Who says work and pleasure can't be combined? Our author, that's who.

Illustration by Zohar Lazar.

Already I'm being bad.
The first thing I do when I'm shown our room at the luxury resort in Barbados is to case it for an Internet connection. They had been vague about this on the telephone. "Some rooms" had access, I'd been told. When I wondered out loud if mine would be one of those rooms, they, too, expressed wonderment. We would all find out together. And the answer is: No, my room is not one of those rooms.

I'm here in Barbados because I could really use a vacation, yet I really can't permit myself to take one because I've really got too much to do, which is really stressing me out. The best I can offer myself is a change of scenery for my work. "Vacations are overrated" - that's the assessment of a woman I know whom I'll call Pickle … though, if Pickle meant it, why is she here with me? She craves massages and pedicures, like most girls, but more often than not, she exhibits type A behavior. I ask her what her goal is on this trip. That's how we talk to each other.

"To concentrate," she replies. That's my Pickle.

The place where we're staying is called the House, situated on the Caribbean coast of Barbados at sandy Paynes Bay. In addition to its exquisite location, the House is small (though much bigger than a house) and unfussy and caters to adults. Its website promises "a setting so inspiring, so seductively sensual …" Meaning romance - which Pickle and I have no time for - but also solitude. The "ambassador" (that's the House's term for the hired help) who hands us a welcome daiquiri - and who's wearing an all-white wardrobe and thus looks less like an ambassador and more like a monk-bartender amalgam - tells us to call him whenever we need something.

We've come to the right place. The House, behind security gates, is barely visible from the street. Once inside, you step onto dark wooden floors that lead to an open-air bar and then to a deck that explodes out into a staggering vista of the Caribbean. Torches line the walkway. White-clad ambassadors glide in and out of view as if on ice skates. There's ambient music - Pickle insists it's Tom Petty, but I can't hear it over the waves - and the occasional grinding­ of the daiquiri blender. I feel removed. But I also feel like I could … well … get a little bit of … y'know … work done here.

Our ambassador has read me like a cheap novel. Before leaving us, he shows us the House's library. Inside are two computers with Internet hookups.

I steal a glance at Pickle. Her eyes say yes!

On our way past the bar, we see a stack of papers on a counter: today's editions of the [London] Times and the Washington Post. Double yes!

Call us pathetic, but you have to admit we're on to something. Getting away from it all, except not really - it's an idea whose time has come. I live in Washington, D.C., where everyone is chronically overworked. They never use their vacation time. How pathetic is that? I've never believed that work and play have to be mutually exclusive functions like eating and sleeping. You always hear people say, "I do my best work when …," and they're never referring to work done at the office. So why not embrace the obvious? Why not do your best work in Barbados?

Pickle and I are sharing a suite that has two bathrooms and two balconies overlooking the water. We've packed identically: a laptop and a suitcase filled with summer clothes, books, magazines, and office documents. Pickle emerges from her bathroom in a bikini, holding a container of sunblock in one hand and a book in the other.

"Chop-chop," she urges.

The water is an unsullied blue, and its waves are persistently gentle. But the sun is not - and because I've spent the better part of two years huddled inside with my laptop, writing a book, I am as white as a refrigerator. Pickle's way ahead of me. She stretches out beneath a canopy. I take my place beside her. For beach reading, I've brought along Cobra II, a zesty little tale about the invasion of Iraq. Pickle is reading Senator Barack Obama's autobiography. I notice a British couple mounting a Jet Ski and laughing as they tear across the surface of the sea.

"They're going to burn to death," says Pickle without looking up.

"Too true," I say.

The ambassador arrives and asks us what we'd like to drink. This is a pivotal moment. Pickle and I look at each other.

"I'd like a piña colada," she tells the ambassador. I acknowledge that I would like one too.

A half hour later, our glasses are empty and we're both passed out.

It's almost sunset when Pickle awakes. "We are so behind schedule," she laments.

That evening, we dine next door, on the patio of Daphne's, an elegantly lit Italian restaurant. The British couple is two tables over from us, just behind Pickle. I don't tell her that they're in fact nicely tanned.

"Okay, that's charming and all, but …," says Pickle. She makes an exasperated gesture, and I realize she's referring to the encompassing chorus of crickets. Pickle has never lived outside of a major metropolitan area.

I pour her another glass of wine. "Think of it as the sound of a hundred Black­Berrys going off at once," I suggest. She is not amused.

The first morning, Pickle sleeps through breakfast. I dine alone in the open-air bar, chewing on a muffin while I marvel at the 10 or so other couples at this 34-room hotel, who, like us, have thoroughly sequestered themselves and seem oblivious to each other's presence. Everyone's friendly enough. We all greet each other at the juice bar. But the House is not about fraternity. The volleyball games are farther down the beach. Here, our agendas are our own.

After breakfast, I bring Pickle tea, and then we slip into our swimsuits, grab copies of the Washington Post, and take our places under the canopy, where we become zombies marinated in sunblock for the better part of the day. Our laptops sit forlornly in their cases. We are taking a vacation in spite of ourselves.

The next day, Pickle and I achieve mind meld. We're in our suite: She's on the phone with her editors in Washington, and I've taken my laptop out to the balcony. Guilt has gotten the better of us. We cannot let this working vacation go to waste on fun!

Pickle and her laptop join me and mine outside. "We need set hours," she says as she inclines her chair toward the shade.

"Structure," I agree.

We will lose this noble battle - we both sense it: The waves will mesmerize, the sun will stunt our energy, happy hour will draw near, and then we'll interrogate the ambassadors about which restaurant has the deepest reserve wine list. But on day two, we make an effort to strike a balance.

Pickle and I are both fast typists. Beads of sunblock roll down my arms. The vein in her forehead protrudes as she scowls at her screen. This is more like it.

"This is the way a newsroom ought to be," I observe.

"I say we buy the local paper," she says.

Pickle's face shines like a little moon. I can tell she's actually considering the idea.

It all goes south on our third day. That morning at breakfast, I look up from my Iraq book to see two men wearing pinstripe suits, drinking their coffee, and discussing some kind of merger. In Barbados! Pickle and I are toga partiers by comparison.

And I guess that's when it hits me: Who are we kidding? We don't want to be those guys in pinstripes. We want to be here as a reward for our work. Right?

Pickle peeks out at me from under her blankets as I enter the bedroom. "You gonna­ do some writing?" she asks blearily.

"Maybe later."

She's quiet for a moment. Then: "So much for the structure."

Sure, there had been a lot of big talk. Of pages that would be cranked out. Of documents that would be studied and highlighted.­ Of daily use of the House's fitness room. These were my pledges. But by this, the third day, it's clear that what I'd really like to work on is the same thing Pickle would really like to concentrate on - which is, to say, nothing whatsoever.

On our last night, when we return to the House after dinner, we find the well-tanned British couple who rode the Jet Ski sitting alone in the open-air bar, having a nightcap while enjoying the serenade of crickets. They wave us over. It turns out that he's a tennis pro, she's a personal trainer, and this is their honeymoon. We go through the usual how-did-you-meet-each-other and
who-made-the-worst-toast-at-your-reception.

Then Pickle gets down to business. "I've got to hear what you think of Tony Blair," she says.
The tennis pro laughs. "You must be the one who steals the Washington Post every morning," he says.

Pickle and I are both silent on the drive back to the airport. I know she's thinking what I'm thinking: back to work. We thought we'd never left it. That had been the plan.

Where did we go wrong?