People who work in the food service industry in St. Thomas (and there are many of us) must annually renew their health card in order to stay legally employed. To do this, one must carry a personal poo sample to a lab where it is tested for worms. They don’t test for anything else—Hepatitis, cholera, bird flu, VD…just intestinal worms. Don’t ask me to explain. Then one must take the results to the community clinic at the hospital where, after 1pm on weekdays, they issue health cards to food handlers and others who need it. Having had to do this twice now, I’ve gotten over the initial shock of having to scoop a piece of my poo into a sample jar and later hand it to lab technician. (I learned after the first time to write my name on the sample jar BEFORE the sample was collected.) The whole process is just sort of a pain in the ass (pun not intended) like any bureaucratic process in the VI. But at least the waiting room experience is far more entertaining than it would be in the Midwest.
I couldn’t have been more pleased with the company I kept during the short elevator ride to the 2nd floor. The woman I rode with wore the type of vibrant Caribbean outfit I most enjoy. A fuchsia business suit with bright orange accents and fuchsia heels to match. Her hair was done up in thick braids, and at the crown of her head the braids were multi-colored. They reminded me of the consistency of rag rugs, but with the hues of those sweet rainbow candy canes (as opposed to the peppermint ones). I’m telling you, I couldn’t be more turned on by the color of this island, both nature-made and human-displayed.
My other source of entertainment came from another local woman wearing pink. This one in hot magenta scrubs, who also seemed to be waiting for a health card. She apparently knew the people working in the community health clinic because she maintained a loud conversation with them while eating her lunch in the waiting room. Clearly, she had no problem being the center of attention. For dessert she pulled out a banana (pronounced locally as bah-nah-nah). Upon noticing this, the man sitting in front of me asked her something I had trouble making out, but I’m pretty sure it was,
“Wh’eh ya get ya banana?”
To which she replied, “It not ya business wh’eh I get my banana.”
This back and forth continued for a couple minutes. And I'm confident that I was not imagining the sexual innuendo. She finally ended the exchange by declaring,
“Dat da problem wit black people. Dey see too much and hea’eh too much and say too much. Black people is too nosey.”
I found this statement rather entertaining since the young lady’s skin was the color of milk chocolate.
Patience and a sense of humor.
That’s what it takes to live happily in the VI, folks.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
F*** You, Rogers and Hammerstein!
When I told people I planned to spend Thanksgiving in Oklahoma, I generally received one of two single-word reactions. Either “Oklahoma?” expressed with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. Or my less-preferred response, namely, the person breaking out in a show tune, the title of which I don’t think it necessary to specify. Said song never failed to subsequently get stuck on repeat in my head.
Besides spending a few days with Mom (always enjoyable and the whole point of the trip), I enthused myself about spending five days in a place to which I’d never had an inkling of desire to visit, by expecting it to at least be blogworthy. My experience in Oklahoma would prove to be so ass backwards, so different from either my upper Midwestern or island home, that it would make an amusing blog post. And in this regard, I’m sorry to say, I have few worthy anecdotes.
Perhaps my favorite observation was a useful reminder of the beauty of unfettered, childlike enthusiasm. On the short flight from Dallas to Tulsa, I was wholly entertained and touched by an endless conversation between three little kids sitting in the two rows ahead of me. These kids could not have been more excited to be flying to our destination. One little girl was especially vocal and surprisingly verbal for how young she looked. She kept saying in a tiny squeak of a voice, “We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma! We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma!”
I told her mother that I’d never heard anyone so pumped about visiting Oklahoma. I must say that it pepped me up about the prospect of spending five days in a state I’d previously categorized as boring and stupid. (Which, I must admit is rather hypocritical of me, having always been supremely annoyed at this very same attitude towards Iowa.) When the flight landed, a pudgy-faced boy circa eight-years-old popped his head over the seat two rows in front of me to greet Lil Miss Chatty behind him.
“Hi!” he said, practically bursting with good cheer.
“Hi!” she said back. “You have a happy Thanksgiving, okay?”
“Thanks! I’m gonna have a happy Thanksgiving! You have a happy Thanksgiving too!” he responded with such a sincere and precious joyousness that I almost exploded from sheer delight. Interacting with children usually works for me as an effective form of psychological birth control, but these sweeties actually made me look forward to one day being a mother.
Kids have access to this vast reserve of enthusiasm from which adults seem to have lost touch. I remember the feeling. Well, it’s hard to conjure the exact sensation, but I know I've experienced it. As a child, looking so forward to the next day’s events that I could scarcely sleep. So rare is this feeling anymore, that when I catch a whisp of it...a glimmer of that pure excitement, I try to stay in that spot. Or follow it if it moves. It was, in part, this fleeting state of enthusiasm that I trailed to St. Thomas.
And I’ll tell ya this much, that feeling sure as hell ain’t gonna send my ass to Oklahoma. Don’t get me wrong, Tulsa seemed fine. While there, we managed to locate the only independent record store as well as a rare metaphysical/New Age shop: two Ashley-appreciated amenities. Tulsa really felt no different than the rural, middle-American cities of Des Moines and Omaha. And visiting was a good, if unnecessary, reminder of the types of places I never want to live.
Another, perhaps more necessary, reminder came on Thanksgiving Day, which we spent at Mom’s man’s daughter’s house. She is a lovely woman about a year older than me. And she has a husband, a baby, and a very nice suburban home in one of those treeless neighborhoods where all the newly-built houses look exactly the same. In other words, she’s much further along in her life than I am.
But…BUT…this is what I walked away from a year and a half ago. A beautiful domesticated life. And being faced with what my future would have looked like if I’d stayed on that path, I’m glad I made the change. It was most definitely right for me. Since I wasn’t entirely sure about this when I visited the states six months ago, I appreciated the opportunity to confirm the wisdom of my actions.
More affirmations of being on the right path came during a tarot card reading. I like to get them every few months whenever I feel stuck or need some guidance. I’ve found readings to be exponentially more helpful than most therapy sessions I’ve attended (excluding the few I had with Julia before moving to STT). As soon as I walked in the room, Ms. Dreamkeeper told me I needed to deal with the paperwork I’d been procrastinating on. She was right. I’ve been putting off dealing with both the STT BMV and the MN DOT for weeks/months now. I needed that little kick in the ass.
We talked about many things, and I daresay, she was accurate on most. Tarot card readings usually work for me. I’ve taken friends with before, and they have later said, “That reading was shit,” which is disappointing since I usually find them so helpful. Perhaps because I go into them without skepticism. I’m always told that I’m easy to read for because I’m so open. I expect to be helped, and so I am. Usually far more than I’d be after months of expensive therapy.
In this particular tarot reading, the most affirming bit came when I asked if writing this book about St. Thomas is what I’m supposed to be focusing on right now. The next card she flipped over contained one item: a book.
Thank you, Universe, for the clear communication!
P.S. My mom looks great! She has a chic, post-chemo hair-cut and is now rocking an auburn color instead of the blonde highlights that she wore for so long. She is mom to four very sweet Yorkshire Terriers. Because they are ridiculously small, I refer to them as The Vermin. She spends much of her time herding this vermin. Two members of the pack are 9-week old puppies, Slug and Izzie. I chose Slug as my bed partner. His preference was to sleep in the crook of my neck, which I found not at all unpleasant.
Besides spending a few days with Mom (always enjoyable and the whole point of the trip), I enthused myself about spending five days in a place to which I’d never had an inkling of desire to visit, by expecting it to at least be blogworthy. My experience in Oklahoma would prove to be so ass backwards, so different from either my upper Midwestern or island home, that it would make an amusing blog post. And in this regard, I’m sorry to say, I have few worthy anecdotes.
Perhaps my favorite observation was a useful reminder of the beauty of unfettered, childlike enthusiasm. On the short flight from Dallas to Tulsa, I was wholly entertained and touched by an endless conversation between three little kids sitting in the two rows ahead of me. These kids could not have been more excited to be flying to our destination. One little girl was especially vocal and surprisingly verbal for how young she looked. She kept saying in a tiny squeak of a voice, “We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma! We’re going to Tulsa, Oklahoma!”
I told her mother that I’d never heard anyone so pumped about visiting Oklahoma. I must say that it pepped me up about the prospect of spending five days in a state I’d previously categorized as boring and stupid. (Which, I must admit is rather hypocritical of me, having always been supremely annoyed at this very same attitude towards Iowa.) When the flight landed, a pudgy-faced boy circa eight-years-old popped his head over the seat two rows in front of me to greet Lil Miss Chatty behind him.
“Hi!” he said, practically bursting with good cheer.
“Hi!” she said back. “You have a happy Thanksgiving, okay?”
“Thanks! I’m gonna have a happy Thanksgiving! You have a happy Thanksgiving too!” he responded with such a sincere and precious joyousness that I almost exploded from sheer delight. Interacting with children usually works for me as an effective form of psychological birth control, but these sweeties actually made me look forward to one day being a mother.
Kids have access to this vast reserve of enthusiasm from which adults seem to have lost touch. I remember the feeling. Well, it’s hard to conjure the exact sensation, but I know I've experienced it. As a child, looking so forward to the next day’s events that I could scarcely sleep. So rare is this feeling anymore, that when I catch a whisp of it...a glimmer of that pure excitement, I try to stay in that spot. Or follow it if it moves. It was, in part, this fleeting state of enthusiasm that I trailed to St. Thomas.
And I’ll tell ya this much, that feeling sure as hell ain’t gonna send my ass to Oklahoma. Don’t get me wrong, Tulsa seemed fine. While there, we managed to locate the only independent record store as well as a rare metaphysical/New Age shop: two Ashley-appreciated amenities. Tulsa really felt no different than the rural, middle-American cities of Des Moines and Omaha. And visiting was a good, if unnecessary, reminder of the types of places I never want to live.
Another, perhaps more necessary, reminder came on Thanksgiving Day, which we spent at Mom’s man’s daughter’s house. She is a lovely woman about a year older than me. And she has a husband, a baby, and a very nice suburban home in one of those treeless neighborhoods where all the newly-built houses look exactly the same. In other words, she’s much further along in her life than I am.
But…BUT…this is what I walked away from a year and a half ago. A beautiful domesticated life. And being faced with what my future would have looked like if I’d stayed on that path, I’m glad I made the change. It was most definitely right for me. Since I wasn’t entirely sure about this when I visited the states six months ago, I appreciated the opportunity to confirm the wisdom of my actions.
More affirmations of being on the right path came during a tarot card reading. I like to get them every few months whenever I feel stuck or need some guidance. I’ve found readings to be exponentially more helpful than most therapy sessions I’ve attended (excluding the few I had with Julia before moving to STT). As soon as I walked in the room, Ms. Dreamkeeper told me I needed to deal with the paperwork I’d been procrastinating on. She was right. I’ve been putting off dealing with both the STT BMV and the MN DOT for weeks/months now. I needed that little kick in the ass.
We talked about many things, and I daresay, she was accurate on most. Tarot card readings usually work for me. I’ve taken friends with before, and they have later said, “That reading was shit,” which is disappointing since I usually find them so helpful. Perhaps because I go into them without skepticism. I’m always told that I’m easy to read for because I’m so open. I expect to be helped, and so I am. Usually far more than I’d be after months of expensive therapy.
In this particular tarot reading, the most affirming bit came when I asked if writing this book about St. Thomas is what I’m supposed to be focusing on right now. The next card she flipped over contained one item: a book.
Thank you, Universe, for the clear communication!
P.S. My mom looks great! She has a chic, post-chemo hair-cut and is now rocking an auburn color instead of the blonde highlights that she wore for so long. She is mom to four very sweet Yorkshire Terriers. Because they are ridiculously small, I refer to them as The Vermin. She spends much of her time herding this vermin. Two members of the pack are 9-week old puppies, Slug and Izzie. I chose Slug as my bed partner. His preference was to sleep in the crook of my neck, which I found not at all unpleasant.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Da Flip Side a Paradise
I usually try to keep what I write here positive. I do this, in part, because enough people bitch about this island already. My voice doesn’t need to be among the chorus of complainers. And I love it he’eh. So, I try not to dwell too much on what I dislike. A fundamental life rule these days.
But by the same token, I don’t want to ignore or gloss over the frustrating aspects of living in St. Thomas. If I’m going to be at all realistic about what it’s like to live here, I should describe some of the inconveniences that make up daily island life. Following are some examples of the annoying bits:.
Ex. #1. You may recall the nightmare surrounding my mom’s car, Laverne. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to take Señor Espina, the loser of a driver, to small claims court for the roughly $3500 he owes my mom, knowing that I would likely have to garnish his wages in order to actually see any money. But both of my she-bosses as well as my lawyer buddy (Da Troof) finally convinced me to just go through the small claims process. Da Troof even stood in line to pick up the police report for me since he spends much of his time at the courthouse anyway. This took two weeks due to the first one being stolen from his car (along with other far more valuable goods). I kid you not. But he was nice enough to pick up another copy of my report while he was picking up his report.
When I finally did get my hands on the police report, it was useless. Completely. And utterly. Useless. It stated that the cop arrived on the scene after both the driver and the vehicle were gone. This ain’t true. I know it ain’t true because I had a long conversation with the tow truck driver when he delivered Laverne. The cop must have seen the vehicle because he spoke with the tow truck driver. I also know that Espina was still there because the tow truck driver suggested that the cop take it easy on him. And the police obviously took his advice, seeing as that Señor Espina was drunk when the accident happened, yet failed to receive a DUI. But Espina did tell me that he had received a ticket for failure to maintain control of the vehicle. There is no mention of this on the police report. How could the cop have issued a citation if the driver had already left the scene? Either way, since neither the vehicle nor the driver are described in the report, I can’t use it in court. In order to proceed, I would have to subpoena the tow truck driver.
Pursuing the case would result in too much time spent on negative energy-draining crap. I have to stay angry in order to care. And I have to work to stay angry. So, I just gave up. Justice abandoned.
Ex. #2. My co-worker, Loida, woke up around 4am on the morning of Monday, November 22, to a loud crashing noise outside her apartment. A few minutes later, her boyfriend alerted her to the fact that the racket was the sound of her parked car getting hit. An old man taxi driver from one house up the hill apparently lost control of the vehicle seconds after getting behind the wheel. So her car…it mash up, meh son. Not drivable. In the meantime, she has to get to work by 6:45 am, get her son to school, and her boyfriend needs to go halfway across to the island to his new job. The driver has insurance, which should pay for the cost of a rental. But she can’t get the rental until the police report is complete and turned into the insurance company. You’d think this would be easily done, especially since her landlord happens to be a police. He actually came out the house to assess the scene and write the report. He told Loida that since this falls under his department’s jurisdiction, he should be able to get her the report in a couple of days. Then it turned into Friday. Then it turned into the following Tuesday. Then it was Thanksgiving. Then all the computers in the department crashed.
So, when I returned to work on the 30th, after being in Oklahoma for five days, Loida still had no wheels. Only because she still had no police report. She finally received the report on Thursday the 2nd, two and a half weeks after the incident occurred. It’s now December 10th, and she still has no wheels because of course, the insurance company needs some time to get the paperwork in order. What gets me the most about this one is that she actually had a fucking hook-up in the police department! I just don’t get it.
Ex. #3. And finally, WAPA. Good ‘ol WAPA. For those of you who don’t know, WAPA (pronounced wah-pah) is the Water and Power Authority for the Virgin Islands. And it’s, arguably, the least efficient and progressive utility company in the developed world. Power outages and rolling blackouts are a normal part of life here. Even when the sun is shining and the weather is calm, the power goes out almost daily. An independent assessment of WAPA that came out roughly a year or so ago, reported that our utility bills are 300% over the mainland average. And our service is, by far, the worst I have ever experienced. The frequent power outages wreak havoc on electronic equipment, and of course WAPA is not liable for any of it. You ice machine dies after a power surge? Tough shit. That’s the cost of doing business on the island. WAPA is a large part of why everything is so expensive here. Businesses have no choice but to pass on their gargantuan utility bills to their customers.
So, a specific example of how this affects local business people. The lovely lady who bakes the majority of our sweets at the coffee shop runs her business out of her home. She lives on the West side of the island, which happens to be the least populated area. So, for the last couple of weeks, when WAPA has employed rolling blackouts in order to work on the archaic, sickly equipment that runs our electricity, the West side received more than their fair share of the power losses. Our baker couldn’t bake. She is mostly out of business until the current returns. In order to work around this huge inconvenience, she gets up at 2am to bake because she knows that at least she’ll be able to finish the job. This is a wife and mother of three doing her best to keep a small business going that also allows her freedom to be available to her daughters. And the island infrastructure makes it hella difficult for her to succeed.
There you have it, folks. Some examples of why people flee after moving to what they think is paradise. And it’s the reason why those of us who choose to stay here generally agree with the statement, “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”
But by the same token, I don’t want to ignore or gloss over the frustrating aspects of living in St. Thomas. If I’m going to be at all realistic about what it’s like to live here, I should describe some of the inconveniences that make up daily island life. Following are some examples of the annoying bits:.
Ex. #1. You may recall the nightmare surrounding my mom’s car, Laverne. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to take Señor Espina, the loser of a driver, to small claims court for the roughly $3500 he owes my mom, knowing that I would likely have to garnish his wages in order to actually see any money. But both of my she-bosses as well as my lawyer buddy (Da Troof) finally convinced me to just go through the small claims process. Da Troof even stood in line to pick up the police report for me since he spends much of his time at the courthouse anyway. This took two weeks due to the first one being stolen from his car (along with other far more valuable goods). I kid you not. But he was nice enough to pick up another copy of my report while he was picking up his report.
When I finally did get my hands on the police report, it was useless. Completely. And utterly. Useless. It stated that the cop arrived on the scene after both the driver and the vehicle were gone. This ain’t true. I know it ain’t true because I had a long conversation with the tow truck driver when he delivered Laverne. The cop must have seen the vehicle because he spoke with the tow truck driver. I also know that Espina was still there because the tow truck driver suggested that the cop take it easy on him. And the police obviously took his advice, seeing as that Señor Espina was drunk when the accident happened, yet failed to receive a DUI. But Espina did tell me that he had received a ticket for failure to maintain control of the vehicle. There is no mention of this on the police report. How could the cop have issued a citation if the driver had already left the scene? Either way, since neither the vehicle nor the driver are described in the report, I can’t use it in court. In order to proceed, I would have to subpoena the tow truck driver.
Pursuing the case would result in too much time spent on negative energy-draining crap. I have to stay angry in order to care. And I have to work to stay angry. So, I just gave up. Justice abandoned.
Ex. #2. My co-worker, Loida, woke up around 4am on the morning of Monday, November 22, to a loud crashing noise outside her apartment. A few minutes later, her boyfriend alerted her to the fact that the racket was the sound of her parked car getting hit. An old man taxi driver from one house up the hill apparently lost control of the vehicle seconds after getting behind the wheel. So her car…it mash up, meh son. Not drivable. In the meantime, she has to get to work by 6:45 am, get her son to school, and her boyfriend needs to go halfway across to the island to his new job. The driver has insurance, which should pay for the cost of a rental. But she can’t get the rental until the police report is complete and turned into the insurance company. You’d think this would be easily done, especially since her landlord happens to be a police. He actually came out the house to assess the scene and write the report. He told Loida that since this falls under his department’s jurisdiction, he should be able to get her the report in a couple of days. Then it turned into Friday. Then it turned into the following Tuesday. Then it was Thanksgiving. Then all the computers in the department crashed.
So, when I returned to work on the 30th, after being in Oklahoma for five days, Loida still had no wheels. Only because she still had no police report. She finally received the report on Thursday the 2nd, two and a half weeks after the incident occurred. It’s now December 10th, and she still has no wheels because of course, the insurance company needs some time to get the paperwork in order. What gets me the most about this one is that she actually had a fucking hook-up in the police department! I just don’t get it.
Ex. #3. And finally, WAPA. Good ‘ol WAPA. For those of you who don’t know, WAPA (pronounced wah-pah) is the Water and Power Authority for the Virgin Islands. And it’s, arguably, the least efficient and progressive utility company in the developed world. Power outages and rolling blackouts are a normal part of life here. Even when the sun is shining and the weather is calm, the power goes out almost daily. An independent assessment of WAPA that came out roughly a year or so ago, reported that our utility bills are 300% over the mainland average. And our service is, by far, the worst I have ever experienced. The frequent power outages wreak havoc on electronic equipment, and of course WAPA is not liable for any of it. You ice machine dies after a power surge? Tough shit. That’s the cost of doing business on the island. WAPA is a large part of why everything is so expensive here. Businesses have no choice but to pass on their gargantuan utility bills to their customers.
So, a specific example of how this affects local business people. The lovely lady who bakes the majority of our sweets at the coffee shop runs her business out of her home. She lives on the West side of the island, which happens to be the least populated area. So, for the last couple of weeks, when WAPA has employed rolling blackouts in order to work on the archaic, sickly equipment that runs our electricity, the West side received more than their fair share of the power losses. Our baker couldn’t bake. She is mostly out of business until the current returns. In order to work around this huge inconvenience, she gets up at 2am to bake because she knows that at least she’ll be able to finish the job. This is a wife and mother of three doing her best to keep a small business going that also allows her freedom to be available to her daughters. And the island infrastructure makes it hella difficult for her to succeed.
There you have it, folks. Some examples of why people flee after moving to what they think is paradise. And it’s the reason why those of us who choose to stay here generally agree with the statement, “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Island Animal Watch: Chickens
Along with white rabbits, chickens have also played a symbolic role in my transition from a comfortable Minnesota life to a... well, more bohemian Caribbean one.
The story begins during my first visit to St. Thomas in the fall of 2006, shortly after my mom landed h'eh. I spied a chicken hanging out in a tree at Friendly's one day...
...and it really left me flabbergasted. The experience showed up in an essay I wrote for a writing class at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. You can read the essay here. (I recommend reading now for full effect of this blog post.)
Shortly after my third visit to St. Thomas—and final one before moving here— the wild island chickens managed to fly their way into my head. The little shits clucked and fluttered around in there, making a mess of all the worries and thoughts and desires I'd tried my whole life to organize so perfectly.
At this point, I hadn’t decided to move. I felt swept away. Completely changed. Deep down, I knew I had to go. But fear reigned me in. And love too, of course. Fear of the unknown. Fear of hurting and giving up the partner I had always considered such an undeserved gift. My life in Minnesota was beautiful in many ways. And while completely caught up in an immense, swirling feeling of fantasy and possibility, I also regarded myself with an equal amount of suspicion— distrusting the motives that would sacrifice my current blessings for an unknown adventure, creativity and...well, let's be honest now, lust.
Which brings us to Mr. T...
We were on the phone, at just about midnight. I sat on the back patio of the condo I shared with my Ex. The place we fell in love with together, decorated together, the one we planned to start our joint life in together. The fountain in our neighborhood's manmade pond splashed therapeutically just a few yards away. Of course, it wasn't lost on me that this was nowhere near as calming as the primal rhythm of ocean crashing on shore. I wondered if the neighbors could see me chain-smoking cigarettes and swigging from a bottle of Blue Moon under the twinkle lights so lovingly hung by the Ex only a few months before. For some reason I was telling Mr. T. about the chickens essay, (which you should go and read now if you haven’t yet) and he asked me in a low sexy voice,
“Do you feel like a chicken in a cage?”
*BAM*
Another bitch slap courtesy of the Universe.
“Um...Maybe…
I guess I hadn’t really thought of it like that.”
The question rendered me inarticulate.
My life did, at that moment, seem as if lived within a metaphorical cage. Beyond residing in a suburban condo, sitting on a patio nearly identical to all the other neighborhood patios, I pretty much always did what was safe and expected. What I SHOULD do. I did what was productive, what would build my bank account, even if it completely neglected my creative and spiritual coffers.
“Or would you rather be a wild island chicken in a tree?” he continued.
Well, when you put it like that…
“I guess I’d rather be a wild island chicken in a tree…”
This conversation looped through my mind during my final days commuting on the Twin Cities expressways. I needed to eject myself from these comfortable surroundings, into a place where I'd be forced to learn new skills for survival and success. Not unlike the chickens of St. Thomas, who depend only on themselves to feed and shelter their families. Midwestern chickens, specifically those in factory farms, don’t enjoy this experience of self-reliance and freedom. They sit in one place and wait for their next meal or injection, and also their turn at the slaughter. They have such little volition. While wild island chickens may have to dodge tourists and scour dumpsters to stay alive, they also have the opportunity to fly into trees.
It became increasingly clear to me that I didn’t want to be a caged chicken waiting for the slaughter.
I wanted to be a free island chick, forced to rely on her own pluck for success. (sorry! couldn't help the pun.)
And if you hadn’t yet guessed, those wild island chickens inspired da name of de blog ya readin’ now.
The story begins during my first visit to St. Thomas in the fall of 2006, shortly after my mom landed h'eh. I spied a chicken hanging out in a tree at Friendly's one day...
 |
| Photographic Evidence |
Shortly after my third visit to St. Thomas—and final one before moving here— the wild island chickens managed to fly their way into my head. The little shits clucked and fluttered around in there, making a mess of all the worries and thoughts and desires I'd tried my whole life to organize so perfectly.
At this point, I hadn’t decided to move. I felt swept away. Completely changed. Deep down, I knew I had to go. But fear reigned me in. And love too, of course. Fear of the unknown. Fear of hurting and giving up the partner I had always considered such an undeserved gift. My life in Minnesota was beautiful in many ways. And while completely caught up in an immense, swirling feeling of fantasy and possibility, I also regarded myself with an equal amount of suspicion— distrusting the motives that would sacrifice my current blessings for an unknown adventure, creativity and...well, let's be honest now, lust.
Which brings us to Mr. T...
We were on the phone, at just about midnight. I sat on the back patio of the condo I shared with my Ex. The place we fell in love with together, decorated together, the one we planned to start our joint life in together. The fountain in our neighborhood's manmade pond splashed therapeutically just a few yards away. Of course, it wasn't lost on me that this was nowhere near as calming as the primal rhythm of ocean crashing on shore. I wondered if the neighbors could see me chain-smoking cigarettes and swigging from a bottle of Blue Moon under the twinkle lights so lovingly hung by the Ex only a few months before. For some reason I was telling Mr. T. about the chickens essay, (which you should go and read now if you haven’t yet) and he asked me in a low sexy voice,
“Do you feel like a chicken in a cage?”
*BAM*
Another bitch slap courtesy of the Universe.
“Um...Maybe…
I guess I hadn’t really thought of it like that.”
The question rendered me inarticulate.
My life did, at that moment, seem as if lived within a metaphorical cage. Beyond residing in a suburban condo, sitting on a patio nearly identical to all the other neighborhood patios, I pretty much always did what was safe and expected. What I SHOULD do. I did what was productive, what would build my bank account, even if it completely neglected my creative and spiritual coffers.
“Or would you rather be a wild island chicken in a tree?” he continued.
Well, when you put it like that…
“I guess I’d rather be a wild island chicken in a tree…”
This conversation looped through my mind during my final days commuting on the Twin Cities expressways. I needed to eject myself from these comfortable surroundings, into a place where I'd be forced to learn new skills for survival and success. Not unlike the chickens of St. Thomas, who depend only on themselves to feed and shelter their families. Midwestern chickens, specifically those in factory farms, don’t enjoy this experience of self-reliance and freedom. They sit in one place and wait for their next meal or injection, and also their turn at the slaughter. They have such little volition. While wild island chickens may have to dodge tourists and scour dumpsters to stay alive, they also have the opportunity to fly into trees.
It became increasingly clear to me that I didn’t want to be a caged chicken waiting for the slaughter.
I wanted to be a free island chick, forced to rely on her own pluck for success. (sorry! couldn't help the pun.)
And if you hadn’t yet guessed, those wild island chickens inspired da name of de blog ya readin’ now.
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| The fowl really do have free reign of this island. |
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Island Animal Watch: White Rabbits?
During my last session with Julia, the holistic and spiritual-if-you-want-her-to-be therapist I visited before moving to St. Thomas, I asked if she had any final wisdom before I departed on my adventure.
“Follow white rabbits,” she replied.
“Okay, you’re gonna have to elaborate on that one, please.”
She said that in the The Matrix, Keanu Reeves’ character repeatedly sees white rabbits, he follows them, and they lead to the next step on his journey. (Of course, the Alice in Wonderland derived white rabbit theme has become a modern narrative archetype, if not a total pop culture cliche'. Which makes my experience with them in St. Thomas even more astonishing.) I told her I’d recently noticed a surplus of fleur-de-lis in my life, and Mr T. is being driven crazy by multiple ones (yes, like the number, 1111). She urged me to pay attention to signs like these because they are affirmations of being on the right path…or, I suppose, warnings of being on the wrong one, depending on the vibe.
Both fleur-de-lis and 111’s accompanied us on our road trip from Minneapolis to Miami, creating an enchanting sense of magical flow.
Which started to wear off about a week after being in St. Thomas when the anxiety—my old toxic frenemy—returned. But by the grace of some godly entity, I had an affirming experience that hit violently, like a much-needed smack upside my soul.
Mom, Mr. T and I were at the Hull Bay Hideaway for dinner. Mom and I drove together, and Mr. T met us on his bike. When it was time to leave, he suggested that I join him. I’d been scared up to this point, never having ridden a motorcycle before. Fortunately, I was aided by some of the liquid courage that flows so freely in St. Thomas. I reminded myself that I am here for some adventure, dammit. And riding on the back of a crotch-rocket on a mountainous, drunken island certainly counts.
As we rolled out of the boatyard/parking lot, I noticed some fluffy white bunny rabbits hopping in the grass. It never occurred to me that an animal so common to the temperate region of my homeland would also live in the tropics. Bunny rabbits aren’t tropical, are they? I can accept vermin like rats, mongoose and lizards… but cottontail bunnies? They seemed so completely out of place. An animal anatopism. But there they were, chilling in the grass, black eyes shining in the dark.
It wasn’t until I got to Mr. T's house after what turned out to be an exhilarating ride that I remembered what Julia had told me only I a few weeks earlier. Never did I think her advice would manifest itself so literally in my life. The realization actually gave me goosebumps, followed by a welcome sense of calm and wonder. For the next few weeks, I continued to see white rabbits around The Hideaway . And as the anxiety grew worse, they always brought a bit of warm fuzzy.
Most recently, I’ve encountered the white rabbits at Seven Minus Seven, the alternative arts collective I'm involved with. I first noticed them on an old graffiti-painted car outside. (I just now realized the car is actually a VW Golf, a model previously known as a VW Rabbit, which makes this story even better.)
And then on the indoor painting below:
(All done by former Artist-in-Residence, Paz. If you're interested in buying any of the art Paz' created at the 7-7 warehouse, we're happy to facilitate you.)
These encounters with white rabbits serve as a reminder not to discount magic. It may not come in a pull-a-rabbit-out-of-a-hat kinda way (okay, yes, pun intended). But it’s still there, sometimes in the most literal, face-slapping manner possible. One thing I've learned since this whole adventure began is that paying attention to these synchronicities—what my friend Beth calls tiny miracles— makes life a helluva lot more mysterious and fun.
“Follow white rabbits,” she replied.
“Okay, you’re gonna have to elaborate on that one, please.”
She said that in the The Matrix, Keanu Reeves’ character repeatedly sees white rabbits, he follows them, and they lead to the next step on his journey. (Of course, the Alice in Wonderland derived white rabbit theme has become a modern narrative archetype, if not a total pop culture cliche'. Which makes my experience with them in St. Thomas even more astonishing.) I told her I’d recently noticed a surplus of fleur-de-lis in my life, and Mr T. is being driven crazy by multiple ones (yes, like the number, 1111). She urged me to pay attention to signs like these because they are affirmations of being on the right path…or, I suppose, warnings of being on the wrong one, depending on the vibe.
Both fleur-de-lis and 111’s accompanied us on our road trip from Minneapolis to Miami, creating an enchanting sense of magical flow.
Which started to wear off about a week after being in St. Thomas when the anxiety—my old toxic frenemy—returned. But by the grace of some godly entity, I had an affirming experience that hit violently, like a much-needed smack upside my soul.
Mom, Mr. T and I were at the Hull Bay Hideaway for dinner. Mom and I drove together, and Mr. T met us on his bike. When it was time to leave, he suggested that I join him. I’d been scared up to this point, never having ridden a motorcycle before. Fortunately, I was aided by some of the liquid courage that flows so freely in St. Thomas. I reminded myself that I am here for some adventure, dammit. And riding on the back of a crotch-rocket on a mountainous, drunken island certainly counts.
As we rolled out of the boatyard/parking lot, I noticed some fluffy white bunny rabbits hopping in the grass. It never occurred to me that an animal so common to the temperate region of my homeland would also live in the tropics. Bunny rabbits aren’t tropical, are they? I can accept vermin like rats, mongoose and lizards… but cottontail bunnies? They seemed so completely out of place. An animal anatopism. But there they were, chilling in the grass, black eyes shining in the dark.
It wasn’t until I got to Mr. T's house after what turned out to be an exhilarating ride that I remembered what Julia had told me only I a few weeks earlier. Never did I think her advice would manifest itself so literally in my life. The realization actually gave me goosebumps, followed by a welcome sense of calm and wonder. For the next few weeks, I continued to see white rabbits around The Hideaway . And as the anxiety grew worse, they always brought a bit of warm fuzzy.
Most recently, I’ve encountered the white rabbits at Seven Minus Seven, the alternative arts collective I'm involved with. I first noticed them on an old graffiti-painted car outside. (I just now realized the car is actually a VW Golf, a model previously known as a VW Rabbit, which makes this story even better.)
And then on the indoor painting below:
(All done by former Artist-in-Residence, Paz. If you're interested in buying any of the art Paz' created at the 7-7 warehouse, we're happy to facilitate you.)
 |
| It's that long skinny one with the white rabbits over on the left above the fridge. I want it for myself someday. |
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Is the Corolla a Klutz? Or is it Me?
Since moving here just over a year ago, I've had nine flat tires. Yes, that's right. Nine a 'dem. I was even fortunate enough to enjoy three in one week—all separate tires!
The first of the bunch occurred pretty much a year ago exactly. And of course, both Mom and Mr. T. happened to be off island. So, alone and very St. Thomas fresh, my non-mechanical ass had to figure out how to get the tire repaired without anyone holding my hand.
Which isn't to say that no one helped me. R. at the Island Latté inflated my tire with his compressor brought by J. from home. He also recommended a repair place in town, across from the old cemetery with the aboveground graves. I drove by the shop twice without noticing it. I don't know what I expected; something looking more like a legitimate business and less like a lean-to with an empty office attached, I guess. Next door sat a mini-mart with what seemed like two separate loitering stations in the parking lot. One for dominos...and one for, well...sitting.
During this initial visit to the repair shop, I made two ahfta-noon friends. Julian, an older gentleman with a cane, bought me a Presidente’ and offered conversation while I waited. He talked of growing up on the island, getting shot in Vietnam, and working locally as a chef. When I told him I wanted to write a book about St. Thomas, he expressed immediate concern that I would focus soley on the negative aspects of his home. I assured him (and made a commitment to myself) that this was, in no way, my intent. I am interested in the whole spirit of the Virgin Islands, most of which really doesn't suck. How and why people get drawn in...why some never leave and others flee. Julian was one of the first locals that I conversed with. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him at the shop again, but I did meet his brother there once.
The other ahfta-noon friend was a street rasta who I'm sure said something about my beauty (it's really nothing special about me, I assure you) and then presented me with this charming flower creation:
Last summer, while getting two tires replaced at the same establishment, I noticed an abandoned stroller in the group of rag tag chairs at the sitting station. The stroller was positioned in a way that suggested it sometimes functioned as an extra piece of furniture. Feeling brave, I thought it fun to plop down in the child carrier and join the men for a little Sunday morning communion. Admittedly, they seemed a bit wary of a stateside girl with a pit bull mix entering their territory. But they were amused when I asked if this gathering was their version of church.
On another radiant Sunday morning last month, I discovered my 8th flat tire outside the Meerkat's house.
He was away on business, so once again, I had no man to help solve my problem. With most of the day stretched before me until my evening shift at the pub, I decided it was time for me to change a tire. This being my 8th in a year and all. (Yes, if you’re keeping track, I have had a flat since…) I watched a how-to on You Tube, found readable instructions as well, and set about the task.
Cranking the jack took an inordinate amount of time and copious sweating, grunting, and swearing.
The first of the bunch occurred pretty much a year ago exactly. And of course, both Mom and Mr. T. happened to be off island. So, alone and very St. Thomas fresh, my non-mechanical ass had to figure out how to get the tire repaired without anyone holding my hand.
Which isn't to say that no one helped me. R. at the Island Latté inflated my tire with his compressor brought by J. from home. He also recommended a repair place in town, across from the old cemetery with the aboveground graves. I drove by the shop twice without noticing it. I don't know what I expected; something looking more like a legitimate business and less like a lean-to with an empty office attached, I guess. Next door sat a mini-mart with what seemed like two separate loitering stations in the parking lot. One for dominos...and one for, well...sitting.
During this initial visit to the repair shop, I made two ahfta-noon friends. Julian, an older gentleman with a cane, bought me a Presidente’ and offered conversation while I waited. He talked of growing up on the island, getting shot in Vietnam, and working locally as a chef. When I told him I wanted to write a book about St. Thomas, he expressed immediate concern that I would focus soley on the negative aspects of his home. I assured him (and made a commitment to myself) that this was, in no way, my intent. I am interested in the whole spirit of the Virgin Islands, most of which really doesn't suck. How and why people get drawn in...why some never leave and others flee. Julian was one of the first locals that I conversed with. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him at the shop again, but I did meet his brother there once.
The other ahfta-noon friend was a street rasta who I'm sure said something about my beauty (it's really nothing special about me, I assure you) and then presented me with this charming flower creation:
 |
| Cool, huh? Tourists have to pay for them. |
Last summer, while getting two tires replaced at the same establishment, I noticed an abandoned stroller in the group of rag tag chairs at the sitting station. The stroller was positioned in a way that suggested it sometimes functioned as an extra piece of furniture. Feeling brave, I thought it fun to plop down in the child carrier and join the men for a little Sunday morning communion. Admittedly, they seemed a bit wary of a stateside girl with a pit bull mix entering their territory. But they were amused when I asked if this gathering was their version of church.
 |
| Yes, that's moi in the stroller. Guard dog to my right. |
On another radiant Sunday morning last month, I discovered my 8th flat tire outside the Meerkat's house.
 |
| Ain't she a beaut? |
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| I really don't think it's supposed to be so taxing a process. |
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| Hershey offers his assistance. |
The most difficult part turned out to be removing the lug nuts. Oh my. Luckily, I was parked next to a railing that I leaned on while jumping up and down on the wrench. Never, ever ever have I ever felt so light and airy. And...I was successful at removing but one lug nut with my weight alone. Fortunately, a frantic search for WD-40 proved successful, and dousing the lugs with lube got those babies a-movin’. Let me tell you, I have an entirely new respect for this basic household product.
The rest of the process was pretty easy. My hands got dirty, but it was a satisfying kind of dirty.
 |
| Photographic Evidence |
As silly as it sounds (and yes, you all have license to tease me), changing this tire was an empowering new victory for me. A small step toward realizing my true strength and potential.
And of course by the time I finally got out to the pool, it clouded over and soon started to rain.
And of course by the time I finally got out to the pool, it clouded over and soon started to rain.
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| Don't let him fool you. He's scared to swim. |
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Pillow Talk of the Sexiest Variety
Me: “Hey, remember when we were in St. John, and I told you about a dream where you were helping me along with some word I was trying to use? But I couldn't remember what word it was?"
Meerkat: “Yeah. I remember.”
Me: “The word just came to me out of nowhere.”
Meerkat: “Okay. And what was it?"
Me: “InexORable.”
Meerkat: “...Um, I think it’s pronounced inEXorable.”
Me: “Shit.”
A notable exchange for three reasons:
A. This marks my second premonitory dream in five years.
B. Usually I am the one correcting other people’s language skills.
C. Finding his superior vocabulary overwhelmingly aphrodisiacal makes me an official nerd. Which isn't to say that this wasn't already clear.
Meerkat: “Yeah. I remember.”
Me: “The word just came to me out of nowhere.”
Meerkat: “Okay. And what was it?"
Me: “InexORable.”
Meerkat: “...Um, I think it’s pronounced inEXorable.”
Me: “Shit.”
A notable exchange for three reasons:
A. This marks my second premonitory dream in five years.
B. Usually I am the one correcting other people’s language skills.
C. Finding his superior vocabulary overwhelmingly aphrodisiacal makes me an official nerd. Which isn't to say that this wasn't already clear.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 4: Conclusion of the Moment
Despite my new appreciation for consumer convenience, a litter-free landscape, seasons, and access to my indie rock habit, what I miss most about the Midwest are my kith. I still love my friends. And they still seem to love me. Thankfully (and not to my surprise), we picked up where we left off. Clicking into the intimate rhythm of true friendship after months or years with slight communication is a top friend criterion for me because (as you likely know) I’m an embarrassingly pathetic correspondent. Infrequent but very involved face to face communication is highly preferred to regular phone chats. For reasons I don't pretend to understand, fifteen minutes on the phone and I'm a claustrophobic mess.
Interested in what I’m up to? Don’t expect a return email or phone call, simply check my blog. Your updates are accepted via text, which is also how you're most likely to receive a response. I realize this is a shitty, narcissistic and very millennial arrangement, my friends. And I am sorry. I don't know how to change.
Since I know some of you are anxious for me to return to this topic…Yes, I still love the Ex too. And I tried to rekindle our relationship because it became even clearer during my visit that he really is one in a million. My attempts were kindly met with resistance. I know he still loves me in some fashion, but he's not in love with me, which is probably wise on his part.
On my part, there was much emoting. I may have been the teary-eyed bridesmaid…But it ended on a positive note. Thankfully, talking through what happened to us a year earlier (Ahem. What I did to end our four-year relationship a year earlier.) proved therapeutic. When he dropped me at the airport, an unexpected serenity filled me. A grace granted as peace. And I'm happy to report that the weeping spells have ceased.
Ah…
I tell you, the process of acceptance and release is golden.
Totally worth the preceding heartache and torment.
And, I can say with confidence, we’re both moving on healthily
… as friends.
Another thing that became clearer to me, but that I’m still trying to articulate properly, is the feeling of authenticity I get from people and places in St. Thomas that I miss at home in the Midwest. Which is strange since the island itself is the subject of so many a fantasy. Stateside places, suburbia and exurbia specifically, are nowhere lands. Near identical to any American town, character and charm are spare. People busily go about their days making little eye contact or conversation with those around them. Plus, compared to people in the VI, Midwesterners are SO darn reserved… and, dare I say at the risk of offense, a bit boring? Many of my friends excluded, of course.
I revel in the unexpected quirky surprises that make island life so spirited. For example, in the St. Thomas Kmart, people sing and dance to the Beyonce or Rihanna playing over the loudspeakers. (Except on Sunday when the soundtrack tends to be gospel.) People recognize friends and call out the island version of how are you: “You okay?” Jokes are cracked and laughter erupts. I fail to recall such public displays of vivacity and mirth back home.
Of course, numerous are the inconveniences and ass pains of living in the Virgin Islands. And there is a lot that will break your heart if you do any looking around. Some residents constantly bitch about these things, which I find increasingly irritating the more I grow to love this place. Especially if its lobbed with good ole American arrogance. Sure, I complain at times. But I try to vent, accept, and move forward. I’m mostly still entertained by life here and am rarely bored… I guess because living on a Caribbean island is still a novelty.
Back home is old news. The norm. What I’ve always known.
So it's not necessarily the Midwest's fault that I find the Caribbean so genuinely fascinating in comparison. But shit...it was enough for me— a NON-risk-taker—to quit my old life and move here to write about the place. A lot of people who move here are not only not interested in the culture, but are actually rather annoyed by it. My opinion is if they don't like it h'eh, they should return to Akron or Buffalo or Vegas or from wherever it is they emigrated. St. Thomas so inspires and fills my heart with gladness on a daily basis. It’s eccentricities and history, the in and outflow of diverse peoples, the laid back vibe, the breathtaking vistas…I want to soak it all up…like when, after a long, frigid winter, I savored the first hot sunny rays to touch my alabaster skin. (Of course, it’s been well over a year since I enjoyed this particular sensation.)
I also realized while in Minnesota that I really do love Minneapolis. It still feels like home to me. But St. Thomas feels more like home all the time too. Which leads me to wonder, what exactly constitutes home? It’s a weighty question, I know. One for which I have no easy answer. But I think a person can feel at home in more than one place on earth. Ironically, one’s place of birth or youth often fails to invoke a sense of comfort or familiarity. This is certainly true for me, as neither the town I grew up in nor the town of my roots feel like home in the least. In fact, I avoid visiting these places because of their tendency to lull me into a vague state of depression.
So, while I still really love Minneapolis and it still feels like home in a lot of ways, I know that I’m not yet ready to return. My loved ones, of course, wanted to know when I’m coming back. (Not before you visit, bitches!) All I could say with any certainty was that I needed at least another year in St. Thomas. Maybe more. My Caribbean journey is not complete. In many ways, I feel like I’m just now getting settled… and started. Just now collecting the creative and spiritual energy I came here to cultivate. I know that when the time comes for me to move on, the directive will be deep down clear…a gut-level, intuitive knowing. It certainly won’t come solely from that insufferable source of all logic and rationale- my head.
Sorry parents, but this soul-searching adventure ain't over yet!
Interested in what I’m up to? Don’t expect a return email or phone call, simply check my blog. Your updates are accepted via text, which is also how you're most likely to receive a response. I realize this is a shitty, narcissistic and very millennial arrangement, my friends. And I am sorry. I don't know how to change.
Since I know some of you are anxious for me to return to this topic…Yes, I still love the Ex too. And I tried to rekindle our relationship because it became even clearer during my visit that he really is one in a million. My attempts were kindly met with resistance. I know he still loves me in some fashion, but he's not in love with me, which is probably wise on his part.
On my part, there was much emoting. I may have been the teary-eyed bridesmaid…But it ended on a positive note. Thankfully, talking through what happened to us a year earlier (Ahem. What I did to end our four-year relationship a year earlier.) proved therapeutic. When he dropped me at the airport, an unexpected serenity filled me. A grace granted as peace. And I'm happy to report that the weeping spells have ceased.
Ah…
I tell you, the process of acceptance and release is golden.
Totally worth the preceding heartache and torment.
And, I can say with confidence, we’re both moving on healthily
… as friends.
Another thing that became clearer to me, but that I’m still trying to articulate properly, is the feeling of authenticity I get from people and places in St. Thomas that I miss at home in the Midwest. Which is strange since the island itself is the subject of so many a fantasy. Stateside places, suburbia and exurbia specifically, are nowhere lands. Near identical to any American town, character and charm are spare. People busily go about their days making little eye contact or conversation with those around them. Plus, compared to people in the VI, Midwesterners are SO darn reserved… and, dare I say at the risk of offense, a bit boring? Many of my friends excluded, of course.
I revel in the unexpected quirky surprises that make island life so spirited. For example, in the St. Thomas Kmart, people sing and dance to the Beyonce or Rihanna playing over the loudspeakers. (Except on Sunday when the soundtrack tends to be gospel.) People recognize friends and call out the island version of how are you: “You okay?” Jokes are cracked and laughter erupts. I fail to recall such public displays of vivacity and mirth back home.
Of course, numerous are the inconveniences and ass pains of living in the Virgin Islands. And there is a lot that will break your heart if you do any looking around. Some residents constantly bitch about these things, which I find increasingly irritating the more I grow to love this place. Especially if its lobbed with good ole American arrogance. Sure, I complain at times. But I try to vent, accept, and move forward. I’m mostly still entertained by life here and am rarely bored… I guess because living on a Caribbean island is still a novelty.
Back home is old news. The norm. What I’ve always known.
So it's not necessarily the Midwest's fault that I find the Caribbean so genuinely fascinating in comparison. But shit...it was enough for me— a NON-risk-taker—to quit my old life and move here to write about the place. A lot of people who move here are not only not interested in the culture, but are actually rather annoyed by it. My opinion is if they don't like it h'eh, they should return to Akron or Buffalo or Vegas or from wherever it is they emigrated. St. Thomas so inspires and fills my heart with gladness on a daily basis. It’s eccentricities and history, the in and outflow of diverse peoples, the laid back vibe, the breathtaking vistas…I want to soak it all up…like when, after a long, frigid winter, I savored the first hot sunny rays to touch my alabaster skin. (Of course, it’s been well over a year since I enjoyed this particular sensation.)
I also realized while in Minnesota that I really do love Minneapolis. It still feels like home to me. But St. Thomas feels more like home all the time too. Which leads me to wonder, what exactly constitutes home? It’s a weighty question, I know. One for which I have no easy answer. But I think a person can feel at home in more than one place on earth. Ironically, one’s place of birth or youth often fails to invoke a sense of comfort or familiarity. This is certainly true for me, as neither the town I grew up in nor the town of my roots feel like home in the least. In fact, I avoid visiting these places because of their tendency to lull me into a vague state of depression.
So, while I still really love Minneapolis and it still feels like home in a lot of ways, I know that I’m not yet ready to return. My loved ones, of course, wanted to know when I’m coming back. (Not before you visit, bitches!) All I could say with any certainty was that I needed at least another year in St. Thomas. Maybe more. My Caribbean journey is not complete. In many ways, I feel like I’m just now getting settled… and started. Just now collecting the creative and spiritual energy I came here to cultivate. I know that when the time comes for me to move on, the directive will be deep down clear…a gut-level, intuitive knowing. It certainly won’t come solely from that insufferable source of all logic and rationale- my head.
Sorry parents, but this soul-searching adventure ain't over yet!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 3: Diversity
Growing up in the Midwest, I was pretty much constantly surrounded by middle-class white people. Sure, my niece is of mixed race… and one of my good high school friends is Korean. The token over-achieving, highly intelligent black kid in school hung with our group of friends occasionally. But really, the dominate culture was white—ranging from the trashy to that of the country club variety, but basically very very white. Except, you know, everyone listened to rap and hip hop. Most of the black people from my hometown lived in the segregated river bottoms known officially as Pleasant Valley but lovingly referred to by all as The Flats. White kids from the North side of town were generally scared to enter The Flats, especially at night. It was the stuff of double-dares, lost bets, juvenile delinquency, scandal, and rebellion.
My small, private Lutheran college in NE Iowa had intense Norwegian roots, and was thus, also an overwhelmingly white community. But thankfully, much more progressive than the town of my youth. There were a handful of African Americans, but racial minorities were mostly a mix of International students. They had a small but solid population on campus, which consisted of specific cafeteria tables, the far corner of the dance bar, and certain sections in the library. I got to know this crowd more personally when I dated a guy from India. I found the encounter with other cultures immensely stimulating, which I’d like to think was part of my attraction to this particular person in the first place.
At my post-college job in Minnesota, all but maybe 5 of the 50 employees were white. And while I truly cared for the majority of my coworkers, I also found them incredibly boring. Little surprised me about their white, working-man lifestyles. But it's no shock that this mash potato culture felt too familiar and stale; I’d been steeped in it my whole life.
In St. Thomas, for the first time, I am a racial minority. And you know what? Not only does it not bother me in the least, but I rather enjoy the change. This became very clear during my Minnesota visit. It became so clear, in fact, that I used it as part of my stock sound bite when people asked what I enjoy about living on the island. The varying reactions to this comment offered great amusement.
In some ways, St Thomas is like a microcosm of the American melting pot myth, but instead of stretching across thousands of square miles of terrain, we’re all smashed together on an island that takes up less space than a small American city. My brother (the first of our clan to live in the VI) has compared St. Thomas to Manhattan, which is perhaps, a more accurate analogy than to the whole of the United States. Either way, we are an absolute mish-mash of cultures here; and it’s hard to avoid each other when you live on a speck.
I enjoy the island’s diversity most when working in the coffee shop downtown. The multitude of accents is a lingual symphony for my ears. My regular customers are local West Indians, some local Frenchies, a lot of Eastern Indians who own and work in jewelry stores, Arabs who own myriad businesses, scads of American transplants from all over the states, some Europeans, tons of people from the Dominican Republic (locally known as “Santos”), Puerto Ricans, Caribbean people from down island, a few from Africa... And this doesn’t even cover my daily encounters with tourists who flock to St. Thomas from all over the world.
Because of this multi-cultural interaction, I know that English people refer to potato chips as “crisps.” Continentals rarely tip because it's not part of the service industry in Europe. “Sorbeto” means “straw” in Spanish. Caribbean people from down island refer to all hot drinks as “tea,” so if they order “chocolate tea,” what they most likely want is hot chocolate.
“Shukron,” means, “thank you,” in Arabic, and we miss our loyal next door customers during Ramadan. They return to the coffee shop after a month looking both slim and cleansed.
Puerto Ricans prefer warm milk in their coffee, so it’s best to ask if they want leché calienté when they order to avoid them bringing you their tiny cups to tell you that it’s frio. (They tend to buy 8oz cups and fill them with equal parts coffee and milk. Since our milk is chilled, this significantly reduces the temperature of their café con lechés.)
Sure, these are all mere tiny (yet helpful) cultural tidbits, but from them I take true delight.
You know something else I just realized about all these cultures living together in St. Thomas? It’s really peaceful for the most part. Yeah, I hear complaints from various residents about ethnic groups other than their own— mostly stemming from frustration, ignorance, and stereotypes. Nothing new there. But the high percentage of violent crime in the Virgin Islands is rarely cross-cultural. Most violence is either domestic in nature, or drug-related and between young men who from h’eh. Okay, so it’s a faint silver lining, but it's visible if you focus hard and squint.
As someone who is curious about diverse cultures and people, living in a place where I frequently engage with a mix of ethnicities is invigorating. What's better is that we can usually talk about (and even laugh at) our differences matter-of-factly without worrying about coming across as racist. I have no problem being identified as the "white girl" at the coffee shop because...well, it's true. People here are often described by their ethnicity or skin color, not because it's the only thing people notice about one another, but rather it's an easy and accurate way to physically describe someone. So why try to vaguely describe a tall, mustached fellow without describing his skin tone as light or dark or white or explain that he's Indian? To people who aren't comfortable talking about race, this can seem rude or distatesful. But my experience here is more that it's simply useful. People have different skin tones. No need to be blind to it. We jus made dat way, ya know.
Obviously, I’m not ready to go back to Whiteville yet…maybe not ever. (Which is not to say that I’m planning to settle here either.) If and when I do return to the states, I won’t be able to live in the suburbs or a small town. For true. While there is diversity in Minneapolis, it’s far more segregated, due in large part to all the available space, which allows for highway chasms to separate neighborhoods.
When my brother spent VI slow season working in Minneapolis, he often bitched about the lack of human color in our midst. He quickly grew weary of white people. Now I finally get it.
My small, private Lutheran college in NE Iowa had intense Norwegian roots, and was thus, also an overwhelmingly white community. But thankfully, much more progressive than the town of my youth. There were a handful of African Americans, but racial minorities were mostly a mix of International students. They had a small but solid population on campus, which consisted of specific cafeteria tables, the far corner of the dance bar, and certain sections in the library. I got to know this crowd more personally when I dated a guy from India. I found the encounter with other cultures immensely stimulating, which I’d like to think was part of my attraction to this particular person in the first place.
At my post-college job in Minnesota, all but maybe 5 of the 50 employees were white. And while I truly cared for the majority of my coworkers, I also found them incredibly boring. Little surprised me about their white, working-man lifestyles. But it's no shock that this mash potato culture felt too familiar and stale; I’d been steeped in it my whole life.
In St. Thomas, for the first time, I am a racial minority. And you know what? Not only does it not bother me in the least, but I rather enjoy the change. This became very clear during my Minnesota visit. It became so clear, in fact, that I used it as part of my stock sound bite when people asked what I enjoy about living on the island. The varying reactions to this comment offered great amusement.
In some ways, St Thomas is like a microcosm of the American melting pot myth, but instead of stretching across thousands of square miles of terrain, we’re all smashed together on an island that takes up less space than a small American city. My brother (the first of our clan to live in the VI) has compared St. Thomas to Manhattan, which is perhaps, a more accurate analogy than to the whole of the United States. Either way, we are an absolute mish-mash of cultures here; and it’s hard to avoid each other when you live on a speck.
I enjoy the island’s diversity most when working in the coffee shop downtown. The multitude of accents is a lingual symphony for my ears. My regular customers are local West Indians, some local Frenchies, a lot of Eastern Indians who own and work in jewelry stores, Arabs who own myriad businesses, scads of American transplants from all over the states, some Europeans, tons of people from the Dominican Republic (locally known as “Santos”), Puerto Ricans, Caribbean people from down island, a few from Africa... And this doesn’t even cover my daily encounters with tourists who flock to St. Thomas from all over the world.
Because of this multi-cultural interaction, I know that English people refer to potato chips as “crisps.” Continentals rarely tip because it's not part of the service industry in Europe. “Sorbeto” means “straw” in Spanish. Caribbean people from down island refer to all hot drinks as “tea,” so if they order “chocolate tea,” what they most likely want is hot chocolate.
“Shukron,” means, “thank you,” in Arabic, and we miss our loyal next door customers during Ramadan. They return to the coffee shop after a month looking both slim and cleansed.
Puerto Ricans prefer warm milk in their coffee, so it’s best to ask if they want leché calienté when they order to avoid them bringing you their tiny cups to tell you that it’s frio. (They tend to buy 8oz cups and fill them with equal parts coffee and milk. Since our milk is chilled, this significantly reduces the temperature of their café con lechés.)
Sure, these are all mere tiny (yet helpful) cultural tidbits, but from them I take true delight.
You know something else I just realized about all these cultures living together in St. Thomas? It’s really peaceful for the most part. Yeah, I hear complaints from various residents about ethnic groups other than their own— mostly stemming from frustration, ignorance, and stereotypes. Nothing new there. But the high percentage of violent crime in the Virgin Islands is rarely cross-cultural. Most violence is either domestic in nature, or drug-related and between young men who from h’eh. Okay, so it’s a faint silver lining, but it's visible if you focus hard and squint.
As someone who is curious about diverse cultures and people, living in a place where I frequently engage with a mix of ethnicities is invigorating. What's better is that we can usually talk about (and even laugh at) our differences matter-of-factly without worrying about coming across as racist. I have no problem being identified as the "white girl" at the coffee shop because...well, it's true. People here are often described by their ethnicity or skin color, not because it's the only thing people notice about one another, but rather it's an easy and accurate way to physically describe someone. So why try to vaguely describe a tall, mustached fellow without describing his skin tone as light or dark or white or explain that he's Indian? To people who aren't comfortable talking about race, this can seem rude or distatesful. But my experience here is more that it's simply useful. People have different skin tones. No need to be blind to it. We jus made dat way, ya know.
Obviously, I’m not ready to go back to Whiteville yet…maybe not ever. (Which is not to say that I’m planning to settle here either.) If and when I do return to the states, I won’t be able to live in the suburbs or a small town. For true. While there is diversity in Minneapolis, it’s far more segregated, due in large part to all the available space, which allows for highway chasms to separate neighborhoods.
When my brother spent VI slow season working in Minneapolis, he often bitched about the lack of human color in our midst. He quickly grew weary of white people. Now I finally get it.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 2: Landscape
Minnesota is a flat, landlocked mass covered in water-filled holes.
Space… p e r v a d e s .
Roads are luxuriously wide. And usually designed in a square, grid-inspired system. Yards are expansive, with beautifully manicured grass of the most verdant green. In the suburbs and towns, and even to a large degree the city, properties remain comfortably spaced with no less than a modest yard. Homes and businesses are smartly kept and neutrally painted. Neighborhoods are mostly homogenous and identical to suburban developments across America.
Vast amounts of real estate are employed as parking lots. Parking lots that allow for the widest berth instead of creativity in cramped driving. Untended vegetation consists of small woody areas or fields of prairie grass, all growing at a decorous pace. In the rural Midwest, your eyes pass over acres upon acres of agricultural land running to the horizon and beyond.
And litter, well, it seems practically to not exist.
Conversely:
St. Thomas is a lush, rugged speck in the ocean.
Space=preciouscommodity!
Roads are barely wide enough for two vehicles. There is no logic to their design, at least not one that is apparent to me. They seem to be built simply where they're necessary and possible, considering the mountainous topography. Rather than a grid, the St. Thomas road structure is more like the random scribbles of a young toddler on the world’s bumpiest Etch-A-Sketch.
Yards are generally small, and if someone has real grass, it’s assumed they’re rich in either time or money, if not both. Landscaped homes display vibrant, lush flowers, as well-tended as is possible with the fast and wild manner in which tropical flora grow. Every few months, crews of four or five hit the roads to cut back the bush with machetes.
Houses in St. Thomas seem to be built on top of one another up the mountainside. And they have character. You can easily get away with painting your house fuchsia or teal.
A St. Thomian will claim to have a farm if what they actually possess is a garden in their large, fenced-in backyard.
And the litter. The litter exists in heartbreakingly high numbers, especially in densely-populated areas and on the beach. Yes, we have some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and frequently the people who enjoy them don’t find it necessary to collect their trash upon leaving. And since we don’t have curbside garbage collection here, dumpsters scattered across the island frequently overflow with rubbish. This functions as an excellent scavenging ground for wild chickens, dogs, and cats. As well as a starting point for the litter that will almost certainly find its way down the mountain to the sea and out into one of the swirling vortexes of garbage that humankind has created in each of our oceans.
Besides being relatively litterless in comparison, the Midwest is certainly beautiful in its own way, especially the bluff and hill saturated regions of SE Minnesota and NE Iowa, where the wedding events occurred. But damn, the island takes my breath away almost every day. The colorful and dramatic landscapes are beyond compare—a constant reminder of the Universe’s capacity for creating glorious scenes in nature. I have always been fond of the more exotic types of beauty, so it’s not surprising that I prefer the vivacity of a tropical island to, say, the serenity of a lake in the woods.
I never appreciated the tidy, ample space of the Midwest because I had never lived without it. I remember being aware of the free availability of space in the heartland when I visited NYC as a teenager. The hotel’s hallways and rooms were almost inconceivably narrow and small. And when I spent time in the urban residential neighborhoods of Chicago, it also became clear how much space is, well, just that…empty space. But what a difference the presence of empty space can invoke!
I guess mostly, the presence of space gives a greater sense of, well...comfort and autonomy. Room to stretch out and not be bothered by others.
Now, one would think that the available of empty space would make one feel less constricted and more expansive. But, you know what? In the case of Iowa and Minnesota, this isn’t so. I would argue that most people who live in St. Thomas feel far less constricted than they would in the states, especially the Midwest. It’s why so many people move here in the first place. Plus, I think having ample space just makes it easier to enclave yourself with others like you. There is less of a need to interact with people who are different from you and your kin. So while there was far more open space surrounding me in the heartland, my mind and soul are far more open here. On this tiny speck between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, I am, somehow, freer. I’m still trying to figure out why St. Thomas has this affect on people, but I am convinced that the landscape is a major contributor.
Space… p e r v a d e s .
Roads are luxuriously wide. And usually designed in a square, grid-inspired system. Yards are expansive, with beautifully manicured grass of the most verdant green. In the suburbs and towns, and even to a large degree the city, properties remain comfortably spaced with no less than a modest yard. Homes and businesses are smartly kept and neutrally painted. Neighborhoods are mostly homogenous and identical to suburban developments across America.
Vast amounts of real estate are employed as parking lots. Parking lots that allow for the widest berth instead of creativity in cramped driving. Untended vegetation consists of small woody areas or fields of prairie grass, all growing at a decorous pace. In the rural Midwest, your eyes pass over acres upon acres of agricultural land running to the horizon and beyond.
And litter, well, it seems practically to not exist.
Conversely:
St. Thomas is a lush, rugged speck in the ocean.
Space=preciouscommodity!
Roads are barely wide enough for two vehicles. There is no logic to their design, at least not one that is apparent to me. They seem to be built simply where they're necessary and possible, considering the mountainous topography. Rather than a grid, the St. Thomas road structure is more like the random scribbles of a young toddler on the world’s bumpiest Etch-A-Sketch.
Yards are generally small, and if someone has real grass, it’s assumed they’re rich in either time or money, if not both. Landscaped homes display vibrant, lush flowers, as well-tended as is possible with the fast and wild manner in which tropical flora grow. Every few months, crews of four or five hit the roads to cut back the bush with machetes.
Houses in St. Thomas seem to be built on top of one another up the mountainside. And they have character. You can easily get away with painting your house fuchsia or teal.
 |
| This is a poor photo and not the ritziest neighborhood. But you get the idea. I love love love the fuscia house! |
If you tried this in Minnesota, you’d be given the cold shoulder by your neighbors and would be the talk of many neighborhood bridge games and basement church dinners.
A St. Thomian will claim to have a farm if what they actually possess is a garden in their large, fenced-in backyard.
And the litter. The litter exists in heartbreakingly high numbers, especially in densely-populated areas and on the beach. Yes, we have some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and frequently the people who enjoy them don’t find it necessary to collect their trash upon leaving. And since we don’t have curbside garbage collection here, dumpsters scattered across the island frequently overflow with rubbish. This functions as an excellent scavenging ground for wild chickens, dogs, and cats. As well as a starting point for the litter that will almost certainly find its way down the mountain to the sea and out into one of the swirling vortexes of garbage that humankind has created in each of our oceans.
Besides being relatively litterless in comparison, the Midwest is certainly beautiful in its own way, especially the bluff and hill saturated regions of SE Minnesota and NE Iowa, where the wedding events occurred. But damn, the island takes my breath away almost every day. The colorful and dramatic landscapes are beyond compare—a constant reminder of the Universe’s capacity for creating glorious scenes in nature. I have always been fond of the more exotic types of beauty, so it’s not surprising that I prefer the vivacity of a tropical island to, say, the serenity of a lake in the woods.
I never appreciated the tidy, ample space of the Midwest because I had never lived without it. I remember being aware of the free availability of space in the heartland when I visited NYC as a teenager. The hotel’s hallways and rooms were almost inconceivably narrow and small. And when I spent time in the urban residential neighborhoods of Chicago, it also became clear how much space is, well, just that…empty space. But what a difference the presence of empty space can invoke!
I guess mostly, the presence of space gives a greater sense of, well...comfort and autonomy. Room to stretch out and not be bothered by others.
Now, one would think that the available of empty space would make one feel less constricted and more expansive. But, you know what? In the case of Iowa and Minnesota, this isn’t so. I would argue that most people who live in St. Thomas feel far less constricted than they would in the states, especially the Midwest. It’s why so many people move here in the first place. Plus, I think having ample space just makes it easier to enclave yourself with others like you. There is less of a need to interact with people who are different from you and your kin. So while there was far more open space surrounding me in the heartland, my mind and soul are far more open here. On this tiny speck between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, I am, somehow, freer. I’m still trying to figure out why St. Thomas has this affect on people, but I am convinced that the landscape is a major contributor.
 |
| Another seascape. Sunday morning in St. John. Nature's church. |
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 1
At a lovely (and sweaty) ceremony in her grandparents’ Lutheran country church, my dear friend Alissa married her beloved Michael on Memorial Day weekend. The occasion brought a perfect reason to visit my homeland after nine months of living in the Caribbean. Especially because Lissa let me be a bridesmaid.
As the trip drew near, I became increasingly convinced that it was necessary for some self-revelatory purpose. I expected all the ways in which I’d grown to become clear, revealing luminous new insights into my journey.
Much of this had to do with seeing my ex again. We have the same friends, so I knew we would encounter one another plenty. He even DD’d the bachelorette party! The closer it came to the trip, the more urgently I needed to release the overwhelming emotion that had amassed during the past year. It churned inside me, like a pregnant thundercloud, to the point that sixty seconds of thinking about our former relationship induced thirty minutes of weeping. Like an overdue mother, I desperately wanted to squat in the corner and get the thing out of me. It needed to end.
Of course, on a less introspective level, I merrily awaited the wedding festivities and some much needed quality time with loved ones, Mom included. And the shopping. It was imperative that I shop. Even though I am relatively poor, I needed some new clothes, and St. Thomas is about the least economical place to acquire them. Which brings me to the first comparison at hand: the consumer experience.
After living in St. Thomas, mainland shopping is simply sublime. The marketplace—clean, bright, open, and laden with choice—easily seduces my inner capitalist consumer…which probably bears direct relation to my hunting and gathering ancestors. Products in appealing packages call out like inanimate sirens enticing me to place them in my bulky red cart by promising to improve my life for only $8.99. Stateside shopping has everything that St. Thomas shopping does not: affordability, order, consistency, and variety. And that’s why we love American capitalism, right? For the big box marketplace saturated with options, but bereft of all surprise and local character. I am guilty as charged.
Okay, so it’s not really too surprising that the mainland offers better shopping than an island. But the difference in price is jarring, even though it’s understandable. Nothing is manufactured in St. Thomas, so all goods are shipped from elsewhere, thereby involving additional transit costs. Also—and this is one of my favorite things about St. Thomas—we have the most expensive utilities in the United States. By 300%.
No, I didn’t accidentally add a zero.
Therefore, all businesses have higher operating costs than they would stateside, especially if they rely on coolers and freezers to preserve product. These two factors—and maybe others of which I’m ignorant—add roughly 30% to all island goods. So, while most people make around 30% less than they would in the states, they spend about 30% more to live. And more people keep coming! Even if large numbers of them don’t last long.
The Neutrogena face wipes that I use are over nine dollars in St. Thomas at Kmart. At Target in Minnetonka, they cost five and change. There are deals in the states where you can buy four frozen pizzas for $10, what you might spend for one at Plaza Extra. I met a friend for lunch my first day back in the cities at a restaurant I lived five minutes from for two years but never patronized because I figured it was too expensive (even though I made more money at the time). It was so interesting to see that the lunch menu prices were comparable to one of the least expensive family restaurants on the island. Although the beer cost more.
I’ve always said, and I’ll repeat myself plenty with this one, the only goods cheaper in St. Thomas than stateside are your vices: alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs.
Was she not a stunning bride?
As the trip drew near, I became increasingly convinced that it was necessary for some self-revelatory purpose. I expected all the ways in which I’d grown to become clear, revealing luminous new insights into my journey.
Much of this had to do with seeing my ex again. We have the same friends, so I knew we would encounter one another plenty. He even DD’d the bachelorette party! The closer it came to the trip, the more urgently I needed to release the overwhelming emotion that had amassed during the past year. It churned inside me, like a pregnant thundercloud, to the point that sixty seconds of thinking about our former relationship induced thirty minutes of weeping. Like an overdue mother, I desperately wanted to squat in the corner and get the thing out of me. It needed to end.
Of course, on a less introspective level, I merrily awaited the wedding festivities and some much needed quality time with loved ones, Mom included. And the shopping. It was imperative that I shop. Even though I am relatively poor, I needed some new clothes, and St. Thomas is about the least economical place to acquire them. Which brings me to the first comparison at hand: the consumer experience.
After living in St. Thomas, mainland shopping is simply sublime. The marketplace—clean, bright, open, and laden with choice—easily seduces my inner capitalist consumer…which probably bears direct relation to my hunting and gathering ancestors. Products in appealing packages call out like inanimate sirens enticing me to place them in my bulky red cart by promising to improve my life for only $8.99. Stateside shopping has everything that St. Thomas shopping does not: affordability, order, consistency, and variety. And that’s why we love American capitalism, right? For the big box marketplace saturated with options, but bereft of all surprise and local character. I am guilty as charged.
Okay, so it’s not really too surprising that the mainland offers better shopping than an island. But the difference in price is jarring, even though it’s understandable. Nothing is manufactured in St. Thomas, so all goods are shipped from elsewhere, thereby involving additional transit costs. Also—and this is one of my favorite things about St. Thomas—we have the most expensive utilities in the United States. By 300%.
No, I didn’t accidentally add a zero.
Therefore, all businesses have higher operating costs than they would stateside, especially if they rely on coolers and freezers to preserve product. These two factors—and maybe others of which I’m ignorant—add roughly 30% to all island goods. So, while most people make around 30% less than they would in the states, they spend about 30% more to live. And more people keep coming! Even if large numbers of them don’t last long.
The Neutrogena face wipes that I use are over nine dollars in St. Thomas at Kmart. At Target in Minnetonka, they cost five and change. There are deals in the states where you can buy four frozen pizzas for $10, what you might spend for one at Plaza Extra. I met a friend for lunch my first day back in the cities at a restaurant I lived five minutes from for two years but never patronized because I figured it was too expensive (even though I made more money at the time). It was so interesting to see that the lunch menu prices were comparable to one of the least expensive family restaurants on the island. Although the beer cost more.
I’ve always said, and I’ll repeat myself plenty with this one, the only goods cheaper in St. Thomas than stateside are your vices: alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Island Animal Watch: Fire Ants
So the other day, Hershey and I were nearing the end of our routine walk up and down St. Peter Mountain Rd when I received a special tropical treat. It's a treacherous route with ample blind curves and only the slightest suggestion of a pedestrian walkway, but it's home so we make due. We were almost finished when I felt a tiny, hot, piercing sensation between my shoulder blades. Then I felt one further down my back. Then on my neck, my shoulder, and my left tit. I came dangerously close to breaking into the A.C. Slater ants-down-back-in-study-hall dance out of true purpose. (If anyone needs a reminder, check out this link at a minute, thirty. Thanks Kate for figuring out the episode! You're my bestie for a reason.)
After returning to my apartment, I discovered a miniscule fire ant crawling up my arm. And it wasn't the only one. It took just a few minutes to remove the little shitters, but they left itchy red welts that lasted for days. I couldn't figure out how they landed on me until our walk the following morning. I must have accidentally brushed against one of the vines hanging from the bush on the side of the road. Upon inspection, I saw the same dusty red ants crawling to and fro between the leaves. I wonder if they sting the vine, and if so, does it mind?
After returning to my apartment, I discovered a miniscule fire ant crawling up my arm. And it wasn't the only one. It took just a few minutes to remove the little shitters, but they left itchy red welts that lasted for days. I couldn't figure out how they landed on me until our walk the following morning. I must have accidentally brushed against one of the vines hanging from the bush on the side of the road. Upon inspection, I saw the same dusty red ants crawling to and fro between the leaves. I wonder if they sting the vine, and if so, does it mind?
I've always loved these vines; they're so very rainforest romantic.
But now I know to admire from afar.
But now I know to admire from afar.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Hurricane Virginity, Lost
My first hurricane was truly a splendid affair. Although it probably ruined me for all future hurricanes in that I’m now conditioned to eagerly await their arrival, which could easily result in the complete negligence on my behalf to safeguard all bodily possessions… my body included. Also, all subsequent hurricanes, regardless of severity, will no doubt be dreadfully humdrum in comparison.
Now, I wasn’t really scared of Earl in the first place. Just as I’ve, perhaps naively, never feared tornados or blizzards. No, any apprehension on my part stemmed from the threat of living without electricity for longer than 24 hours. Specifically, I was (and am) concerned with fans and running water. No lights? No problem. Simply rise and retire with the sun. But proper air flow and hygiene are another matter entirely during late summer in St. Thomas.
I’m not asking for AC, which I haven’t had since moving here, anyway. But I’m telling you, the three fans in my room are most essential to comfort. Without them, the only way to prevent sweat from dripping off you like a rapidly melting ice sculpture in Death Valley is to lie motionless and naked on the bed, in which case you will still leave a damp spot on the sheets in the vague shape of your person. And when this amount of organic fluid is involved, it’s important to have a daily shower, at the very least. Unfortunately, this is a difficult, if not impossible, endeavor without electricity to power the water pump. I’m not being paranoid here either; many people lived sans power for months after Hurricane Marilyn. I can only imagine this as comparable to residing in one of the first few circles of hell.
So, I was definitely more worried about the discomforts associated with the aftermath of a hurricane than the hurricane itself. I didn’t fear being sucked into the ether after the roof blew off or anything like that. Although, this scenario wasn’t entirely unlikely either, since...
Upon moving into my palace, I asked Slumlord Dave about hurricane shutters.
“Uh, well, I usda hav’em up but they got all rusted out. And they were heavy and a lot of work to drag out and put up. Lots of times ya pull’em all out and put’em all up and then nothin even happens. Course, the time you don’t do it, that’s when you get hit,” he chuckled in his good ‘ole cracker manner.
“Okay…well, do you board up the windows then?” I was almost scared to ask.
“Um, yeah…we do throw some boards up but they really don’t do no good anyways. I wouldn’t recommend you stay there in the event of a hurricane, girl. I can’t be responsible for any personal injury, ya know…If worse comes to worse you could go in the bathtub…or you being you, I’ll tell ya that the mechanical room in the hall is safe, but I’d really feel better if you found someplace else to go. The house has been through Hugo and Marilyn—my 80-year-old grandmother survived both a them, ha ha, but we lost the roof twice. The roof is built much better now though. We didn’t mess around this time. I really don't think she's goin anywhere, but I'd rather you be safe than sorry, girl.”
As hurricane season came swirling towards us…or us towards hurricane season, it occurred to me that formulating even a loose emergency plan would be to my advantage, so as to not get completely fucked like a damn fool in the event that a strong storm does hit the island.
I had a few offers of places to stay during the storm, but much to my delight, the current object of my desire/flirtation flew back to St. Thomas to be here during Earl in a “supervisory capacity” for the local company in which he is sort of a bigwig. He offered his place as a hurricane shelter for Hershey and I, which I agreed to (internally, at least) immediately. Okay, so there was no promise of a generator, but he still rents a beautiful house kept fully-stocked with alcohol, and I knew we would easily fill the time with entertaining conversation. If a lovelier way to spend a hurricane exists than hunkering down with a crush who amuses you to no end, I simply can’t imagine what it would be.
So, The Meerkat (his sexy alias of choice), having prepared for dozens of hurricanes, advised me via text on safeguarding my belongings. Unsurprisingly, I was most concerned for my CD collection, followed by my journals (needed to write my memoirs, you know), and then my books. And that was basically it. Screw all other possessions. They’re far more easy to replace. I completed the hurricane prep work in true half-ass fashion, which consisted of placing the aforementioned items in a container, wrapping them in garbage bags, and stashing them off the floor in the spider-and-termite-infested cavern that functions as my closet. I stored some food in the two kitchen cupboards, enclosed some items in the interior bathroom, and shut the windows. Not having much really cuts down on the annoying adult responsibilities it requires to take care of material possessions. If you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose, right?
Around nine in the morning on the day of the hurricane, The Meerkat carried me and Hershey to his house—visible from mine—on the other side of Magen’s Bay. Only slightly less exposed, it at least didn’t come with a warning from the landlord, and it is superlatively more luxurious. Already the wind was blowing far stronger than usual for storm weather. My umbrella reversed itself twice while waiting outside for my ride, making me feel like the non-cheery reject nannies in Mary Poppins.
Time passed quickly, as it usually does when hanging out with a new crush. Beers were cracked at 9:30. Candles lit around 10. Champagne corked by 11. We ate Fig Newtons and Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip cookies.We drank and smoked and conversed and generally had a debaucherous doozie of a time while the sky darkened, the rain pounded and the wind howled around us. When we walked Hershey outside between rain showers, the air felt sauna thick on my skin and in my lungs. It was like being smothered within the sweaty arms of a fat teenage girl. I would have jumped in the pool had the wind not already filled it with debris. Returning inside, the contrast in climate was jarring, akin to being thrown from the bosom of a freshly-exercised Precious into the bony tight arms of a typical Hollywood cold-as-death anorexic.
Early in the afternoon, we decided to eat something arguably substantial while we still had power. I chose some whole-wheat Velveeta macaroni and cheese, since a hurricane is the only time I could justify eating this particular convenience food. We laughed at the Velveeta folks’ sad attempt to create a healthier image. Pour our sodium-and-calorie-laden fake cheese sauce over these partially whole-grained noodles, and assuage some guilt while still making no measurable reduction to your waistline. But of course, by the time we finally got around to boiling water, the electricity went out and with it, our only chance for hot,real food.
The only excitement (fit for this here blog, anyway) during the actual hurricane was when the downstairs window broke, leading me to a most wondrous and silly fit of giggles. Yes, this could have been partially induced by intoxicants because, really, the window breaking in itself was not funny.
The Meerkat had been absent for longer than what for him usually constitutes a “fidget break.” Upon searching, I found him in the downstairs office trying to hold the wooden window frame in place and not proving very successful at the task, what with the 70+ mph winds outside. My assistance was refused because of the broken glass on the floor. I located my flip flops and returned to help. Soon, I came up with the brilliant idea of putting a garbage bag over the open window to keep excess water out of this very nice home. So, the Meerkat produced a garbage bag and cut it open to more easily fit in the frame.
But as soon as he lifted the plastic to the opening, the negative pressure in the house caused the garbage bag to fly through the window, flapping—violent and useless—in the gale force winds. He tried again with the same futile result, thus inciting a belly laugh I haven’t enjoyed since the night I moved to the island a year ago.
I could just be easily amused.
Sleeping was a bit difficult with absolutely no airflow. AC and fans were out of the question with no power, and since it was still raining and blowing outside, we couldn’t open the windows. I think we both managed to doze a bit. Hershey, on the other hand, slept curled up on the rug through the entire storm.
All was calm in the morning with leaves scattered everywhere, even somehow, in the house. A lot of fallen tree branches littered the sides of the roads, similar to the post-tornado scenes of my youth.
My apartment remained completely unsullied, however with no current (local nomenclature for electricity) until late Wednesday night. The Meerkat’s current didn’t return until early Sunday morning. He stayed in a hotel in the meantime, which also worked to my great advantage. Many people on the island didn’t have power until the weekend, some even didn’t have it when I saw them in the coffee shop Monday morning- a full week later. But two days after the storm, the island was pretty much back to business. Those without current had found a way to work around it or gave in and bought a generator.
So, my first hurricane was nauseatingly pleasant. For sure, the next hurricane won’t be nearly as heady an experience. Granted, Hurricane Earl went relatively easy on St. Thomas. We all lucked out this time. I still can't imagine how much of a trooper I'd be in the event of a stronger, more damaging hurricane. Of course, I am a lazy, spoiled American who has never seriously wanted for anything. My only comfort in the not-so-unlikely event that I'm not as fortunate next time, is the certainty that the experience will at least build character.
Now, I wasn’t really scared of Earl in the first place. Just as I’ve, perhaps naively, never feared tornados or blizzards. No, any apprehension on my part stemmed from the threat of living without electricity for longer than 24 hours. Specifically, I was (and am) concerned with fans and running water. No lights? No problem. Simply rise and retire with the sun. But proper air flow and hygiene are another matter entirely during late summer in St. Thomas.
I’m not asking for AC, which I haven’t had since moving here, anyway. But I’m telling you, the three fans in my room are most essential to comfort. Without them, the only way to prevent sweat from dripping off you like a rapidly melting ice sculpture in Death Valley is to lie motionless and naked on the bed, in which case you will still leave a damp spot on the sheets in the vague shape of your person. And when this amount of organic fluid is involved, it’s important to have a daily shower, at the very least. Unfortunately, this is a difficult, if not impossible, endeavor without electricity to power the water pump. I’m not being paranoid here either; many people lived sans power for months after Hurricane Marilyn. I can only imagine this as comparable to residing in one of the first few circles of hell.
So, I was definitely more worried about the discomforts associated with the aftermath of a hurricane than the hurricane itself. I didn’t fear being sucked into the ether after the roof blew off or anything like that. Although, this scenario wasn’t entirely unlikely either, since...
Upon moving into my palace, I asked Slumlord Dave about hurricane shutters.
“Uh, well, I usda hav’em up but they got all rusted out. And they were heavy and a lot of work to drag out and put up. Lots of times ya pull’em all out and put’em all up and then nothin even happens. Course, the time you don’t do it, that’s when you get hit,” he chuckled in his good ‘ole cracker manner.
“Okay…well, do you board up the windows then?” I was almost scared to ask.
“Um, yeah…we do throw some boards up but they really don’t do no good anyways. I wouldn’t recommend you stay there in the event of a hurricane, girl. I can’t be responsible for any personal injury, ya know…If worse comes to worse you could go in the bathtub…or you being you, I’ll tell ya that the mechanical room in the hall is safe, but I’d really feel better if you found someplace else to go. The house has been through Hugo and Marilyn—my 80-year-old grandmother survived both a them, ha ha, but we lost the roof twice. The roof is built much better now though. We didn’t mess around this time. I really don't think she's goin anywhere, but I'd rather you be safe than sorry, girl.”
As hurricane season came swirling towards us…or us towards hurricane season, it occurred to me that formulating even a loose emergency plan would be to my advantage, so as to not get completely fucked like a damn fool in the event that a strong storm does hit the island.
I had a few offers of places to stay during the storm, but much to my delight, the current object of my desire/flirtation flew back to St. Thomas to be here during Earl in a “supervisory capacity” for the local company in which he is sort of a bigwig. He offered his place as a hurricane shelter for Hershey and I, which I agreed to (internally, at least) immediately. Okay, so there was no promise of a generator, but he still rents a beautiful house kept fully-stocked with alcohol, and I knew we would easily fill the time with entertaining conversation. If a lovelier way to spend a hurricane exists than hunkering down with a crush who amuses you to no end, I simply can’t imagine what it would be.
So, The Meerkat (his sexy alias of choice), having prepared for dozens of hurricanes, advised me via text on safeguarding my belongings. Unsurprisingly, I was most concerned for my CD collection, followed by my journals (needed to write my memoirs, you know), and then my books. And that was basically it. Screw all other possessions. They’re far more easy to replace. I completed the hurricane prep work in true half-ass fashion, which consisted of placing the aforementioned items in a container, wrapping them in garbage bags, and stashing them off the floor in the spider-and-termite-infested cavern that functions as my closet. I stored some food in the two kitchen cupboards, enclosed some items in the interior bathroom, and shut the windows. Not having much really cuts down on the annoying adult responsibilities it requires to take care of material possessions. If you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose, right?
Around nine in the morning on the day of the hurricane, The Meerkat carried me and Hershey to his house—visible from mine—on the other side of Magen’s Bay. Only slightly less exposed, it at least didn’t come with a warning from the landlord, and it is superlatively more luxurious. Already the wind was blowing far stronger than usual for storm weather. My umbrella reversed itself twice while waiting outside for my ride, making me feel like the non-cheery reject nannies in Mary Poppins.
Time passed quickly, as it usually does when hanging out with a new crush. Beers were cracked at 9:30. Candles lit around 10. Champagne corked by 11. We ate Fig Newtons and Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip cookies.We drank and smoked and conversed and generally had a debaucherous doozie of a time while the sky darkened, the rain pounded and the wind howled around us. When we walked Hershey outside between rain showers, the air felt sauna thick on my skin and in my lungs. It was like being smothered within the sweaty arms of a fat teenage girl. I would have jumped in the pool had the wind not already filled it with debris. Returning inside, the contrast in climate was jarring, akin to being thrown from the bosom of a freshly-exercised Precious into the bony tight arms of a typical Hollywood cold-as-death anorexic.
Early in the afternoon, we decided to eat something arguably substantial while we still had power. I chose some whole-wheat Velveeta macaroni and cheese, since a hurricane is the only time I could justify eating this particular convenience food. We laughed at the Velveeta folks’ sad attempt to create a healthier image. Pour our sodium-and-calorie-laden fake cheese sauce over these partially whole-grained noodles, and assuage some guilt while still making no measurable reduction to your waistline. But of course, by the time we finally got around to boiling water, the electricity went out and with it, our only chance for hot,
The only excitement (fit for this here blog, anyway) during the actual hurricane was when the downstairs window broke, leading me to a most wondrous and silly fit of giggles. Yes, this could have been partially induced by intoxicants because, really, the window breaking in itself was not funny.
The Meerkat had been absent for longer than what for him usually constitutes a “fidget break.” Upon searching, I found him in the downstairs office trying to hold the wooden window frame in place and not proving very successful at the task, what with the 70+ mph winds outside. My assistance was refused because of the broken glass on the floor. I located my flip flops and returned to help. Soon, I came up with the brilliant idea of putting a garbage bag over the open window to keep excess water out of this very nice home. So, the Meerkat produced a garbage bag and cut it open to more easily fit in the frame.
But as soon as he lifted the plastic to the opening, the negative pressure in the house caused the garbage bag to fly through the window, flapping—violent and useless—in the gale force winds. He tried again with the same futile result, thus inciting a belly laugh I haven’t enjoyed since the night I moved to the island a year ago.
I could just be easily amused.
Sleeping was a bit difficult with absolutely no airflow. AC and fans were out of the question with no power, and since it was still raining and blowing outside, we couldn’t open the windows. I think we both managed to doze a bit. Hershey, on the other hand, slept curled up on the rug through the entire storm.
All was calm in the morning with leaves scattered everywhere, even somehow, in the house. A lot of fallen tree branches littered the sides of the roads, similar to the post-tornado scenes of my youth.
My apartment remained completely unsullied, however with no current (local nomenclature for electricity) until late Wednesday night. The Meerkat’s current didn’t return until early Sunday morning. He stayed in a hotel in the meantime, which also worked to my great advantage. Many people on the island didn’t have power until the weekend, some even didn’t have it when I saw them in the coffee shop Monday morning- a full week later. But two days after the storm, the island was pretty much back to business. Those without current had found a way to work around it or gave in and bought a generator.
So, my first hurricane was nauseatingly pleasant. For sure, the next hurricane won’t be nearly as heady an experience. Granted, Hurricane Earl went relatively easy on St. Thomas. We all lucked out this time. I still can't imagine how much of a trooper I'd be in the event of a stronger, more damaging hurricane. Of course, I am a lazy, spoiled American who has never seriously wanted for anything. My only comfort in the not-so-unlikely event that I'm not as fortunate next time, is the certainty that the experience will at least build character.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Island Animal Watch: Lizards
I have a new lizard story. This one- like the parking lot goats- also inspired great delight.
One day last spring, while writing morning pages on the bench with the dogs, I noticed a new lizard the size of a gecko hanging around the rock. It didn’t look like a gecko though. It was brown instead of green, and more angular and craggy, like a tiny dinosaur. Every once in awhile it stopped crawling and did what looked like the humpy push-up dance made popular by boy bands in the late nineties. (An example of which you can watch at 2 min, 35 sec in the following video. And might I add that I dig this performance far more now than as a teenager. Must be the power of a smaller musichead ego on my behalf, JT's successful solo career, and nostalgia.)
I found this a bit unusual, but it did not prepare me for what happened when Harley started to stalk him. Mr. Lizard did the push-up hump and then he stopped and blew out this big, bright orange and green bubble from his neck like a 10-year-old showing off her Bubbalicious skills. Oh my spirits, I was so bewitched by this fantastic display from such a small and ugly beast that I thanked the Universe aloud for the creation.
One day last spring, while writing morning pages on the bench with the dogs, I noticed a new lizard the size of a gecko hanging around the rock. It didn’t look like a gecko though. It was brown instead of green, and more angular and craggy, like a tiny dinosaur. Every once in awhile it stopped crawling and did what looked like the humpy push-up dance made popular by boy bands in the late nineties. (An example of which you can watch at 2 min, 35 sec in the following video. And might I add that I dig this performance far more now than as a teenager. Must be the power of a smaller musichead ego on my behalf, JT's successful solo career, and nostalgia.)
I found this a bit unusual, but it did not prepare me for what happened when Harley started to stalk him. Mr. Lizard did the push-up hump and then he stopped and blew out this big, bright orange and green bubble from his neck like a 10-year-old showing off her Bubbalicious skills. Oh my spirits, I was so bewitched by this fantastic display from such a small and ugly beast that I thanked the Universe aloud for the creation.
I’ve since learned that this type of lizard is an anole. The throat bubble is a dewlap, and the act is called flaring. It’s a territorial thing the males do when threatened.
Communing with nature certainly has its rewards.
Communing with nature certainly has its rewards.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Where da pot 'a gold?
Okay, so I know this is sort of cheesy, but look what I just spied outside my window.
 |
| Ya see two a dem? |
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Excuses, Excuses. More Ramblings. Part Two.
July 1- 16. A vehicle to despise. After moving into the studio, I started focusing on preparing to sell the Jimmy my mom left when fleeing for stateside medical care upon the discovery of breast cancer.
(Side note: I only moved in with Mr. T in the first place because Mom had to leave. I couldn’t afford our rent and wasn’t yet comfortable enough on the island to get my own place. Mr. T generously opened his home to me— a half-built, bachelor-pad dream house. Anyway, had to get that out because I don’t take living with someone lightly.)
The annoying thing about the Jimmy (whose name is Laverne) is that she's a stick shift, and I can’t drive a stick. Or at least it’s been quite some time since I learned. And the island probably isn’t the best place for me to brush up on my manual driving skills, what with its steep switchbacks and narrow thoroughfares. So, the “helper”, whom I will henceforth refer to as Señor Espina, was going to help me sell it, and in doing so, he would drive it for his personal use, which per our verbal agreement was responsible and not excessive. This worked out well for me because he could go deal with the mechanics and report back. I just had to make decisions and shell out cash (of which I had more than usual due to working my little white ass off) for the repairs. I kept him in cigs, beer, and food (in order of importance) in return for his assistance. I don’t know who was using who, but it was a mutually beneficial arrangement during the short time it lasted.
July 17. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. The partnership was, indeed, a brief one. Three weeks, tops. Long enough for me to realize that my affinity for a café con leché skin tone has ended badly for me on more than one occasion. And that I should never trust a drunk who’s not in recovery. And that I need to learn to drive a stick shift as well as a vibrator. Fuck being dependent on others for something so simple.
So anyway, I’ll try to spare you the excessively dramatic details of what happened to Laverne. I actually think it’s worthy of reality TV drama. Not quite Jerry Springer, but dangerously close.
Señor Espina crashed her before noon on a Sunday, on the opposite end of the island from where he lives. Did he call to let me know what had happened? Of course not. Instead, he called his crack-smoking ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even have a car (or a job) to aid him. She did this by hitching a ride with a couple of crack-smoking, jobless friends of hers who somehow manage to possess a vehicle. This proved to me once and for all that Sr. Espina is a “living and breathing fuck-up” (thank you to The Wrestler for this fitting term) incapable of making a good decision.
In a strange instance of luck, this turn of events so excited the girlfriend that she couldn’t help but to maniacally leave four voicemails to inform me that Señor Espina had crashed my car and that I’m a “stupid little girl” for trusting him in the first place. All the while I’m in a volunteer organizational meeting for 7-7. While I'm exceedingly annoyed that Ms. Crazy was called in the first place, if she hadn't been involved, Laverne may well have landed in the impound lot. Then I would have ended up paying the nice tow truck driver a lot more than $375 because the near incoherent Señor didn't think it necessary to involve me, the acting owner of the vehicle.
August 3. You’re kidding, right? He didn’t show. I called. Turns out, he lost his wallet the previous evening. How did Señor lose his wallet, you ask? Why, he fell down the stairs, of course. Oh yes, this makes sense. So many people lose their wallets filled with hundreds of dollars of cash owed to someone else when they fall down the stairs. Only if you’re drunk from a case of Presidente on a St. Thomas Sunday, I guess. How are you enjoying your downward spiral, Señor?
August 4-Present. To sue or not to sue. I’m still deciding whether to take him to small claims court. Mom just wants me to sell Laverne as is to get rid of her. She's unwilling to put more money towards the problem and doesn’t think we’ll recover any money from Señor anyway since he seems to have a drunk and broke past. Now, I’m not litigious, aggressive, or vindictive, but I do feel I was taken for a ride. (After making my own, perhaps, bad decisions. At the time I thought I was getting things done to the best of my ability. Really I did.) I would rather put my spare time and energy toward creative endeavors than the people’s court. But once in awhile I get really pissed at the hard-earned money Mom and I have lost, as well as the fucking pain in the ass I have to deal with now. Opinions on what I should do, anyone?
Also, in the midst of all previously mentioned items (in list form for brevity's sake):
My year-old laptop died (for the 2nd time) and mysteriously started working again, albeit with a daily warning message about my disk being corrupted and the blue screen of death making a visit once a week or so. This shall be my last PC.
My iphone died twice (dropped it) and was fixed both times by local technicians, for which I am very grateful because, as previously hinted, I am addicted.
A nasty rash spread over my whole body, inducing a doctor’s visit. He diagnosed it as an allergic rash and gave me medication that got rid of it, but we couldn’t figure out what I might be allergic to. Luckily, it hasn’t returned. My boss says I'm allergic to island drama. Perhaps.
I have been working with 7-7 to help put on a black and white photography exhibit at the end of the month, and to launch a new and improved website, among other endeavors.
Hershey recovered from tick fever only to develop intestinal tapeworms that I was fortunate enough to discover in his poo. Another trip to the vet.
My landlord is referred to as “Slumlord Dave” by a drunk Chris-Farley-type customer at the Toad and Tart. And I am also asked if I know how many times he had sex on my bed when living in my apartment 14 years ago. No, sorry, I don’t. But it must have been frequent if you feel the need to inform me.
So, folks, this is why I haven’t had time to write. But after getting all this garbage out of my head, I think I’m ready to roll again.
Momentum achieved!
Thanks for listening.
(Side note: I only moved in with Mr. T in the first place because Mom had to leave. I couldn’t afford our rent and wasn’t yet comfortable enough on the island to get my own place. Mr. T generously opened his home to me— a half-built, bachelor-pad dream house. Anyway, had to get that out because I don’t take living with someone lightly.)
The annoying thing about the Jimmy (whose name is Laverne) is that she's a stick shift, and I can’t drive a stick. Or at least it’s been quite some time since I learned. And the island probably isn’t the best place for me to brush up on my manual driving skills, what with its steep switchbacks and narrow thoroughfares. So, the “helper”, whom I will henceforth refer to as Señor Espina, was going to help me sell it, and in doing so, he would drive it for his personal use, which per our verbal agreement was responsible and not excessive. This worked out well for me because he could go deal with the mechanics and report back. I just had to make decisions and shell out cash (of which I had more than usual due to working my little white ass off) for the repairs. I kept him in cigs, beer, and food (in order of importance) in return for his assistance. I don’t know who was using who, but it was a mutually beneficial arrangement during the short time it lasted.
July 17. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. The partnership was, indeed, a brief one. Three weeks, tops. Long enough for me to realize that my affinity for a café con leché skin tone has ended badly for me on more than one occasion. And that I should never trust a drunk who’s not in recovery. And that I need to learn to drive a stick shift as well as a vibrator. Fuck being dependent on others for something so simple.
So anyway, I’ll try to spare you the excessively dramatic details of what happened to Laverne. I actually think it’s worthy of reality TV drama. Not quite Jerry Springer, but dangerously close.
Señor Espina crashed her before noon on a Sunday, on the opposite end of the island from where he lives. Did he call to let me know what had happened? Of course not. Instead, he called his crack-smoking ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even have a car (or a job) to aid him. She did this by hitching a ride with a couple of crack-smoking, jobless friends of hers who somehow manage to possess a vehicle. This proved to me once and for all that Sr. Espina is a “living and breathing fuck-up” (thank you to The Wrestler for this fitting term) incapable of making a good decision.
In a strange instance of luck, this turn of events so excited the girlfriend that she couldn’t help but to maniacally leave four voicemails to inform me that Señor Espina had crashed my car and that I’m a “stupid little girl” for trusting him in the first place. All the while I’m in a volunteer organizational meeting for 7-7. While I'm exceedingly annoyed that Ms. Crazy was called in the first place, if she hadn't been involved, Laverne may well have landed in the impound lot. Then I would have ended up paying the nice tow truck driver a lot more than $375 because the near incoherent Señor didn't think it necessary to involve me, the acting owner of the vehicle.
 |
| Dey say she total. |
So now I have a wrecked vehicle that I can’t myself drive to a body shop, and I get to figure out how to get rid of her. In the meantime, Sr. Espina promised to pay me back, and we discussed the possibility of working out a deal for him to buy Laverne. We arranged for him to give me the money he owes for the tow truck when he got paid on the 1st of August.
August 4-Present. To sue or not to sue. I’m still deciding whether to take him to small claims court. Mom just wants me to sell Laverne as is to get rid of her. She's unwilling to put more money towards the problem and doesn’t think we’ll recover any money from Señor anyway since he seems to have a drunk and broke past. Now, I’m not litigious, aggressive, or vindictive, but I do feel I was taken for a ride. (After making my own, perhaps, bad decisions. At the time I thought I was getting things done to the best of my ability. Really I did.) I would rather put my spare time and energy toward creative endeavors than the people’s court. But once in awhile I get really pissed at the hard-earned money Mom and I have lost, as well as the fucking pain in the ass I have to deal with now. Opinions on what I should do, anyone?
Also, in the midst of all previously mentioned items (in list form for brevity's sake):
My year-old laptop died (for the 2nd time) and mysteriously started working again, albeit with a daily warning message about my disk being corrupted and the blue screen of death making a visit once a week or so. This shall be my last PC.
My iphone died twice (dropped it) and was fixed both times by local technicians, for which I am very grateful because, as previously hinted, I am addicted.
A nasty rash spread over my whole body, inducing a doctor’s visit. He diagnosed it as an allergic rash and gave me medication that got rid of it, but we couldn’t figure out what I might be allergic to. Luckily, it hasn’t returned. My boss says I'm allergic to island drama. Perhaps.
I have been working with 7-7 to help put on a black and white photography exhibit at the end of the month, and to launch a new and improved website, among other endeavors.
Hershey recovered from tick fever only to develop intestinal tapeworms that I was fortunate enough to discover in his poo. Another trip to the vet.
My landlord is referred to as “Slumlord Dave” by a drunk Chris-Farley-type customer at the Toad and Tart. And I am also asked if I know how many times he had sex on my bed when living in my apartment 14 years ago. No, sorry, I don’t. But it must have been frequent if you feel the need to inform me.
So, folks, this is why I haven’t had time to write. But after getting all this garbage out of my head, I think I’m ready to roll again.
Momentum achieved!
Thanks for listening.
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