A lovely little island

SANDYGROUNDVILLAGE, Anguilla — Travel agents are perfectly nice people. I truly believe they have our best interests at heart when we plop down in a chair before them, veins bulging in our foreheads, and say, “I need a vacation. You know what I mean? I need to go away now or someone is going to get hurt.”

Sometimes it takes a little explaining to get a destination that really suits your needs.

“How about three days and nights at the Slumber Inn in Hershey — that comes with half-off passes to Chocolates on Ice and free tickets for the Tilt-A-Barf ride?”

Maybe I wasn’t clear. “I need to go somewhere to relax.”

“Oh. I have a great special on five days and four nights at Epcot with complimentary Continental doughnuts and fruit-flavored breakfast drink along with free passes for four to Orlando’s Famous Pets in Wax Museum.”

Remember, sometimes getting what you want means listing for the agent what you don’t want.

If you are one of the silent majority convinced that cheap airfare to Orlando is a deal akin to a cut-rate ferry across the River Styx, speak up.

“Look, I am one of the long-suffering who believe that the fifth level of Purgatory is filled with screaming children and their parents waiting in line in 100-degree heat and 99 percent humidity to sit in a teacup while robotic, lederhosen-clad devil-spawn sing: ‘It’s a ride in air-conditioning, after all. … It’s a ride in air-conditioning, after all. It’s a short ride with a long line.’

“I want no lines of screaming brats and no male-pattern-baldness yahoos on vacation from riding around in their Hummer by riding around in the surf on a 5-million-decibel Viagramobile. I want great beaches, great food, a great spa, and peace. And quiet.”

“Ohhhhhh. I’ve got just the place. Anguilla. It’s in the British West Indies. Somewhat undiscovered, no big airport, the resorts are small with decadent amenities and lots of quiet.”

Like I said, nice, helpful people, these travel agents. Sometimes slow on the uptake. An-GWILL-a. Even the name sounds quiet.

Visions of Corona commercials danced in my head. This was, indeed, the place for me.

It is not often that you come back from vacation with a story of a little old Anguillan woman you have never met who tries to kill you on the first day of your vacation. Manslaughter would be closer — in an extrapolated synchronistic kind of way.

The word around Anguilla’s 35 square miles is that this lady has held up the lengthening of the runway at the island’s Wallblake Airport by refusing to sell her house and land and just being a royal pain in the tarmac.

It is also said that American Eagle, which flies to Anguilla from San Juan, Puerto Rico, has quite the burr under its wing flaps because the Anguillans haven’t just gotten on with it and bulldozed the old woman into the Caribbean. A small price so they can land larger airplanes, cut the number of flights and save fuel.

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