What a delight to introduce you to Laura Faulkner, the Pole Dancing Professor today. Her enthusiasm for life is contagious and I think you’ll enjoy her resolve for fun and joy in this little tale:
Wrong bungalow
We’re never going to survive eight more nights of this, I worried to myself, as I lay awake in our bungalow at 12 am local time. My eyes hurt and body craved rest since it was 3 am at home in Oakland. Still, sleep would not come. Cars whizzed by on the road behind us, shining their headlights through both the bedroom window and my eyelids. I wondered where the drivers could be traveling to or from on this 53 square mile island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Moorea, French Polynesia is devoid of nightlife and can be circumnavigated in half a day, with stops. No ferries or planes had come in since we landed hours ago. Between lulls in the unexpected traffic, an eerie chirping and cackling outside refused to let me slip into slumber. I thought there was a cat-sized cricket or other insect I would prefer not to meet making the racket. Then two dogs barked a duet that lasted all night long.
Cuddling with my husband for comfort was not an option. His periodic swears followed by slaps made me feel guilty that the mosquitoes preferred him for their midnight munching. Plus, the oppressive, sticky air filling the room—made worse when Brian slammed the windows shut in a futile attempt to keep out more mosquitoes—did not kindle any romantic sparks. Instead, the tense silence between us filled the air as loudly as all the barks, chirps, cackles, swears, and smacks. So much for our once-in-a-lifetime, second honeymoon in the sultry South Seas.
I obsessed about whether the front desk staff would move us to our reserved over-water bungalow in the morning or whether we would waste the day searching for alternative accommodations. I doubted it could be any quieter or cooler just 10 feet away. I expected to be awakened at dawn by the infamous wild roosters; when the crowing began at 3:00 am, I escaped into the large garden bathroom and cried under a cascade of cool water. The fragrant soap reminded me of how filled with happiness and hope I had been just 13 hours before as I stepped off the plane at Papeete airport into the tropical air perfumed with tiare (tahitian gardenia).
The coolness from the shower had evaporated by the time I climbed back onto bed. When I finally noticed the blackness outside beginning to fade, I went to watch the sunrise, hoping for a breeze by the lagoon.
Healing Sunrise
I sat on a chair by the water and watched the sky brighten. A light breeze cooled my skin. The big insects kept cackling in the palm trees and I began to suspect it might be birds. Some kind of Tahitian owl? The clouds began to turn pink and the sky pale blue. As I watched the jagged peaks turn from an ominous black to velvet green, my mood began to brighten like the scene. How could I remain in a funk when I sat immersed in this dramatic Cook’s Bay setting? I wasn’t dreaming about it or looking at a picture. I was living it. And I felt both awestruck and refreshed by their power and peace, just like the first time I visited Yosemite and the Grand Tetons. Pictures and descriptions draw me to these natural wonders that the word ‘breathtaking’ was created to describe, but never prepare me for the experience of actually being there.
As I continued to let the sights and sounds soothe me, my reverie was interrupted by Muk, one of the owners of Club Bali Hai, “Good morning, come join me for coffee.’’ “Mmm, coffee sounds good, it might revive me after my sleepless night.” I said as I joined him at the bar by the beach.
“Ah, jet lag.” He guessed.
“Yeah, I suppose,” I replied. “Plus that cackling combined with the barking dogs and crowing roosters. What makes that cackling noise and is it normal for them to make it all night long?”
“Yup, those are brown noddys, a type of local bird. You’re in the jungle now! You’ll get used to them.”
When Brian joined Muk and I for breakfast, he offered to hunt down the rooster with Muk. Muk agreed that the rooster was crazy to be crowing so long before sunrise, but never took my husband up on his offer. As we chatted, my foot-long fruit plate of pampelmousse, pineapple, papaya, and bananas with toasted French bread arrived.
We topped off our long, relaxing breakfast with the proverbial cherry-on-top after we investigated the bungalow error. It turned out that the key had been put back on the wrong hook and our over-water bungalow was waiting for us. Though not as luxurious, nor as pricey as the overwater bungalows in Bora Bora, the lapping water and breezes from the lagoon still helped lull us to sleep during the rest of our stay and managed to mask the cacophony we’d experienced.
That first day in Moorea crawled by as we sank into island time. We floated in the bay to cool off between naps in the shade and hours spent transfixed by Mou’a Roa, the fictional Mount Bali Hai, and the other peaks surrounding Cook’s Bay.
Trip to Banque
During the height of the afternoon sun, we roused ourselves to take a free shuttle to a pearl shop in order to get a cash advance at the bank next door to the shop, the only one open on Sunday. We’d made the mistake of not getting traveler’s checks since everyone assured us that credit cards were accepted every place, but we already discovered that the local store across the street only took cash. Our limited supply wasn’t going to last. While Brian went to the bank, I browsed in the pearl shop as if it were a museum or art gallery and drank an ice-cold diet coke. I’d had no intention of buying a black pearl, but in person the iridescent pink, purple, blue and green sheen to some of the black pearls set into pendants and rings impressed me more than the pictures I’d seen. I was drawn to one particular teardrop green-black pearl necklace. It reminded me of the green of Bali Hai encircling the inky blue Cook’s Bay—the view from our overwater bungalow.
Brian returned unsuccessfully from the Banque de Polynesie. “No luck, but they said Banque Socredo will definitely be able to do it tomorrow when they finally open.” The saleswoman greeted him with a frosty Hinano—the local beer— and informed him that I had good taste. Brian looked at her, then at me, with several black pearl pendants and rings laid out on the countertop. “Oh….okay.” was his tentative response while giving me a raised eye that said, “But you told me on the way over you were only going to look, not buy.”
He informed her that he had to negotiate before thinking about purchasing one. She said, “I’m sorry, but our items are priced fairly, we don’t barter like at some of the cruise ship markets.”
“Oh, no I need to strike a deal with my wife before I talk with you,” He said.
“Oh, I understand,” she gave him a knowing smile and left us alone to talk about it.
“Which do you like best? He asked.
“That one,” I said I pointing to the one I liked. The green-black pearl dangled from a gold clasp inset with black iridescent mother-of-pearl.
“I think you should get it. But I want something out of this deal,” he said.
“What?” I asked
“Amnesty,” he replied.
“Huh?” I asked.
“I want amnesty for all the bad gifts I’ve given you over the years. Especially the appliance Christmas. I want my slate wiped clean. And I want the pearl to count for your birthday and our anniversary this year and next. And for Christmas. And I want amnesty for any future lousy gifts…“ he said grinning at me.
I cut in before he could add any more. “Hold it, no way! You know you’ll buy me Christmas gifts. You love being Santa. And no way you’re getting future amnesty. But sure, as a combined birthday and anniversary gift—just this once. And amnesty granted.” I lifted my right hand high over head then brought it down to rest on his shoulder as if knighting him.
Magical Pearl
After returning from Moorea, I only wore the pearl on special occasions, at first. It seemed too dressy to wear with my typically casual outfits. Overtime, I began to wear it more, noticing patterns. I wore it when I felt nervous so I could caress the pearl for comfort. I wore it when I wished my husband could be with me. I wore it when I felt madly in love with him. I wore it when I felt gorgeous or sexy (or wanted to feel gorgeous and sexy). It became an amulet. Touching the pearl transports me back to that magical, healing sunrise on Cook’s Bay. And my husband loves it even more than I do. Whenever he tells the story of how he scored amnesty for past bungles he’s a legend among men.
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Lisa Faulkner, PhD is a curious, passionate, playful woman in a joyful marriage to her college sweetheart. She’s writing a memoir about how pole dancing changed her life. Her mission is to document and understand this transformative power of sensual dance through her writing, teaching and research. Visit her at Pole Dancing Professor.
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That amnesty idea is hilarious!
Dayna, glad you enjoyed it! My husband keeps me laughing. And it actually worked. I stopped bringing up past stuff (not even just gifts) that we used to joke would go on his tombstone. Life’s so much sweeter remembering the blissful surprises and giving amnesty for the duds. ; )