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Trudging down the beach lugging my water-filled Sherpani satchel, I am looking at the freckled back of my husband, John, a man whose love of maps and Fodor’s Guides has landed my family of four on the vast expanse of Baie Longue, a beach in St. Martin. By my side are my eleven year old and fourteen year old daughters who have grown accustomed to following their father’s whims. The sparkling waves curl over the eggshell sand and the only other noise besides the wind is the occasional “I’m hungry” teen/ pre-teen whimper. Our car is now at least twenty minutes behind us, and the only food in my pack is a half eaten bag of trail mix. Ahead of us is a sea of umbrellas, and John’s quick consultation of the Fodor’s Guide reveals that we are looking at the beach area of “Belmond La Samanna,” an all inclusive resort where the likes of Muhammad Ali have stayed. “Great,” I say. “Must have a restaurant.” I make a feeble attempt to tuck my windblown long brown hair behind my ears. Our Hawaiian floral printed neon towels wrap around our waists as we aim toward the umbrellas with gusto. The sand slopes sharply as we meet our destination. Most beach chairs are filled and the outfit of choice typically involves a flowing cover up, hat, and sunglasses. I stuff my oversized neon Hawaiian towel into my backpack in a feeble attempt to blend. “We do not belong here. You can’t just walk here and sit down,” I whisper to John. Just as I say these words, a smiling waiter instructs us to sit in chairs. His dark eyes meet mine and for a moment, his eyebrows jump up and seem to say, “I am onto you; I will help.” Before I can decline, he winks while announcing that he will bring back some hotel towels as he drops a one liter bottle of Fiji water into an ice bucket. “Costs at least 1000 dollars per night to stay here,” John announces. I can see why. The gentle sloping sand leads up to a wall lined with palm trees. Above is an inviting pool and beyond are the whitewashed living quarters that my seventh grade teacher salary prohibits me from seeing. Maybe I will become a travel writer and return here one day, I dream. The dream disintegrates into a temporary vision of a photograph involving my face, a set of numbers, and a generic striped jumpsuit. “What? We have to leave. We do not belong here. Look at us. See all of the designer outfits?” I utter with quiet vehemence. “Loosen up and enjoy yourself; the waiter wants us to stay,” John retorts while pouring a glass of Fiji water. I pull a card off of the table and see that the bottle of water costs twenty dollars. A hamburger’s price tag is even higher. “We can’t stay here,” I repeat as my shoulders tense up underneath the contraband hotel towels given to me by my new waiter friend. Haley, my youngest, is snorkeling while Kate, my oldest, is looking pale. Kate and I dip our toes into the tropical water. Ah. Bliss. No? Guilt? Yep. The arguing continues/ John and Haley insist that we stay; Kate and I demand that we leave. Part of me secretly wants to lose the fight. Muhammad Ali would not be proud. We trek back toward the blue striped beach umbrella. I take twenty five dollars out of my wallet, put it on the table and pack my backpack. Grabbing John’s hand,, I pull him out of his lounge chair. After nodding and smirking at my dark eyed Caribbean accomplice, my family and I head back down the beach to where our rental car awaits. When we are safely out of the radar of the paying guests’ view, I turn around and gaze at Belmond La Saldanna with its pools, umbrellas, sloping powdered sand and paying customers. I whisper, “When I am famous,” and I pull out my Hawaiian neon floral towel, wrap it around my waist, and pop a handful of trail mix into my mouth.