Bloomberg in Bermuda

I was assured by the Bermudian taxi driver that "my Mayor" slips unobtrusively into Bermuda at unexpected times throughout the year to stay in his exquisite and very private waterfront home in Tucker's Town. How he knows that is uncertain.

Of course, golf and the lack of the sirens that we fellow New Yorkers experience are the real reasons for taking a short, one and a half hour flight to the island of Bermuda from New York City. No one bothers Mike there, and no one cares that he is a billionaire in a land of immensely wealthy residents.

My recent trip there was filled with the usual amenities. Perfectly endless sunny days since early Spring. They are experiencing a drought that has not at all affected the exquisite oleander or hibiscus, which are exploding with vibrancy in sharp contrast to the pastel-colored buildings of the picturesque surroundings. The blue hue of the ocean is ridiculous. A painter would never attempt to copy that color to canvas for fear of being called a bad artist. It couldn't be--but it really is--that blue.

The greens of the best golf courses, Mid Ocean and Tucker's Point, are a tad beige in spots. Only slightly off, as thousands of gallons are pumped daily onto the courses. This is a challenge in itself, since the tray rooftops are structured to collect the rainwater from every house for purposes other than drinking. This is a charming necessity, as there are not simply not enough sources of water on the island.

So it is not surprising that my dream last night included both Bermuda and Mike Bloomberg in an exquisitely visual, multi-pixilated frame with Dolby sound. There I was, sitting at the pool deck of the exquisite Tucker's Point Hotel, sipping a tall Dark & Stormy, or as I would call this non-alcoholic version, a Dark & Rainy. There, coming from Mid Ocean from a rollickingly good day of golf was Michael Bloomberg. He approached. We exchanged smiles. He spoke.

"Good day," he said as he smiled. I wasn't sure if that was a formal salutation or a statement about his golf game. "Yes, yes. Of course." I struggled with small talk. But we warmed up to some genuine dialog when I threw in a New York reference or two to Derek Jeter and the Yankees. I shamelessly sought his approval. After all, I voted for Mike Bloomberg three times, term limits be damned. I would carry him to the White House, if I could.

In my dream, and over several cool beverages, we became great and intimate friends in the purest sense of the word. Mike and I were just not attracted to each other in that way. But on a deeper level, we were soul mates who shared the solution to all of New York, if not Life's problems.

As dreams go, this progressed nicely. So much so that he shared with me that he was supposed to meet with his lawyer that very day to write his will and decided NOT to leave his money to his family. No, he thought he would leave it to me instead! And then, he said, "In fact, I'm not even going to wait until I die. I'm going to give you money now."

Fast forward to my return home. I am at my ATM machine and discover my balance is $26 billion dollars! What a guy!!! So I withdrew $100, because somewhere in my subconscious I knew that Mike would KNOW what I was spending. But it really didn't matter how or why. There was plenty of room in my checkbook to donate to his inevitable run for the White House.

Gold Cup Races in Style, Like the Rest of Barbados

There is something irresistible about the pounding track, warm sun, cool drink and the viewing of the white-clad Queens Guard in full dress uniform mounted on horseback that sets the heart racing as well. For, after all, this is Barbados. The British influence is ubiquitous.

It is, however, quite different from say, Ascot, especially when swaying Caribbean music accompanies the Barbadian Police Band and Red Plastic Bag (yes, that is the famous Bajan Regae Rap singer's name) is on the parade grounds singing Ragga Ragga. Full throttle. Ecstatic fans singing with passionate enthusiasm along with him. Colorful dancers swaying sensuously beside him. All waiting for the most prestigious event of its kind in Barbados...the Gold Cup Races.

Name one other island in the Caribbean where you can find such a racetrack. Nope. None. This is an impressive course that is in the heart of an historic area of downtown Bridgetown, the capital of Barbados. People-watching is part of the fun. All the locals are ensconced in the private boxes on this occasion wearing Sunday church attire, especially with Eliza Doolittle hats.

I attempted to put $20 on the sixth horse in the sixth race, my husband's superstitious good luck thing. But, unlike Belmont, there was one ticket collector near the part of the special stands we were so graciously directed to as VIPs. The gentleman was overwhelmed by the queue, the enthusiasm of the bettors, and the heat. I never placed my bet. Got closed out just as "Border Secret," the sixth horse in the sixth race blew past all the others for the win.

My colleagues were an astute group of Canadian incentive buyers, who looked like professsional gamblers all. They were elegantly dresssed and speaking the parlance of worldly bettors, tossing around such words as "Trifecta" and "paramutuel" leaving me quite out of the loop. I decided to pool my money with theirs to increase the chances of a big win. We had about 60 different combinations for Win, Place and Show. I was, indeed, familiar with these terms, but had never personally known the joy of experiencing any part of the winning process.

Terry, a tall, gray-bearded fellow was the leader to whom we all entrusted our money. Smoothly and with meticulous care, he became the guru of the group. He advised us by not picking silly or cute names (we females seem to think "Preach to Me" or "Pure Temptation" had enough gravitas to surge ahead of all others). No, Terry carefully put together all the right combinations based on his reading of their past history. What a concept! With a wad of our cash, he placed the bet for the Gold Cup ultimate race for us all.

Keeping council with himself, Terry imagined what he would do with his win...possibly in the tens of thousands. Erika wanted new shoes with her winnings. Terry wanted to buy the swim up bar at the Colony Club and move to Barbados permanently. I was somewhere in between. A small, low-maintenance beach shack where I could write my blogs, perhaps.

The Gold Cup race was the culmination of hope, joy, apprehension and greed. I was in up to my picture hat. And lo and behold, the exhilaration was complete when we won...$97.00 out of all the possible configurations. We gave the money to a local charity for children with wheelchairs.

I know there was one moment when Terry looked crestfallen, but another surfaced when we realized that the fantasy had a life of its own for the fifteen minutes it lived. We had a blast. Probably would have gotten out of control if we had won big time. When I asked Terry if he would tell his wife about all this back home, he said, "What happens in Barbados stays in Barbados." That's about right, at least this year.