Letter from Bermuda, final installment

 



Thank G-d I don't go to Mass in beachwear.  The Sunday we were in Bermuda, we went to a local church (pictured above) and were treated to a lecture on proper dress for Mass.  Looking around, there were a few red faces from both locals and tourists who were not suitably attired.  But on the whole, most communicants were pretty well-dressed -- unlike here in Calgary where it's jeans, jeans and more jeans. 

When we had left the hotel I had asked the doorman about Sunday bus service so we could get back.  "Don't worry about it," he replied.  "Someone will drive you back."  Really??  How was that going to work?  But it did.  Milling around in the parking lot, we were approached by a woman and her son.  "Do you need a ride somewhere?" she asked.  "Well, yes."  Hop in.  We did and had the pleasure of meeting a lovely woman and her son.  Where did her son go to university?  Queen's, same place as our youngest daughter.  He also played rugby, as did she, and was absolutely charming.  Can you imagine that happening anywhere else?  Complete strangers driving you home after Mass.  I was impressed. 

"They have to import absolutely everything," I thought as I looked around anywhere we went.  That means everything -- furniture, tableware, appliances, cosmetics, food, booze -- think about it.  It's an immense challenge.  Remember Bermuda onions?  Used to be a crop export, but no longer.  They're now produced in Mexico.  Bermuda relies solely on tourism.

All I can say is, the Jet Stream better not budge an inch or the country is in big trouble.  Will we return?  Absolutely.