The next day, by taxi, we head up switchbacks to another coffee farm. By the time we arrive, I’m craving the world-famous Blue Mountain brew. Make that a steaming-hot cup. It’s freezing up here, and I didn’t pack a fleece. Inside the modest cottage headquarters of the family-owned Old Tavern Coffee Estate, Dorothy Twyman pours beans into the roaster. They crackle as the sugars in them caramelize. One pop and it’s medium roast; two pops is medium-dark. Dorothy pours a ridiculously fresh cup of coffee. I warm my hands on the mug and sip. It’s robust with tropical-fruit accents. I take no sugar or cream because I’ve developed a preference for the real Jamaica — strong, not too sweet, with just a hint of wild. This is how I will travel from now on: raw, with no preconceptions. And to think, I came here as a resort buff.