim with the pigs in the Bahamas, let me bring you down gently: I ended up cancelling the booking. Firstly, this was not the original experience found in Exuma; and secondly, after seeing the pictures and reading the reviews, I realised what a created interaction this was. People had to line up to swim with them, and only get slices of apple from the staff member, and the pigs weren’t toilet-trained (imagine!). You weren’t allowed to bring your own phone to take pics and video, you had to pay for such things. I hated the whole idea.

I figured when we get back to Cayman, I’ll visit one of the farmers and see if I can lie down somewhere relatively clean and commune with porkers that way.

A girl can dream.