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My recent stay at Universal Orlando Resort was so much fun and I’m going to share and highlight my favorite moments with you. First and foremost, I stayed at the Cabana Bay Beach Resort on the property which allowed me early access (one hour) to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter™. It was my first time experiencing Diagon Alley™. I took advantage of the complimentary shuttle service to Universal Studios Florida and was able to … [Read More...]

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What I learned on St. John's north shore after a storm

Navigating St. John's North Shore roads after a storm turned a familiar sightseeing drive into a lesson in patience, weather and local knowledge. We had come to St John expecting blue water, easy roads and a relaxed few days, with Caneel Bay and the beaches around Cruz Bay on our list.

The storm arrived overnight, bringing heavy rain and gusting winds that rattled the shutters around our accommodation. By morning, the rain had eased, but the island looked different. Palm fronds lay across fences, branches covered the road and muddy water gathered in places where the verges should have been.

St John is small enough to cross in less than an hour, yet its steep hills and narrow roads make every journey more demanding than the distance suggests. I had spent years driving Australian country roads and city streets, but familiar habits were less useful than I expected when the route itself had changed.

By the time we reached the car, the first clear stretch of asphalt had filled me with false confidence. The sky had brightened, the main road appeared open and several other visitors were setting off towards the north. Then we saw what they were driving towards.

The morning road check

Our hire car had a layer of fine dust inside the windows and a few damp leaves beneath the wipers. The tyres were sound, but the body sat lower than I had pictured from the roadside. I walked around it before starting the engine, checking for damage and looking underneath for anything the previous driver might have missed.

Close to the first junction, a large branch rested across one side of North Shore Road. It was light enough to shift, although the traffic behind it had packed leaves and grit into the surface. Rather than move it in a hurry, I waited for a local driver to stop and ask whether anyone had reported a bigger blockage further along.

That brief exchange changed the mood of the morning. The driver pointed towards a rise in the distance and told us to check the water before continuing. It was practical guidance rather than a warning about the road being closed, and it reminded me that local knowledge includes conditions a map cannot display.

When the map stops matching

The route towards Caneel Bay climbs and dips along the centre of the island before reaching the coast. On North Shore Road, the bends tightened, the shoulders narrowed and the surface lost its clean edges. Gravel and organic debris had gathered where the storm water had run downhill.

At one low point, water covered the road from the outer curve to the opposite verge. I could see the shape of the submerged centre line, but not the depth or what lay underneath. The car would have fitted through the space easily. That was precisely why it needed careful judgement.

Our saved map showed the route in blue and marked it as open. It could tell us where we were, though it could not reveal a washed-out culvert, a tree leaning across the carriageway or a flooded dip beyond the next rise. When the signal flickered, the map became less useful rather than more reassuring.

We turned back at the first stretch I could not judge confidently and found a wider road where we could wait. That decision cost us the morning at the beach, but it also spared us from testing the car in moving water. For me, the detour became part of the trip rather than an interruption to it.

Learning the island's rhythm

Left-hand traffic felt familiar because Australians drive on the same side of the road. The roundabout rules were familiar too, including the need to give way to traffic already in the circle. I still found myself leaning too far towards the outer lane when passing uneven sections, a habit formed on wider Australian highways.

The road signs created a different kind of confusion. In Australia, speed limits are given in kilometres per hour; in the US Virgin Islands, they use miles per hour. St John also relies on painted warnings and unmistakable bump signs, with drivers slowing early for settlements and side roads.

Once I stopped treating every unfamiliar sign as a detour, the drive became easier to read. The white edge lines appeared in fragments beneath mud. Concrete drains overflowed beside low walls. Small hand-painted boards directed traffic around obstacles, each one showing how quickly an ordinary road could become a shared piece of local problem-solving.

The value of moving slowly became clearer as the morning continued. We passed a crew clearing vegetation near a bend, followed a local van through a section where the surface had been swept, and watched the sea appear between houses. The north shore was not empty scenery waiting to be photographed; it was a lived-in landscape adapting to the weather.

The other side of St John

Our change of route eventually brought us towards Cruz Bay by a longer, higher road. From there, the storm damage looked less severe. People were outside sweeping, washing down pavements and checking the plants around their homes. The contrast made the flooded section seem even more significant without diminishing the efforts of those dealing with it.

A visit to St George Village on St. Croix had already shown me that history and careful restoration can sit quietly beside a visitor route. On St John, the same sense of hidden detail appeared in old stone walls, narrow footpaths and names that did not appear in an itinerary.

We spent the afternoon around Cruz Bay, where the water had become clear again and the streets were busy with people reclaiming their routines. A short ferry ride and a drive across St. Croix have stayed in my memory because they offered a different rhythm, with gentler roads and a landscape shaped by sugar cane rather than the steep hills of St John.

Neither island could be reduced to a storm photograph. St John demanded alertness and a willingness to abandon a planned route. St. Croix rewarded slower attention to the details around the edges of its attractions. Together, they changed how I think about visiting a place after bad weather.

What I carry home

Back in Melbourne, my usual escape would be a coffee in one of the city's narrow laneways, where the morning conversation rises above the hiss of the espresso machine. That small ritual felt especially vivid after the quiet concentration required to navigate a wet island road. A routine stop can become a form of welcome when you have recently seen a community respond to a storm.

At the Sydney Fish Market, another Australian reference made me pause. The movement of shoppers, the loud calls of vendors and the choice of produce felt reassuringly familiar, yet the fish counters also recalled the working waterfront I had glimpsed in St John. Both scenes depended on people returning to familiar places and resuming their daily rhythms.

The most lasting lesson came from watching experienced drivers read a road rather than trust it blindly. They noticed where water had collected, listened for advice from neighbours and treated a change in route as a reasonable response rather than a failure.

I still remember how the first clear stretch of asphalt felt when we finally continued along the coast. The relief was real, but so was the understanding behind it: a road can look open before it is ready, and confidence belongs beside caution. That lesson stayed with me long after the branches were cleared and the island returned to its familiar appearance.