The Honeymoon

The Honeymoon is the Best Prize

When my soon-to-be bride Jen and I were researching honeymoon destinations, we neglected to get three key pieces of information: 1) Does the location offer secluded romantic areas? 2) Will we find the accommodations to our liking? and 3) Will a persistent man named Greg harangue us about timeshares?

We met Greg while shopping in St. Martin’s capital, Marigot (derived from the French, “Mar”, meaning “town of” and “Igot”, meaning “mostly closed restaurants”). Although our pasty-white WASPy skin had absorbed the Caribbean sun for about a week, we still sported savagely hued hides that mirrored healthy tooth enamel, thanks to my wife’s SPF 8000 sunscreen. We might’ve stuck out less had we actually set our clothes on fire.

Crafty Greg was no rookie. He used the timeworn method of building American trust by wearing a Yankees cap. So when this stranger handed me a free scratch-off lottery ticket, I knew that he had only my Best Interests at heart.

Still moved by the relationship formed by the cap, and his puppy-peeing excitement level, I accepted his gift eagerly and scratched away. Lo and behold – I was sure that this was as much of a surprise to him as it was to me – I had won the “best prize.”

My wife was well down the street, reading an imprisoned menu while our fortunes were being forever altered. “Look, honey,” I said as she returned. “I won the best prize!”

“What’s the best prize?” she asked skeptically. “Zee best prize,” Greg repeated. The male-bonding cap was not working for Jen, so she needed a bit more info. As Greg’s command of English was less than conversational, we had some difficulty determining what bounty awaited us and how we were to acquire it. I had visions of a Caribbean game show; she had visions of ditching this guy and doing more shopping.

Through the miracle of a handy brochure, we read that the mystery prize would either be a $500 check, a Sony video camera, or a free vacation. So, we could get something out of this after all.
The catch was that we had to listen to a half-hour presentation about timeshares. A giddy, somewhat desperate Greg reassured us in suddenly manageable English, “don’t buy anything, just wait for zee best prize.” After some fair and equal “family discussion” time, during which I promised more shopping, we decided to do the little guy a favor and go along.

Once we agreed, Greg’s already amped-up energy level went through the roof, as if he were photosynthesizing caffeine directly from sunlight. Although he offered to drive us to our destination, we politely demurred, choosing instead to stay alive in our own car.

Once at the resort, under his breath Greg reminded us not to buy anything, just get zee Best Prize, and have zee very best time. And, just like that, Greg was out of our lives.

We were passed off to someone much more sinister than pitiable Greg – a polo shirt clad American named Chuck, who told us he was our Property Consultant for the Sapphire Beach Club Resort. He was thrilled to tell us how lucky we were, that the timeshares in idyllic St. Martin were so exclusive, so valuable to the timeshare owning community, that every week in a St. Martin timeshare was considered a peak week! The most valuable timeshare to trade! Can you imagine? If you buy a week in a timeshare in beautiful and exclusive St. Martin, you would actually never have to go there again!

Also, with “Peak Week” ownership came a couple of perks: free rides in the timeshare golf cart, Greg comes to your house and cleans your gutters, and first dibs at the timeshare community spouse-swap. See, I don’t really remember much. The best prize has to be soon, right?

Before we had to Decide Anything, Chuck took us on a tour. It was a very nice hotel-ish room, equipped with its very own color TV set and brand new toaster oven. We were even told that there were fully stocked vending machines on every other floor! And we could do our own laundry! All for the low, low price of… “Oh wait! I need to show you the pool!”

He should have stopped at the toaster oven. No “best prize” was worth an afternoon of this on my honeymoon. The rancid stench was a mental smelling salt. Marinating in the marginally chlorinated waters of the pool were people who had been prescreened by the same meticulous process that I had been – they had been willing to talk to a random stranger offering them a free lottery ticket, or maybe just a lollipop. I’m not sure. But here they were, participating in some sort of water aerobics program that more closely resembled bovine water ballet.

Once we returned to Chuck’s desk, he left us alone with a large book of worldwide RCI properties. Many resembled places heroin addicts would dismiss as “depressing.”

My sharp marketing professional wife and I exchanged knowing glances. “So,” she asked, “what do you think? We should totally do this. It’s got everything! We wouldn’t have to plan anything else - it’s all done for us!”

Now, the wife that I had come in with was a woman whose single-minded goal in honeymoon planning was to avoid going to an all-inclusive resort. We had already taken several vacations together. She loves to plan them. Meticulously. Each of our previous trips had been a thoroughly researched, take the back roads, discover the culture adventure-fest. Now here she was, considering taking every vacation we’d ever have again in places that would make Branson, Missouri look like Nepal.

This was a lonely feeling. I missed my new bride. Here was this stranger, about three steps away from signing up, putting on purple Nikes and waiting for an RCI, Inc. comet to whisk her off to some magical timeshare somewhere. I had to think fast.

Instinct took over. I appealed to her emotional side. “What, are you nuts?” I asked.

She was only thinking about a good place for family-friendly vacations, she told me. Less than an hour ago, I was a newlywed on my honeymoon.

Now I was a father with three kids on my annual vacation to Superior Shores #1793 in Two Harbors, Minnesota or some other family-friendly resort. How did I get here?

Fortunately, it took me only a couple of minutes to talk her down off the resort’s edge. All I had to do was ask her what she thought of the pool.

We regretfully told Chuck that we’d have to pass this time, but we were really interested in our prize.

And that best prize was...?

Mysteriously enough, we had until December 15th, 2002 to experience the joys of Coconut Bay Resort #2626 in sunny Florida. I put my money in scratch-off lottery tickets instead. That $2.00 was the best prize ever.