Much of the time I spend on Grand Cayman is marked by a feeling that I am really elsewhere. Some moments, when the sea is a brilliant mirror and the horizon stretches into the blue forever, it seems that I am far to the south, on some other flat-as-a-pita island, say Aruba or Bonaire. Other times, when at a market where vendors are serving up ackee and saltfish or giant plates of jerked pork and chicken, I get the feeling of being in Jamaica. That's fitting, since Grand Cayman's first settlers are thought to have been Cromwell's British troops fleeing royalist soldiers in Jamaica, from which much of Grand Cayman's workforce still hails. Most of the time, however, I feel as if I haven't strayed far from my home in Florida. The strip malls that buffer West Bay Road along Seven Mile Beach are home to all the familiar fast-food franchises. And everywhere there are realestate signs for Century 21, RE/MAX, Coldwell Banker, and the other usual suspects. There is so much buying and selling going on - milliondollar high-rise condos, giant Mediterranean-style mansions on half-acre beachfront lots - that one can sympathize with the home owner who, in one West Bay community I pass through, has erected a sign in his yard that plainly states: "This house is NOT for sale!"