“Sir, are you in zone two?”

My dad, simultaneously trying to coordinate our car rental and help my sister find her Mad Libs book, turned to the man who spoke. “Sorry, what?”

“Is your family zone two? It’s boarding now.”

He gestured for us to move past him in the line. He was not tall but something about his deep voice and thick accent seemed to add height to his thin frame. I flashed a smile of thanks as we pulled our luggage past. As the flight attendant checked our information, I noticed the gold letters on the cover of his passport: Grenada. That should have been my first clue.

Just shy of five hours later, dragging a week’s worth of belongings, we were greeted with warm air and bright sun. I glimpsed turquoise water beyond the sand dunes lining the narrow runway, and my heart made a small jump for joy. We made it! We’re in the West Indies! I had already taken a half dozen pictures before we got to the customs building.

I took hundreds more over the next seven days, and they are some of the best I’ve ever captured. What is stored on that SD card, however, is not what makes me yearn most to go back to Grenada now that I’ve returned to New England; nor is it the endless forecast of days in the mid-forties, nor the rocky beaches, nor the lack of fresh mangoes in the supermarket. What I miss and remember most about that beautiful island is the people.

On Sunday we decided to go to St. George’s, the bustling capital. It was supposed to have a wonderful market, a historic fort, colorful buildings, and lovely beaches. The only problem was getting there. Neither the map in our guidebook nor the one from the front desk of our cottage rental seemed to match the actual roads. We soon found, however, that the best GPS system was the locals. All we had to do was slow down – the car windows were already open – and people walking along would smile knowingly and ask where we wanted to go. Often we didn’t even have to stop; we would pass a busy corner and everyone there would cheer us on with “Yeah, yeah, there you go!” or “No, you want the other way!” How they always knew where we were going or that we were lost remained a mystery.

We eventually found the capital and were walking by the harbor after lunch when we came across a man selling shells. They were magnificent, some of them larger than my head, but we’d already passed many similar booths and had no intention of buying. Out of courtesy we paused to look, and immediately the man introduced himself and began telling us about his wares. He was so open and had such an easy laugh and inviting smile that it was impossible not to engage him in conversation. Before long he was pulling a stack of papers out of his tattered bag.

“I have many pictures, many! These are my friends that come to do business with me. Here is Cindy. She comes every November and buys a nice big conch to take back to Britain. This is her daughter. Then she was like you,” he said, gesturing to my younger sister. “Now she is more like you, huh?” He nodded to my mom.

We learned from his photo collection, wrinkled and evidently handled many times, that he had occupied that spot on the sidewalk for over a decade. We heard about his favorite and least favorite divers, biggest sales, and why he no longer sells sea urchins. Eventually he asked which shells we wanted, and before we could reply he started bargaining.

“These three for ten EC currency,” he offered. “Wait, you like this one, too? I will throw that in for free. And this nice one for the pretty girl. And these I just got off the boat this morning ….”

We walked away with a grocery bag full of shells and surprised smiles on our sunburnt faces.

One day we went snorkeling with a local guide company. The boat ride out to the site was stunning, but it was nothing compared to the treasures beneath the surface. Armed with my camera in its waterproof case, I was in photography heaven. Endless schools of tropical fish weaved in and out of vibrant coral, and the grasses swayed peacefully with the waves above. After admiring the reef, we moved on to the historic underwater sculpture garden.

The first artifact was a ring of stone children holding hands. It was too deep to get a clear image, but I was thrilled just to see it. At that moment, however, our guide appeared at my side.

“You want me to go way down and get pictures for you?”

I nodded fervently and slipped the camera strap off my wrist. Seconds later he was 15 feet below me, bubbles streaming out of his snorkel. When he resurfaced I thanked him, and we continued on to the next site: the nutmeg goddess statue. The guide again dove to get close to the artifact. He came up smiling and not even out of breath.

He did this for every point of interest over the next half hour. The photographs he captured were excellent, too, far better than I could have taken with the zoom.

After a week of spectacular sun and sights, it was time to say good-bye to the island. Our last stop was the bank to get bills and coins in the local currency, to keep as souvenirs. It was busy when we arrived, and I cringed as my dad placed a large bill on the counter across from the perspiring teller.

“Could we have, um, a few of everything?” he asked sheepishly.

The teller, however, smiled graciously. “Well, my friends, the banks do not give out the one- and two-cent coins anymore because they are no longer in circulation. But I’ll see what I can do with the other amounts, yeah?”

We told him that would be great, and he disappeared into the back room. Ten minutes later he returned with myriad coins and bills. He counted out the five-, ten-, and twenty-five-cent pieces followed by small bills. As we were marveling over the intricate designs and colors, so different from our American money, he pulled out another roll.

“I got these from the vault,” he said with a warm grin. “You should hold onto them. You never know in a couple years, right?”

And he slid toward us four shiny coins, no larger than dimes. My mouth fell open as I glimpsed the numbers on their faces: one- and two-cent coins that were out of circulation! It was the perfect final experience to remember this population who went out of their way to be kind.

The coins that now sit on my dresser, alongside a collection of bargain shells and a photo of the nutmeg goddess, remind me every day of the Grenada way.