As we disembarked evidence of rain and low misting clouds greeted us. Just a party of two was heading out to see the island, my Pops wanted to stay aboard to rest, and my wife wanted to take the time to get a solitary soak in the spa. It was my first time here, but my Ma was telling me how unnerving it was when she stopped by with my grandparents about 20 years ago. There were lots of menacing faces with little hope and even less to lose. 

After making our way through the barrage of touristy knick knacks and t-shirt stands that was the port, we found our way across a street that ran along the water front. The cute and quaint buildings that we walked by looked nothing like the worn and weathered ones described earlier. As we wandered on, she told me how stark the difference was as evidenced by the fresh paint and well tended side walks.  

The mist became rain as we approached an exquisite old church, so we ducked in to not get soaked and look around. There was some sort of a service going on with quite a few people milling about the entrance, and it was unclear who were parishioners and who were imposters, like us. My mother was noticing some signs and letters from the founders that were hung up, while I appreciated the gorgeous wood work and architecture of this heavenly womb we were in. 

Seemingly all at once everyone noticed the rain stopped and the imposters separated themselves by heading out. We noticed an open bench in the square across the street from the church, so we sat and chatted while watching mothers with strollers smiling at their babies, friends embracing and laughing together, and a man juggling three little blue balls for spare change. The square was blooming with life that we quietly appreciated together, while I handed her some water. 

Feeling rested and refreshed, and wanting to see what else the marvelous island of Martinique had to show us, we left the celebration of life that was the square and sauntered on. As the sidewalk narrowed, I drew her closer and gently held her forearm, while people and cars sloshed and scurried around us. We slowly made our way passed freshly maintained facades while laughing at old stories of my grandfather’s ridiculously long arm hair, and how grandma is probably organizing the angels. 

The buildings gave way to a park with large trees and a grand walk way. We had to find cover as the gathering mist once again developed into steady drops. Hoods up and huddled together, we watched the massive trees and tropical plants sway in the storm and take a drink.  

When it dried up we ventured out through the park and found a lovely path lined with benches back along the waterfront. The tropical sun was fighting its way through the thinning clouds and an over cast morning was gradually becoming another bright and beaming day in the Caribbean. We both immediately scampered over and took a peak at the water, noting both the beautiful blue, and abundance of fish. Bumping along we only stopped to look at new species swimming by, or my mama holding herself while erupting in laughter and pleading with me to quit it, or else. 

As we approached the madness of the port, we paused under a tree that was now providing much needed shade, and enjoyed one last quiet moment. I passed over what was left of the water, and wondered if my mom and her parents stopped here as well, all those years ago.