In January of 2008, the wife, baby (less than a year old), and I, along with the in-laws, flew to Jamaica for a week in the sun. And to give you some perspective, here is a shot of my backyard a few days before we left:
Our flight from Detroit to Montego Bay was uneventful. The temperature difference between Michigan and Jamaica was around sixty degrees. Is there any better feeling than getting off a plane on your first day of vacation? Okay, just getting off a plane these days is relief enough.
Arriving in a third-world airport is always an interesting experience. Ours was mixed. While en route, the flight attendant told us that we needed one immigration form per family. Easy enough. Oh, not so. Upon arriving, the customs agent informed us that we needed one immigration form per person (including Elena.) So if you are going to Jamaica, fill out one form for each person. If you are told differently, ignore them.
Luckily, our second encounter with a customs agent went much better. Seeing that we had a baby, she directed us to go through the immigration line used by flight crews instead of everyone else. It didn’t save us any time because we had to wait for the in-laws, who were not allowed to use the super-duper secret way, but we did manage to collect the luggage and speed our escape (I mean, exit) from the airport.
We next had to find the correct travel desk to pick up our shuttle to the resort. This is not as easy as it sounds, so if you have a similar arrangement, ask for help. There are at least a dozen different stations where locals wait for people heading to their respective resorts to check-in. The room is noisy and crowded with tourists – many trying valiantly to quickly reach an intoxicated state – as well as porters and assorted airport employees rushing about.
We were guided to the shuttle bus that would drive us to our resort. After waiting fifteen minutes for a couple that wanted to get drinks from the bar at the cost of everyone else’s vacation time, we were driven along Highway 2000 to our home for the next week, FDR Pebbles.
Near Falmouth, 30 minutes from Montego Bay on Jamaica’s north coast, the biggest draw of Pebbles is the nanny provided to each family. Yes, a nanny. Ours, Karrione, was excellent, though we didn’t use her that much. We would typically use her for nap time and the occasional night out. Still, it was great to be able to get out for a few hours to relax without worrying about the baby wandering into the ocean. Because that would have been bad.
Before I go any further, I must say this – if you don’t have kids, don’t go to Pebbles. There is absolutely no point. If you have small children or babies, then you have a very good reason to go. In fact, I would recommend going to Pebbles if you a small child or two or eight. Otherwise, stay far, far away, especially single people unless you really want to experience what we parents go through when traveling with children. And you don’t want to do that.
We arrived at the resort with much relief and joy. The exterior of the lobby was crawling with beautiful bougainvillea. As an ordinary man, I didn’t know those purple flowers were bougainvillea, thinking instead they were some sort of blood-sucking alien species sent as advance scouts before an invasion, but my wife dutifully filled me in with the correct information. And yes, I had to use a spellchecker to spell bougainvillea correctly.
Compared to other beach resorts at which I have stayed, FDR Pebbles was very small. At 96 rooms, it occupied a compact stretch of beach (you could crab-walk it, if you had the desire) and the buildings were very close to one another. The paths that wound through the resort were nearly overgrown with vegetation – palms, banana trees, and other plants that made you realize you weren’t at home.
There were four places to eat on the resort: Sabbia, an Italian restaurant, Oceanside (a buffet), Beachfront Jamaican Grill, and Overproof, a Jamaican restaurant. We ate most of our meals at the buffet, though the first day, we were forced to eat at the Beachfront Grill because the buffet didn’t open until 6:30, and that was still an hour away. The jerk chicken was good, and the drink menus offered many selections. The cheeseburgers served at the grill were passable, but the corndogs, marshmallow and chocolate sandwiches, and grilled cheese sandwiches should be avoided.
Our room was okay with no outstanding features to put it above any of the others we’ve stayed in. It was one large cathedral-ceiling space with a half-wall to break it into two areas, one for sleeping and one for sitting. The sitting area had a couch, refrigerator, desk, and teeny tiny TV. Across the half-wall was the bedroom and bathroom. Things were very quiet in our room after the baby went to bed. As other parents can understand, we stepped lightly lest we face the wrath of a cranky baby when we needed sleep ourselves. The resort provided a Pack and Play, so that was something we didn’t have to drag along from the snowy North.
The mini-bar was stocked with beer, Pepsi, cheese (tasty cheese, no less), and a few other items. A list was provided to be left for the staff so they could re-supply the fridge with the items you wanted. Of course, I had them bring Coke, because that’s how I roll. But you can request certain items and, like magic, they appear.
The best part of the room was the deck. We had a second floor room, and though we overlooked the pool and the other buildings – no ocean view for us – it was pleasant to be outside. The deck furniture was not very comfortable, and since Andrea and I didn’t have much natural padding, we had to use towels.
Karrione, the resort-provided nanny, worked from 9am to 4:40pm. She was also available for babysitting duties at night, and we took advantage of that a few times. I’ll write about those later. On the edge of your seat, aren’t you?
We stayed by the pool for the first half of the week. Strong winds made reading on the beach unpleasant, so we had to tough it out around the screaming kids patrolling the pool. They, however, were not nearly as loud and obnoxious as the resort’s cheerleader. I don’t know what her official title was, but her job was to yell into a microphone to get people to play musical chairs, play soccer, and generally demand that they have fun. My idea of having fun is beating senseless unnecessarily loud people with microphones, but I don’t think that was on the list of activities.
Our trip back to the States was a bit annoying. The shuttle ride to the airport in Montego Bay went fine, but we had to leave the resort at 12:30 for a 3:30 flight. Otherwise, we would have had to pay for a cab – the shuttle was included. Getting through security was okay, though a little chaotic. The shops in the airport were way overpriced, even beyond normal airport pricing. The exception to this was alcohol – it was definitely worth it to buy our booze in the duty free shops instead of in stores outside the airport.
Oh, and the flight into Montego Bay from Detroit (which was the same plane that would fly back) was delayed for 45 minutes because there was a pothole in the runway. You have got to love that. We have security scares, they have potholes. But you know, I’ll take the potholes any day.
