Two Roads Diverged…

Sailing news:  The Burnetts finally got out their MiniCat!  This inflatable catamaran was lying on their topsides in two bags like two dead bodies until now, and now you can see it zipping around Spanish Waters, sometimes with one man and four kids aboard.  This transformation was possible due to Greg’s special ability to translate Czech-glish assembly instructions into English. Wave to us!

Mel has been up to other things, specifically, presenting a talk to St. Martinus University School of Medicine entitled: “Neuroanatomy: Treasures From the Bilge.”  She hopes the students appreciated her sailing analogies.  I mean, the brachial plexus is just like “snakes on a honeymoon.”  Am I right?

Finding St. Martinus, however, was a harrowing adventure in itself, producing a 45 minute delay in her talk.  Fortunately, through this experience, Mel has found treasure on Curacao!  On the way back, she dug up some long-lost writings of Robert Frost.  Few know that Robert Frost visited Curacao at the height of his powers.  They include this modification to his famous poem:

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

(Scribbled on the side here is the comment: Forget old version.  Inspired to write new version.  Will call editor on Monday, Jan 30, 1963.  Will keep the last bit, though.  It’s pretty good.)

But the GPS told me to turn
Onto a street which was not there
Supposedly onto Schepholvern
Which in the end I was forced to spurn
As I could not find a street sign anywhere

A traffic circle loomed ahead
It was not on my map at all
Who yields? Who knows? Oh my head!
I better not turn right on red!
A turn signal would be nice, Mr. Tall

It’s only 3 and rush hour starts
The traffic lights are on “island time”
Once free, the drempels and the hilly parts
Make you more slow than a donkey cart
As up Caracasbaaiweg you climb…

At last by random walk I find
My goal!  But No! The parking lot
Is of such a convoluted design
The layout resembles a trucker’s knot
That I made after a vat of wine

As I come to the end of my journey now
I reflect on the traffic engineers of yore
Who clearly, impaired by Blue Curacao,
And old trails made by horse and plow
Scribbled the streets while drunk on the floor

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

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