Luxury Link 2

“Pas de problem, Monsieur.” Said the agent behind the counter. “Prenez votre vol.” No problem for him. He wasn’t about to pay first born limb amputation exorbitantly expensive prices for his intoxicants. The gap our puddle jumper crossed was less than 150 miles, and more than the sum of its colors and history. We were greeted in chirpy French by the big smiling Tahitian woman, with our names on her handheld placard.
“Je m’appelle Gloria.” She said, floating two white tiare gardenia leis over our heads. “Suivez-moi.”
An oversized van swallowed the three of us, for the brief ride to an enormous launch idling at the jetty, glistening white fiberglass and brass in the Tahitian sun. We entered an enclave of teak and white leather, alchemically woven with stainless steel bar sinks and air conditioning vents. The inboards didn’t grumble; for this kind of money, their only option was to purr. We passed a motu with two isosceles palms, and then there was the canvas of the French tricolor against the enchanted emerald peaks of Mount Otemanu behind the overwater bungalows and palm-thatched roofs of the main resort. Our launch glided past the dormant torches on the wooden boardwalks. Everything went silent, except for the breeze through the coconut fronds.
“Bienvenue au paradis.” Said Gloria. And so it seemed to be. Robyn and I were first shown to the spa where, in Euros or CFA, we could enjoy an unsurpassable period of Parisien-Polynesian paradisiacal pampering, whenever the impulse impelled us. The adjacent shop didn’t appear to be offering any sales on its selection of black pearl jewelry and French luxury goods. As the invités spéciaux who had finagled an astounding discount package for one of the already cheaper ‘Garden rooms,’ our introduction to the resort amenities was shorter than it otherwise might have been.
“Bon vacance.” Said Gloria, and left us at our bungalow. It was an authentic Tahitian fare by night, with an authentic Tahitian palm roof above, authentic Tahitian geckos on the walls inside, and authentic Tahitian mud crabs, under the greenery outside. But the authenticity of the amenities collided with the colonial. There was a great king-sized white bed strewn and festooned with giant red hibiscus flowers and white gardenia garlands, Indonesian teak excess, Japanese slippers, and square-rigged nautical double sinks and mirrors in our ensuite. A copy of Gauguin’s ‘Arearea’ Joyfulness (I think it was a copy) hung over the white expanse of mattress, one authentic Tahitian woman raising her eyebrow at what must have gone on in our room, and the dog in the painting’s foreground trying to remain inconspicuous enough to stay off the authentic Tahitian menu.
The menu in the resort restaurant was an embarrassment of riches, but we never dared ordered a la carte. There was always an overly sumptuous buffet, groaning boards of four distinct cuisines- French, Polynesian, Japanese, and dessert. Mountains of food were perfectly prepared and presented at every meal, for all the guests who, for most of our stay, were only Robyn and I. Even on the equator, the sun gives one time to dress for dinner (if the toilet is not a very elaborate one) while it is setting, and after it has set. Even Robyn’s sweet tooth could hardly make a dent in the patisserie on parade.
Most of the days were spent at the large teardrop pool, under white puffy clouds and whiter umbrellas, and the tall green coconut palms surrounded by clear tri-color blue waters and views of the enchanted emerald peaks of Mt. Otemanu. A four-masted schooner, the Polynesia, almost 250 feet long, a ghost on our horizon, like the Caleuche or the Flying Dutchman, magically stalked our Tahitian idyll through every island. Originally built as the last windjammer of the Portuguese Grand Banks fishing fleet in 1938, she had been originally christened Argus, and left Tahiti forever, the same year we did. Her streamlined white hull and sixteen white sails, including three triangular jibs, floating against the mountains and palms, turned our romantic into ridiculously romantic, an iconic canvas memory of slowed motion. We swam laps to keep up with her, and moved our parasols and paperbacks ahead of the sun’s parabola. Rascals in Paradise. Sometimes, I would sneak off in the afternoon over the Japanese garden suspension bridge, to the stranded gazebo in the middle of a pond of lily pads, and wrestle with the only French keyboard that offered access to the outside world, before deciding that it wasn’t worth the crossing. Utility is when you have one telephone, luxury is when you have two, opulence is when you have three - and paradise is when you have none.