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It was interesting growing up in Africa where there were only two TV channels, neither of which worked predictably. But my parents stocked up on return trips home by (illegally) videotaping movies and TV shows for my brother and I to watch on those rare days when we wouldn’t be outdoors chasing cows, climbing trees or building mud villages. In fact, our parents preferred that we play outside, so they restricted us to one movie or TV show per week. That day was Monday, and my brother and I looked forward to it every week, even though we had trees, lakes and a million species of animals, birds and insects to explore. Still, we sat down every week, and eagerly savoured our decision. Would we watch Flipper again? Or maybe The Shaggy Dog? How about Cinderella?

What both my brother and I agreed on, time and again, was the movie The Princess Bride, a film that captured our imaginations in bright, inexplainable ways and infused itself into our play time. A tomboyish girl, I pretended I was “Westley,” while my brother chose the name “Peter” (I believe, after the older brother in Chronicles of Narnia). We copied the sword fight scene. We played hide and seek in a make-believe “swamp” (really just a fish pond and a few banana trees). We both imagined ourselves the explorers of a new and wonderful fantasy world, part Narnia, part Princess Bride wonderland.

However, as a pre-teen girl, with the echos of puberty making their way ever closer to me, I saw Westley differently. He became my Prince Charming, and I dreamed of being swept into a romance with a man who would do my bidding with humble, hungry eyes and an obedient “As you wish.” Nothing could make my stirring little heart happier than kissing those lips, hearing that voice and knowing that Westley loved me and not Buttercup. I was crushing on Westley big time, but can you blame me?

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