It was time for our honeymoon, but wherever would be go? To London to visit the Queen? To Ireland to kiss the Blarney Stone? To Rome to visit the Pope? To Newfoundland to kiss the cod?

 

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Our final choice was the Elbow Beach Resort in Bermuda. It was a whole lot fancier than anything we were accustomed to. We had to remember to keep our elbows off the table.

  • And what were we supposed to do with all that silverware?
  • One fork for salad, another for fish, another for the main course and one for dessert.
  • Sour cream on baked potatoes? Why would I want cream if it was sour?
  • Roast beef with blood coming out of it?We ate breakfast at the resort and then went sightseeing for the rest of the day, returning for dinner at 6:30pm. Bermuda was a “left-hand drive” country and tourists were not permitted to rent cars because the roads were extremely congested, narrow, steep, twisty and filled with crazy drivers. Only one car is permitted per household. There are a lot of strict rules about who can own a car and the size of the car.

Taxis were quite expensive and we didn’t understand the bus system. That left two options — walk or rent a moped. We opted for a two-seater moped, which isn’t much more than a bicycle with a miniature motor.

Mo·ped (also known as death machine): a lightweight low-powered motorbike that can be pedaled

Road signs cautioned us to keep our eye on the vehicle in front of us and the vehicle behind us would look out for us. That was rather unsettling. All week long Glenn drove the moped and I hung on for dear life.

 

Near the end of the week, I felt confident enough to drive the moped by myself. Glenn and I sprinted out to the “parking lot” where the mopeds were kept. Like a Tour de France Pro, I proudly wheeled the moped out to the street, threw my leg up over the seat and started up the hill.

I looked BEHIND me to boast to Glenn that I could drive as well or better than he could. There he was, hollering and waving his arms like a madman. I was so annoyed. Why was he doing that? It was impossible to hear what he was saying over the noise of the motor.

The next thing I knew, I lay sprawled face down on the road with the moped on top of me. How did that happen? Glenn had been waving his arms at me because I was driving straight into a brick wall. He helped me up and took the moped back to the parking lot. My arms and legs were skinned off and felt like they were on fire. We hobbled back to the Resort and sweet Glenn put cool cloths on my wounds. I don’t think it left any lasting scars, but I would rather walk barefoot over hot coals than to ever ride a moped again.

 

Our honeymoon ended and off we went to Bermuda’s only airport. Nothing could have prepared me for what my eyes beheld. I thought I had been transported to a “MASH 4077 Unit” complete with Hawkeye, Hotlips, Klinger and Radar. People of all sizes and ages were sporting bandages on their heads, hobbling on crutches, sitting in wheelchairs and limping around. The rest of the people seemed to be wearing t-shirts that read “I survived a Bermuda Moped.”

I’m sure many things have changed over the past thirty-five years, but tourists may still NOT rent cars.

In the words of Martha Stewart,
“And that’s a good thing.”