Halfway through our stay, as we were eating yet another frighteningly expensive meal, the owner of the hotel approached our table, sat down, and asked us if we were enjoying our stay. His sudden interest in us made me think that he was about to ask us for something. It reminded me of when I was six years old and Farshid would tell me what a wonderful sister I was and then ask me to share my Kit Kat bar with him. Sure enough, the Englishman asked us whether we would be willing to do a favor for the people of Spanish Wells. Good God, I thought. Drug smuggling.

He continued, “Every year, the girls of Spanish Wells compete in a beauty pageant. It’s the biggest event of the year and every girl dreams of winning the title and qualifying for the Miss Bahamas pageant. The problem is that we can never find judges who are not related to the contestants, since as you’ve noticed, it’s a small island. We were wondering if you two would do us the honor of serving as judges in this year’s pageant.”

I hate beauty pageants. This may have to do with the fact that I was one of those girls who learn early on that they will have to rely on their brains to open doors. It took me years to overcome the beauty expectations of Iranian culture and a few more years to overcome growing up in Newport Beach, where the standard of beauty involves rigorous exercise, bottles of hydrogen peroxide, and silicone. There was no way I was going to dip my toe in the dysfunctional pond of beauty pageants.

As if reading my mind, the Englishman continued, “It’s not just about beauty—there’s a talent competition and a question-and-answer segment. Please consider this, since otherwise, we don’t have enough judges.”

There wasn’t much we could say. “We’ll do it,” we said.

“Splendid,” he exclaimed.

The next morning, when the receptionist-bellhop-waitress-historian-maid came to clean the room, she greeted us with unusual enthusiasm.

“So I heard you will be judging the pageant this year! I competed three times.”

“I thought you can only compete once in a beauty pageant,” I said.

“We don’t have a lot of girls on the island, so you can keep trying.”

The following afternoon, hundreds of residents of Spanish Wells stood on the beach to watch the arrival of a small motor-boat. I had not seen this many people since we landed. As the boat approached, I could see a woman wearing a purple hat with large purple feathers waving at everyone. The crowd went wild.

As she gingerly stepped off the boat, we were told this was a former Miss Bahamas who had come to be a pageant judge. The fourth judge would be the son of a wealthy Canadian family that owned a large house on the island.