St. Thomas is a place that, if you come to live from the States, seduces you, gets on your nerves, and then works its way into your heart. I know because I lived there for several years, in my mother-in-law's now-damaged home, working freelance for a local paper. My husband and I would hang out with our babies at a bar (a no-no here, but perfectly fine there) and chat with anyone— maybe someone who'd lived in the Virgin islands for years, maybe a former Ivy-league professor, ready spend the rest of his days as a beach bum. You'd luck into someone who owned a boat, and they'd take you sailing on the bluest water ever, to a private island or a bar where you kept your own tab. But nothing happens fast there (fast food doesn't exist, not even if you go through the drive through), and there is a certain kind of logic that's sometimes hard to decipher.