The Condominium Beach Club

After viewing the dark brown Polynesian style bungalow sitting over by
the flower field that Claude and Barbara were about to rip apart and
rebuild we all strolled through the thick tropical grass to the white
coral beach with the leaning-over palm trees anchoring it. This was
the look, Les Tipaniers bar/restaurant deck leaning over the beach too
like the palms, bright turquoise lagoon water lapping the sand and a
few scattered bathers soaking it all in. What do you do now, explode
into this idyllic scene, yes, in your mind, your body is in slow and
smooth gear as it is washed over by the soft sunny air, colors, and
sounds. In the little spider-like shade spot directly below the
nearby palm tree a couple is comfortably lying about, beach chair
backs up, straw hats, sunglasses, and the look of tropical
savoir-faire. I am introduced to Marie France and Michel, both of
them well tanned, sporting their elegant senior beach attire. It is
before noon, so they haven't retreated to their bungalow yet for the
noon meal and Radio Polynesia's world news program. Introduction
greetings taken care of, Claude immediately gets into a lively
conversation with them, obviously a continuation of an earlier
debriefing. His French is sounding great, I'm still getting used to
the local accents, Barbara is all ears and beautiful smiles, learning
a lot and hoping for translations later.

Barbara and I wade into the lagoon, Claude can't pull himself away
from Michel and Marie France, so much to talk about, and later I find
out how much that really is, but for now I figure Claude is just
strengthening his French language wings way beyond the remnants he
hung on to while spending so many years in the states. Gradually the
lagoon water deepens, for a long time it only goes up to my knees, the
next drop is to the waist, then it's dive in and swim to the slightly
darker magic blue water out by the buoy, not far from where the
transient gringo gunk hole sailors anchor for the night. In the
distance we can see Claude wading into the light green shallow area,
water-walking his way out to us, finally, oops, he stops again and
talks with the big kahuna Tahitian windsurfer/kiteboarder guy who
considers himself prince of the beach, he probably would have been in
a perfect world. Finally, when Claude arrives at our three meter deep
outpost we all doggie paddle as he fills us in on the latest
condominium news up-dates, a.k.a. local beach colony gossip. Everyone
needs a handsome, older wiser couple, full of island stories
themselves, for perspective. That is how we find out about some of
the naughty and bad form moves made and planned by our immediate next
door neighbor Pierre, who is also retired and should be part of the
wise elder club, but has not paid his karmic dues yet for gaining the
12th ranking (highest in France) pension level for being a tax
investigator for 40 years; this could take some time.

Marie France and Michel taught school on small islands in the Pacific
and Indian oceans, they also have worked in France, doing the standard
five year rotation gig. Now they enjoy a double (due to the
living-in-Polynesia-hardship-policy) pension and have worked out a
very comfortable routine. Claude and Barbara drifted into their lives
by accident when they bought a bungalow in the same beachside group of
condos next to the classic old Tipaniers resort. Michel speaks a
beautiful French, but in English simply gets much enjoyment out of his
phrase "I am a businessman, Merry Christmas", which he portends is
the extent of his English and his business acumen. But this is not to
say that he isn't a very intelligent and intuitive guy, look at his
beach routine. He likes to see things how they are, and know what he
is seeing. He knew he was getting something new and fresh with Claude
and Barbara, something good, something the condos needed. At the same
time, his old beach confidant Pierre seemed to be getting a little
whacky and overtly displaying some of his darker Frenchisms. Michel
knows what these are, just like I know Americanisms, and did not like
to see his new friends smudged around in them. All of this just gets
more and more tangled up with the fact that Claude and Barbara have
new ideas for some of the remodeling they are going to do here, and
the ideas are darn good, "ouch!" says the curmudgeon neighbor Pierre,
"that will make my place look bad, I don't like that". Even though a
few months earlier when Claude and Barbara were looking a Pierre's
place to buy he made a very big deal about how in French Polynesia you
can do whatever you want to you place without asking for anyone's
permission.

As time goes by we see Marie France and Michel on the beach, converse
more and more with them. Because of our big work load we don't get to
the beach as much as we would like, but some days the couple comes
over and takes a look at our progress. After a while we are all
invited over for a meal, a full-on dinner. This is more than perfect,
as our time and our kitchen have been ground down to nothing in the
past days. We all shower, dress up (sort of) and saunter over to
their bungalow just before sunset around six. Oh, we are welcomed
royally. The little deck is completely filled by the table and five
chairs. We bow, hug and kiss then take our seats. Conversation
begins immediately, Michel reminds us "I am a businessman, Merry
Christmas", then we start telling little stories. Out comes some
Martini, for Claude a Scotch, he needs to relax, lots of big changes
and money issues on his mind. Marie France, in her elegant black
evening gown with dangling necklaces and bracelets, serves us the
drinks and hors-d'oeuvres, then sits down and joins in. After a while
Marie France gets up and retrieves another treat, a big soup for us
all, excellent, we need food and drink quite badly. After eating,
drinking, and much more conversation Marie France goes in to serve
another course she prepared earlier, this time I notice how quickly
and thoroughly she whisked up the plates and silverware from the last
course and instantly washed, dried and put them away while getting out
the next course at the same time, all the while the rest of us are
yakking away.

Several bottles of rather good French wine and a wonderfully tasty
chicken dish and rice pilaf go down very well, I couldn't have eaten
more. But I had to, for after this course was magically whisked away,
washed and stored, out came a big plate of cheeses with breads and
crackers. The night is black now, we can hear the little waves
lapping up on the coral beach, there don't seem to be any mosquitoes,
and the neighbors are quietly busy with their own dinner affair. We
sampled each cheese, with wine of course. Thinking that this was the
end of the amazing meal would have been quite natural, unless you saw
the very French looking apple pie (home baked in Polynesia where apple
trees are more than rare) that Marie France brought out. This
couldn't be true, what a joy, this meal would give us all the stamina
to complete this remodel and bounce back up from the constant jabs and
jeers donated by Pierre. I will never forget Marie France, wearing
her elegant gown, graciously joining in conversation at this meal she
prepared and then doing all of the dishes and clean-up in-between time
all the while.

Michel had his turn at amazing our little audience of newcomers when
he came over one day holding a drawing he had made of the original
bungalow designs and then the modifications Pierre made which
attempted to and succeeded to claim several square meters of Claude's
deck. This was something that could not be accepted as correct and as
far as Michel was concerned it did not represent the qualities of a
decent Frenchman. He did not want us to think that this was par for
the course. Of course we did find this out on our own in other ways
by the many conversations we had with other neighbors, but Michel felt
particularly close to this chicane as he saw it all happen and heard
the boasting about how it was done. As time went on Claude discovered
more and more how precise and clear Michel's help was in ironing out
the myriad details of becoming a true resident and homeowner on
Moorea. In a sense Michel was no longer retired at this point, he had
a mission, help Claude and Barbara float their Polynesian paradise
dream and get the French reputation back along side that of these
newly arrived Americans who might prove to be the exact unknown
element needed on the island these days to keep the sanity level
reasonable therefore preventing premature departures and suicides.

I was driven to the little Moorea airport by Michel when my 30 day
sentence was over. He knew exactly how long it would take so he drove
slowly and cautiously on the dark little road around the big bays.
His little Peugeot hatchback seemed like a very practical car, small,
but 100% car, all gadgets on board. That was a rare ride, on that
island bike and foot were my main movers and I liked it that way. To
get from the grimy remodel job to the beautiful beach with the
professional sunbathers on it I had but only to cross a couple hundred
feet of lawn and there it all was, the blue lagoon. Marie France and
Michel relaxing back on their towels and rests, showing me how one
should truly take it easy when the time comes. Smell the roses, enjoy
the warm sand, wade in the lagoon. Do it all at least once and never
forget it. In the bathtub I close my eyes and drift back to the palms
leaning over the water, the big breakers roaring far off in the
distance on the barrier reef, the tern flying by with the green water
reflecting on its belly making it look like a new species. I would
like to take a whole semester class at the condominium beach club,
learning beach etiquette their way; let everything else go, at least
during the day.