Day 8 ~ Grenada
Saturday, April 30
We have reached the Spice Island, and the air is full of . . . allergens. I greet the dawn with a migraine and a sneezing fit, which gives us an excuse for our standard late start to the day. We manage to get out of the cabin at 11:27 and work our way toward St. George’s.
But first, we must navigate the maze of mall standing between us and the island. (The mall’s main selling point, as near as we can tell, is free wi-fi; the hallway is littered with cruise-ship escapees hunched over their laptops). Apparently, the tourism bureaus on every island have decreed that no one shall enter the country without first plowing through at least a dozen duty-free shops offering rum, shells and flip-flops in the traditional colors of yellow, green and red. We even spot an appropriately painted tour bus on our way to the abandoned fort (1706? 1915?) at the top of a hill.
It’s a steamy climb, and when we make a wrong turn, we are intercepted by an upstanding member of the Department of Tourism’s security staff. We’re at the back gate, he tells us, and entering through the front gate will cost us $4. But if we want to come in this way for a small fee, well . . . . Law-abiding citizens that we are, we press on to the top of the hill, where we pay the $4 and find some half-burned buildings and a handful of cannons bearing the seal of George V. We also get a good view of a Presbyterian Church, which also looks a bit charred. Perhaps the church elders failed to provide a suitable bribe to the fire department.
We have reached the Spice Island, and the air is full of . . . allergens. I greet the dawn with a migraine and a sneezing fit, which gives us an excuse for our standard late start to the day. We manage to get out of the cabin at 11:27 and work our way toward St. George’s.
But first, we must navigate the maze of mall standing between us and the island. (The mall’s main selling point, as near as we can tell, is free wi-fi; the hallway is littered with cruise-ship escapees hunched over their laptops). Apparently, the tourism bureaus on every island have decreed that no one shall enter the country without first plowing through at least a dozen duty-free shops offering rum, shells and flip-flops in the traditional colors of yellow, green and red. We even spot an appropriately painted tour bus on our way to the abandoned fort (1706? 1915?) at the top of a hill.
It’s a steamy climb, and when we make a wrong turn, we are intercepted by an upstanding member of the Department of Tourism’s security staff. We’re at the back gate, he tells us, and entering through the front gate will cost us $4. But if we want to come in this way for a small fee, well . . . . Law-abiding citizens that we are, we press on to the top of the hill, where we pay the $4 and find some half-burned buildings and a handful of cannons bearing the seal of George V. We also get a good view of a Presbyterian Church, which also looks a bit charred. Perhaps the church elders failed to provide a suitable bribe to the fire department.
The island gained independence in 1974, but seems to have had a rocky launch, not the least being that 1983 dust-up involving assorted Americans who couldn’t get into a real medical school. The post holding up a basketball hoop in the middle of the fort still bears what we are told are bullet holes from a battle.
We visit the national museum, which is stifling hot but interesting in a haphazard sort of way. (No less of a hodgepodge than the Heritage Museum during the Frank era.) Among the treasures: a bathtub and serving dish allegedly owned by Josephine before she married Napoleon. Not to mention a water filtration system that is essentially a big chunk of limestone - ideal for the Water Guy on holiday. The spice market is less impressive than we had expected (and intimidating for those of us who don’t deal well with high-pressure sales tactics) but Snookie manages to sneak a few pictures using the shoot-from-the-waist tactic he honed at the Portrait Gallery in London.
It’s hot and reasonably clear, so we spend the rest of the day napping and reading at the pool. But we spot a rainbow as we sail away from Granada. So much for the dry season.
In honor of formal night, the ship hauls out the show band for after-dinner dancing, and the first set is essentially our dance-rehearsal play list: “Moon River,” “In the Mood” (which Snookie identifies in only two notes before twirling through his 360-degree turn) and even that annoying “Cherry Blossom” rumba. It’s more work than dancing alone in the garage, but considerably more fun, and we manage to stay on our feet until almost midnight.
In honor of formal night, the ship hauls out the show band for after-dinner dancing, and the first set is essentially our dance-rehearsal play list: “Moon River,” “In the Mood” (which Snookie identifies in only two notes before twirling through his 360-degree turn) and even that annoying “Cherry Blossom” rumba. It’s more work than dancing alone in the garage, but considerably more fun, and we manage to stay on our feet until almost midnight.