Let It Rain, Let it Rain
Sunday, September 6, 2009 - Gene Bromberg
Unlike many Caribbean islands Aruba has an arid climate–you see cacti as well as palm trees. Hurricanes almost always give Aruba a miss, and it doesn’t rain too often. That’s one of the reasons why its one of the world’s great vacation getaways, you know that 95% of the time the weather is going to be close to perfect. Temps in the low nineties, blue skies, cool ocean breezes.
That said, even Aruba sees the occasional sprinkle. And perhaps that’s a good thing, because even perfection can become monotonous over time. Back in 2007 I was covering the late stages of the tournament when some big BOOMS could be heard through the Radisson’s thick walls. They were really loud and came with some regularity and I remembered that there was going to be a wedding and reception on the beach that night. “Must be fireworks,” I thought as I returned to my task.
Uh, no–the booms were indeed thunder, as a massive storm passed over the island while I sat inside blissfully unawares. When the dinner break came I went outside to find everything was soaking wet, especially the air–the humidity was probably around 170%. Occasionally the sky lit up with lightning flashes but the thunder was a long time coming, as the storm had moved off. But it was still over the island, and after some deduction I figured out that the boomers were still over Oranjestad, and I raced up the stairs outside my building to find a perch to take some pics. I raced up six flights, aimed my camera, and waited. And waited. And waited. I was sweating after climbing the stairs and what with the humidity I REALLY started to sweat, soaking through my shirt as I waited to get one semi-decent shot I could throw on the blog. I waited until dehydration almost overtook me when I got this one:
Even after that system passed we still got the occasional spot of rain. I think it even sprinkled a bit during Phil’s VIP party that year…though to be honest I’m not the best person to ask about what went on that evening. After a hard day’s work I went to the party intending on having a few Balashi’s, a bite to eat, and then back to my room for a good night’s sleep before the final table. It didn’t turn out that way. It d,idn’t turn out that way because I was unfortunate enough to run into Debo, who asked if I wanted to try a new drink they’d just invented called, interestingly enough, the Debo. Watermelon liqueur, Grey Goose, and a dash of Sprite. Well, when in Aruba…
It was bright, perky, refreshing, especially in the heat. I should say that I’m normally not a vodka drinker, usually I stick with the beers and the cabernets. But damn, that Debo was one tasty drink. And it went down EASY. So I had another one…because, like, EVERYONE had one in his/her hand. And that one went down even easier. I wandered over to the bar and the gentleman manning the controls said, “Another Debo?”. Yes please!
I ended up having like NINE of them, ending up in a state like I like to call “nicely drunk”. I was in love with the world and every single one of its inhabitants…I just wasn’t able to articulate those sentiments coherently in the English language. When the party broke up in the wee hours I remember–vaguely–going to the casino to lose a quick twenty playing video poker. I bobbed and weaved my way back to my room, a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.
When I woke up the next morning, however, the tune had changed a bit. To a funeral dirge.
“Uh oh,” I said when I peeled my eyes open. I felt bad. Awful. Really awful. Epically awful. I threw off the covers and stood up. And that was Bad. Here I’ll lower the curtain for a moment to let you, dear reader, fill in the blanks about what happened next. You’ve been in that spot before. You know. You don’t need it spelled out.
I had to get it together, and fast. The alarm clock on the dresser read 11:30. The final table started at high noon. I got myself in the shower in the hopes that hot water, mixed with Advil, would carry the day. After I toweled off and dressed I felt about 2% better, which meant that at least I wasn’t openly weeping. I shouldered my gear and headed out to the final table stage.
It was hot, and humid, and I desperately tried to figure out how on Earth I would survive the day. I walked over the bridge spanning the pool and as I looked down into it’s shifting blue waters I felt a queasiness rising. I gritted my teeth and muttered, “Oh Gawd, Geno, don’t yack in the Radisson pool!!” I was so focused on keeping it together that I didn’t notice that the final table stage wasn’t quite ready for liftoff.
I found someone of authority walking around and asked what was up. “It rained last night, hard,” he said. The stage had suffered some slight damage and there would be a delay before we started.
“How long a delay?” I asked.
“We’ll be ready around three or so.”
Three hours. Three golden, magical hours to let my self-inflicted wounds heal. I thanked the bearer of this good news and re-crossed the pool bridge with a huge smile on my face. Of course, I wasn’t really in a physical state yet for smiling and my stomach left off a threatening “HHUURRRRRBBBBLLGLLLHHHH!!” before I gathered myself enough to continue on my merry way.
I needed two things–food, and rest. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries from room service and lay across the bed like a corpse. The food came, I tipped the waiter lavishly, and wolfed down as much grease as my rebellious stomach would allow. Two hours of dreamless sleep followed and when I woke I felt like a human being again. A hungover and hurting human being, but one up to performing simple tasks without causing a scene. So while some may curse the rain, I say that into every life some rain must fall. Even in Aruba. And especially when the Debos are flowing.
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