Give me a sign.

Signage. Sign of the times. Sign offs. Sign ups. Sign in. On this island, which is the same size as Manhattan, signs are very important. However, they are are also rare, frequently absent and generally unreliable. Yet, when they do appear they can be very entertaining. In the middle of Cruz Bay, otherwise known as Town, there is a fairly large traffic circle—the intersection of 5 roads—with a flat vacant center except for one sign. The sign reads "0 Mile." In public restrooms at restaurants and other retail establishments there are discrete signs above the toilets informing the unknowing tourists "We must conserve water on St. John. Do not flush after number one." Thankfully, in this place where auto traffic laws are left overs from the British era, there are occasional signs along the island's only 3 roadways warning, "Keep Left." Some streets do not have street signs and addresses are vary rare—the phone book simply provides the "Estate" or region of the island in which a home or business is located. To say we have sat in our jeep, Butch, at times wondering where we are or how to get where we're going is a gross understatement. We have been frustrated. Angry. Mystified. Dumbfounded. So, last weekend when we decided to visit Lambshur beach, located at the very opposite end of the island's main road, Centerline Drive, we found the signage along the way to be the island's very best. Not because it was informative, convenient or effective, but because it was so very St. John. And considering it was on the Coral Bay side of the island—thought by some to be an enclave of aging, anti-establishment hippies—we weren't surprised and even applauded their humor.  As I write this post and relive traveling the curving, bumpy road and taking in the beautiful scenery, I'm inspired to modify a few signs myself: Onion Dip, Take a Dip, or perhaps Dip *#%^!

It be about water and sky, again.

So I've been working on de painting ting again. And here are a couple of results that are headed into the art gallery. Since the sky is absolutely amazing down here, I've made a point of using it. And, of course, there are sailboats in each.

Jim and I were very lucky this week when we were invited to go sailing with our friends Captain Greg and his wife Barbara. They are the folks we went sailing with on my birthday. But this time we were their guests! We have made some wonderful friends here already and I'm sure there will be more to come. Can't wait to return next winter.

This coming week we start to pack for the trip home. We rented a storage locker to stuff with items we want to leave on island. Like books and snorkel gear. We are eating up the last of our food. I need to go on a major diet. The island has been great for everything but my waistline. Time to let out those pants! Whatever.

Buried Treasure

Within walking distance of our lovely home, Villa Rebar, is Reef Bay. A beautiful arc that we estimate to be one mile across. All the land from the ocean to the mountain tops and beyond is part of St. John National Park, a gift of Laurence Rockefeller that covers two thirds of the island. The beach is one of our favorite places to go. It fronts the Atlantic so the surf is larger than the fine sandy beaches on the Caribbean Sea side of the island. However, the real reason we love this beach is the fact that it's at the very end of the island's road system and is free of pesky tourists—very rare. There are tour "buses," open air vehicles that are generally converted pickup trucks seating about 8 to 12 people. They are crawling all over the island looking a bit like a centipede due to cameras held in  arms extended along each side of the bus. We wouldn't mind their presence except for the fact that it is an apparent island custom for all the buses to be driven down the middle of the road. Since the roads here are narrow and very winding, and the buses are wide, driving is always an adventure. Even the citizens join in for the adrenalin pumping fun of risking a collision at every curve. We're certain there are numerous head on collisions and know there are endless close calls—we have at least one a day. We saw one jeep off a cliff nested in the trees, and recently a man ran head on into a car, which happened to be driven by  the chief of police. Back to Reef Bay. The locals, mostly "surfers mon," access the beach through a hole in a fence and down a path through the woods. Along the way one might get a peek at Dr. Dangle, a very overweight jumbo-sized artist who sits on his deck painting or takes strolls through the woods au naturel. When we visit Reef Bay I generally sit in the sand knitting and listening to the surf while Bob combs the beach for shells. Over the past four months he has accumulated a collection of black and white sea snails. Last week he decided to hike from the far end of the beach up the mountainside, through the forest on a National Park trail to the site of petroglyphs that are estimated to be over 2,000 years old. On his way home he struck beachcombers gold: conch shells. Digging in the sand he discovered eight perfect shells which we plan to grace the coffee table in our future St. John home.

Split Personality Revealed

Now that we're only 30 days from the end of our season in the sun, we can share with you our home's alter ego. We confess that until now we only shared the happy face of our residence, the one with the pretty patio, the ocean view, the palm trees, orchids and white-on-white shabby chic decor. So, now we're ready to allow a peak behind the curtain to discover the identity that only a select few have been allowed to view. But first you need to know about two very important attributes of homes on this Virgin Island. The first: every home on St. John does not have a street address, even though some ironically have a number. (Mail is not delivered to one's door, only to a rented P.O. box.) However, every home has a name, which is typically etched into a handcrafted ceramic nameplate—icons of this particular island. Secondarily, we must also share what appears to be a tradition on this piece of paradise, one that we suspect has been passed on from one generation to the next long before the U.S. decided to buy this rather spectacular bit of rock from the Dutch. You see, when families build hurricane proof homes here—solid concrete filled with rebar—they may simply build the first floor then stop. The home is passed to the children, who build the next floor. Of course in order for this to occur they must provide the proper infrastructure for the next generation's contribution to the family home: rebar, electrical conduit and plumbing pipes sticking out of the temporary concrete roof, which will one day be the floor of the upper level. Now, this may sound unattractive, but it can really be so charming. We suspect some locals even get a bit teary at such a sight. Well, when we arrived at our temporary home we discovered, after looking through the comfortable spaces in which we would be living, a raw concrete staircase on the side of the house. We climbed it with trepidation. At the top step we discovered our lovely new home had a split personality. As the past four months quickly slipped away we continuously sought the perfect name for this cottage, which sadly had no name. After considering and rejecting so many, one day it came to us. A name so well deserved, so ideally suited, we even crafted the long awaited ceramic nameplate. Welcome to Villa Rebar.

The Great Room and Master Suite

Our deluxe motor yacht

Jim lounging on the deck

The luxury pool and spa