St George's on a sunny day *Photo by James Burton
St George's on a sunny day *Photo by James Burton

During my previous visit to St George’s, I had a ‘how’s your life’ moment.

You know the kind — when you’re the last to leave the office at 10pm on a Friday; when even the pretty girl’s mate says no; when you’re at the checkout with only a microwave meal and a bottle of wine.

And for the guys shaking their heads thinking ‘nope, never been there’, you’re deluded — or George Clooney.

Anyway, not long on the island, I took in my first scooter ride up to the Old Town where I saw… very little. Unimpressed I turned for home. And that’s when the rain came.

Like Tiger Woods at a blonde Hooters convention, I didn’t know which way to go first. Drenched in jeans and T-shirt, visibility was about two yards. I was caught totally unprepared.

So there I was, standing by my Honda like a lemon, dripping wet, not a fellow human in sight, feeling the exact opposite to how Andy Dufresne must have when he emerged from that sewage pipe in Shawshank.

My words — to myself, obviously — went something like: “What the **** am I doing here? How’s your ******* life.” (Important note: it’s a statement, not a question.)

However, at the weekend, redemption arrived. St George’s was charm personified — there was a faint hint of bustle about the place and luxury yachts cruised in and out of the harbour. It was picture perfect, beers were sunk, sun replaced rain and the as-yet-unexplored world of St David’s looked like some mystical, inviting commune across the water.

St George’s had unveiled itself, and it was genuinely rather wonderful.

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I’ve noticed a trend in Bermuda.

The hotter the day, the longer people chat to the car next to them — while driving.

Traffic lights go red: *silence*

Traffic lights go green: *windows wound down, both cars start moving*

“Oh heeeey, how you doing?”

“Surviving, you knoooow.”

“You heard bout Gina?”

“Oh yeaaaah, that’s crazy….”

*conversation continues, while old man is narrowly avoided, and a guy in a scooter is fist bumped (by both drivers)*

“Anyway, send my love to Deshawn…”

“Later…”

*conversation ends at the exact second the two lanes separate in different directions*

A perfect chat-to-road-length correlation. I’m in awe.