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October 12, 2015
Of all the strangeness and difference, the birdsong is most notable. Not a familiar caw or chirp in earshot. It's all long tropical whistles and grating calls like washboards in a jug band and swooping scales of pure high notes. That, and they sit in coconut palms lining a boulevard beside a beach that extends as far as the eye can see in both directions along an ocean that is as still as a bath. Barely a ripple of white as it hits the shore. We float effortlessly on our warm water beds, grateful when a cloud obscures the sun.