We sleep in yet again, and again only just make it to breakfast. We gorge ourselves as we did yesterday, when we overdid it so much that we didn't need to bother about lunch. We plant ourselves on sun lounges, under an umbrella, on the beach, in front of our room. We sleep, read, and take the odd photo. Issy takes some photos of her knees. They're very nice knees, but I'm still not entirely sure why she thinks she needs to snap pictures of them. She assures me that she's just trying out a newly discovered feature on her camera. We sleep through lunch.
It seems that all Mauritian beaches are public, so there's nothing to stop anyone who isn't a guest from strolling along the sand in front of the hotel. I think that this is a very good thing. I didn't like the idea of the private beaches we found at some of the places we went to in Europe; beaches should be there for everyone to enjoy. The occasional vendor walks past and tries to sell us beads, or shells, or other forms of souvenir. They're not persistent or annoying, and they move on quickly when
we tell them we're not interested. The hotel security guards ignore them. I wonder why they have security guards here; they all look very bored. Hopefully they spring into life in the evenings to arrest any guests who have the temerity to try to sneak into dinner wearing sandals.
The umbrella we're sitting under has two flags attached to it. One says "do not disturb" and the other one says "service please". I wonder who the "do not disturb" flag is supposed to stop from disturbing you. I wonder if the vendors would still try to sell you things if you raised the "do not disturb" flag.
I wonder what I'm going to blog about today. I don't think we've moved more than twenty metres from our room. We appear to have taken relaxation to a whole new level. I like a bit of relaxing as much as the next person, but I'm not sure I could do this every day.
We've noticed that just about everyone staying here is from Europe. Most of them seem to be from France, but there are also quite a few Germans, Brits and Russians. We haven't heard any American or
Australian accents so far. I wonder why there aren't any Aussies here. It's winter in Australia and summer in France, and Mauritius is further from France than it is from our homeland. I wonder whether maybe there really are Aussies here, but they're all stuck in their rooms because they didn't bring any shoes and long pants with them.
We go to dinner. Again we choose the buffet, and again we pig out. The table we sit at is probably fifty metres from our room, which is by far the furthest we've ventured today. I tell Issy we need to be careful not to over exert ourselves.
Again I keep a close eye out for anyone wanton enough to have come in here dressed in contravention of the code. Not for the first time on this trip Issy tells me that I'm being embarrassing. She says that I should try to be at least slightly less obvious when I stare at the feet of every man who walks past to see what they're wearing. Tonight it takes a bit longer, but eventually I spot a middle-aged Englishman wearing sandals. He strolls brazenly through the middle of the dining
room without a hint of shame. I am again outraged. How do people think they can get away with wearing such common low-class garb in an establishment such as this, in blatant disregard of the rules. I ask Issy why she thinks they have a dress code. She says she has no idea and I don't either. I think it's really silly. Some people come to dinner wearing any old long pants and shoes that they can lay their hands on, just so they comply. I'm sure that a lot of them would look much better if they wore some good shorts and sandals. Issy thinks I've got a bee in my bonnet about this. She's right; I do. We're at a beach hotel on a tropical island out in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Who cares what people wear?
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