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The first time I went to the Cayman Islands, I barely left the hotel. To be fair, it was the Ritz-Carlton. There are worse places to be held ‘hostage’.
Days slipped by in a haze of immaculate service, pressed linen, and that particular shade of Caribbean blue that looks suspiciously like a screensaver. Beautiful, obviously. But it was also sealed. Cayman, as far as I understood it then, was a backdrop - pristine, polished, slightly unreal. A place you went to be cocooned, not discovered.