Finding Pleasure in the Health Card Process

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.

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.”

Excuses, Excuses. A Rambling Post of Epic Proportions. In Two Parts.

Starting from a dead stop. It requires energy and motivation. A lot of energy and motivation. I know very well how difficult it is to overcome inertia. Physics was one of my least favorite subjects, but I do remember enough to know that this has something to do with Newton’s Three Laws of Motion, so it’s not like I’m imagining things.

I’m talking about my writing life here, folks.

Or I should say, what writing life? I moved to St. Thomas almost a year ago with the intention of writing more, to even create a writing lifestyle for myself. My current reality, however, is that I write as much as if not less than when I lived in Minnesota—ironic because I’m far more inspired by life in St. Thomas. My goal is to get to the point where a day without writing is as uncomfortable and rare as a day without eliminating waste.

I am growing stronger (hopefully wiser) and more peaceful. Life feels rich and blessed and mysterious. I have lots of ideas, but have lacked the creative space and focus to explore them. Other than my blog, which frequently goes on hiatus when life gets too busy, I haven’t actually been putting fingertips to keyboard. Unless we’re referring to texting on my iphone. That I have managed to spend a good amount of time doing.

Anyway, in the interest of bringing those who care up to speed on my St. Thomas adventure, and to present my excuses for not having blogged since mid-May, I’ve constructed a two-part timeline of my life since last posting a silly little piece on goats.

May 20-June 3. Visit Minnesota. I had the best intentions to write, but socializing with loved ones and preparing for Lissa and Michael’s beautiful wedding left no time for creative endeavors. More reflections on my first trip back to the motherland soon to come.

June 3-4. Return to St. Thomas. My (ex)boyfriend/landlord/roommate was (still is) obviously seeing someone else. Granted, we knew our relationship was over before I left and that I’d be looking for a new apartment. (As with most break-ups, I guarantee the reasons for this one vary widely, depending on the party you ask.) The thought of staying in his house with only one bed, one bath, no privacy, and a surplus of awkward, was pretty darn miserable to me. Mr. T was very careful to make it known that he was not kicking me out, however. And we mustn’t sully his nice guy image. It was my choice to leave, but really, why stay?

June 5-7. Move out. Luckily, I have very nice employers at R&J’s, and they were kind enough to let me and Hershey occupy their downstairs apartment until I found my own place. So I moved in over the course of a few days with all the spare energy I had outside of work. This would be move number four on the island. Move number six in the last 18 months.

June 10-20. Ain't no rest for the wicked. A few days after moving into my temporary pad, I started what for me was a near grueling work schedule. Both R&J were off island, and they entrusted me to oversee coffee shop operations during their absence. I didn’t mind this at all, in fact, I rather enjoyed the added responsibility and challenge. It did, however, require me to arrive downtown at 5:30am and I leave no earlier than 4pm for the next week or so. Now this in itself isn’t that bad, but Thursday through Sunday, I worked at the Toad and the Tart from 5pm-10:30pm. So I was tired. Hershey was lonely. When not working, I took care of the dog, drove, slept, showered, and ate. I didn't write.

June 10- present. More work and little play. I’ve continued working around 50 hr weeks. When I started at the Toad and Tart, I was only supposed to do two nights a week. But while in Minnesota, the other server quit. So, I’ve been obliged to work all four nights. Which has actually worked out because I’ve needed the money. There is an end in sight, however. A friend of our Grillmaster recently arrived on island. She has bartending experience and needs a job. Woo-hoo. Two nights a week at the pub will be perfect. More financial stability and more time to enjoy life on the island.

Now, if only the old Tart and St Thomas life don’t scare her away…

Too late. They already did. Since I started this blog post, she already informed me that she's leaving.

Guess I'll be at the T&T four nights a week for a little while longer...

June (in general). Responsibilities. During my stay at the R&J’s homestead, I used what little spare time and money I had to give both my car and my dog some overdue medical attention. My car received an oil change, two new tires, and new front brakes. Hershey got all his vaccinations, pills for tick fever and started back on Heartguard.

Don’t stop moving. I didn’t want to linger at R&J’s for longer than a month due to an independent nature and  feeling impatient to settle in my own place. I looked at a couple apartments and took the one that let me have Hershey. I’m not good at apartment searching, job searching, etc. I don’t like to spend time focusing on the search- especially when I’m really in need, which I realize doesn’t make any sense. I like to make a decision and move on. The problem with this attitude is that I often settle for the first thing I can live with instead of taking risks and holding out for something better.

With which head are you thinking? And perhaps unsurprisingly, part of the reason I was in such a hurry to get my own place is because the person helping with my car and promising to help with my mom’s vehicle was also helping my sad and neglected libido. This required both privacy and anonymity.

July 1. Large room with a view. So I rented this place with some really cute features like:

a vaulted ceiling with exposed rafters, and

a view of Magen's Bay.

But it also was dirty, termite-infested, the couch has a hole, and whoever painted seemed to get bored after one coat. But I could afford it, I liked the neighborhood, and the gregarious, off-island landlord let me keep Hershey. It’s hard to tell the difference between island funky and a dump. I would never live in an apartment like this in the states, but your standards change in St. Thomas. They become less American and more…I don’t know… third world tropical?

But I like to think of my new pad as bohemian.

To be continued...

Open-Minded Adapting?...Or Lowering One's Standards?

The consequences of my actions were not lost on me. Let me tell you. Before moving to St. Thomas, I understood that in doing so, I deliberately placed myself smack dab into certain discomforts. Indeed, this was part of the point. Almost like manipulating the environment of a Sim chick out of pure curiosity in the result. How will she respond to living without convenient access to things she loves like seasons and sweet corn and art house movies?

While lush in many ways, the Virgin Islands are a virtual desert when it comes to new rock and Pop* music, a Current of which flowed freely in the Twin Cities, and from which I thirstily drank. One could even say I was a bit spoiled in this regard.

If I needed a live music fix, I could see under-the-radar star M. Ward at 1st Ave or news-coverage-grabbing Rage Against the Machine at the Target Center. Since very few nationwide tours skip the Twin Cities, I had the opportunity to catch whatever act excited me at the moment, and easily be home by midnight.

I patronized cool independent record stores, my favorite being the Electric Fetus for its consistent selection, fun location just south of downtown Minneapolis, and long history in the community. Growing up, Mom always pointed the Fetus out to me when we drove on I-35 to the city from Iowa. (More often than not the trip was dedicated to seeing a rock show—few tours stops in Iowa.) She often shopped there during her brief stint in Minneapolis after high school. This knowledge always made buying music at the Fetus an extra special experience, akin to ancestral traditions like eating lefsa during the Holidays.

And, of course, The Current kept my discerning ears stimulated throughout the work day. The MPR rock radio station never failed to challenge my taste and keep me abreast of the best in new innovative and interesting (mostly indie) rock and pop.

Island radio formats consist of mass-appeal pap, Caribbean music, and Christian talk. I was, of course, completely aware of this. To keep somewhat plugged in, I planned to podcast Sound Opinions and Musicheads, read music mags and blogs, and hopefully catch a festival in the States during the summer. Any music shopping would be done online, as I assumed (however, still have not confirmed) that the music shops here don’t cater to rocker types like myself.

I figured the closest I’d get to enjoying live music on island would consist of a mediocre bar band.

So, it was mild excitement I felt when, during a brief listen to the modern rock station that broadcasts from St. Croix, I happened to hear an advertisement for Once, a Pearl Jam cover band scheduled to play on island in early December. Of course, I planned to check it out. A $5 cover and a trip to the East End are totally worth it for rare entertainment like this on St. Thomas. At the very least, I knew it would be a fun blog post to write.

To be continued…


*I mean Pop Music here in the large sense. In my mind, the small pop, defines artists of an inane variety such as Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, whereas Pop in the large sense can refer to artists as diverse as the oft disturbing Iggy Pop, as well as the anti-sellout Neil Young. Mayhap this makes sense to you. Mayhap not.

The Sky is Falling (disclaimer: unnecessary self-pitying to follow)

I've struggled to find happiness, contentment, and fulfillment since childhood. Thus far, it's been fleeting. I've changed my surroundings, my medications, my beliefs, my routine, my goals, and yet I always end up with this vague...or not so vague depressed sense of hopelessness and futility.

I know that the only true source of peace available to me comes from within. Challenges and victories will enter and exit my life, alternately elevating and lowering my mood and my general sense of well-being. But underneath all the surface stuff that happens, somewhere deep inside, all is calm and well. Intellectually, I know and believe this to be true, but I'm having great difficulty actually living it.

I'm really fucking sick of being unhappy. And I'm sure all of you are really fucking sick of me bitching. An intelligent, attractive enough, middle-class white American whining about her piddly non-problems in the face of serious world issues.

Wah, wah, shut the hell up.

I thought coming to St. Thomas would solve all this. Such strong forces pulled me here. I thought to create a life less ordinary. I thought to force a mental and spiritual breakthrough. But now I just miss the comforts of my old frozen home. The Current, First Ave, trash collection, a decent salary and health benefits, Trader Joe's, Motley, among other such things and people...

I call this Woody Allen Disorder, or The Grass is Always Greener Syndrome (I thought I penned this term, but after googling it, apparently I did not). There's an actual scientific-sounding word for this that I've just spent the last thirty minutes trying to look up. Woody Allen refers to it in Wild Man Blues. He says that when he's in NYC, he always wants to be in Europe, and when he's in Europe, he always wants to be in NYC. If anyone knows the word he uses to describe this, please let me know. I think it either starts with an "A" or an "M", and if my computer time wasn't limited, I would still be looking for it. (Okay, I found it. Anhedonia, which actually means the inability to experience pleasure...not exactly accurate to what I'm describing, but close enough.)

Why is my computer time limited, you may ask? Well, because I spilled a minute amount of water in the general direction of my new laptop on Tuesday morning and now the hard drive is gone. I have grown exceedingly attached to my laptop in the last two months. It's my connection to the world. To the music and people I love. (Um, not in that order.) I'm an information addict! I need constant Internet access! So, I have to send my computer to Toshiba where hopefully they'll replace my hard drive for free, but maybe they will tell me there is water damage and, thus, I'll need to pay for it with money that I don't have.

Also, the last chapter and a half of my book will need to be rewritten because I am irresponsible and neglected to save it to my jump drive. *Sigh* It will be interesting and hopefully not too maddening a process.

I thought I would have to stop writing until the computer is fixed, thereby eliminating one of my major sources of joy. But I've decided that I'll just write by hand in a notebook. Tolkein and Hemingway penned masterpieces on little scraps of paper in the midst of flying bullets on the battlefield, so I think I can manage writing longhand in a composition notebook for a couple weeks.

I will have plenty of time to do this, considering that both Mom and Mike will be gone for the next week. It will be interesting to spend a week alone on this island. Luckily, I have to work every day this week, so the amount of time I can spend in an empty house crying and feeling sorry for myself will be limited. I am grateful to have made one girlfriend to hang out with as well. Mom probably won't be back until December after her surgery and recovery period. I'm thrilled that she's going to be okay (although I never really thought otherwise for some reason). But, I'm actually not convinced she'll ever return. Can you say "ironic"?

So, because of all this wah wah nonsense, Mike has given me another nickname. The poor guy didn't realize what he was getting into with me. Another crazy skinny bitch to add to his list of girlfriends. (His bff claims that this seems to be his type. Ha.) I did, however, offer plenty of disclaimers about my lack of mental stability and tendency toward moodiness. He chose to ignore them or not believe me, I guess. So anyway, he has started to call me Chicken Little.

I don't think it's wholly inaccurate. In fact, I'd say that he's come up with a good one.

At least it's in keeping with the chicken theme.

Occupational Euphemisms, Ego Dissolvers, and an Hourly Wage

I am finally hired. In the food industry-- a part of it I never before considered, although making coffee is obviously a better fit for me than waitressing or bartending. You’re reading the blog of a new, full-time barista. It has a sexy ring to it, don’t ya think? I’m glad the title "barista" has entered the mainstream, so I have a hip title. I much prefer it to coffee girl.

The position opened up because Johnny (adorable and sweet as can be) has been promoted to lead bartender at the newly renamed Liquor Box (the Drake’s Passage bar, which the boyf’s good friends happen to own. Everyone is connected down here.). Therefore, his full-time barista position at R&J's Island Latte is available. I didn’t consider this option when I first saw it advertised, since I have never before made coffee drinks. But I need a job. Any job. Staying unemployed will drive me to depression.

Thanks to a gentle kick-in-the-ass pep talk from Mom last Tuesday night, I entered Wednesday determined to be employed week's end. I was getting very close to selling jewelry, which I didn't want to do. If I know anything, it's that I'm not a salesperson, even though I come from a line of them. Like I've said before, wiping asses sounds like more fun to me.

We decided to eat at RJ's for lunch on Wednesday. We entered, and a pretty, light-skinned black lady greeted my mom warmly by name. Mom informed me that she is one of they owners and told me for the tenth time that they are very nice. It occured to me for the first time that I might enjoy working here, and we decided to inquire about Johnny's newly open position.

We find out that it has not been filled, but I need a health card before she will interview me. In order to work in the food industry in the USVI, one must have a valid Health ID or Food Handler’s card. In order to acquire said card, a stool sample must be tested to ensure one doesn't have worms. I ask if it takes a long time to get the card and find out that if I’m fast, I can probably get it within the next twenty-four hours.

“It all just depends on your body,” she says smiling, and gesturing with her hands in a downward motion showing the route that food leaves your body as waste.

“I like this woman,” I think to myself.

So, I embark on an adventure that includes a trip to the communitiy clinic at the hospital, meeting a half-mad woman who nonetheless shows me where the privately-owned labratory is located, obtaining a sample jar, and scooping a sample of my poo from the toilet with the serrated spoon attached to the jar lid. The next day, I'm relieved to discover that my poo is ova and parasite free. The people at the hospital give me a card, even though I couldn’t tell the lady my street number. (Mom keeps telling me it doesn’t matter!) 

After an easy and painless interview, I am hired. My normal hours will be 6:45am to 3:15pm, the earliest I’ve ever worked. I figure it will keep me healthy. I can’t go out late if I have to rise around 5am. The job only pays $10/hr, a sum of which I’m almost embarrassed to mention, except for the fact that I'm trying to dissolve the ole ego. And the tips aren’t nearly what they’d be if I bartended or waitressed. I could  also make more selling jewelry...

Unfortunately for me, I wasn't born with the greedy gene, allowing me to work jobs that I dislike because they pay well...I usually have to do something I find palatable, which generally doesn't include asking for people's money...

I’m thinking that the barista job will be virtually stress free.  My head won’t spin all night with work shit, and the anxiety won’t cause me to drag my feet  in the morning. This means I can spend more energy doing what I love, which is to write.

I will probably have to get a 2nd gig. And I have some options. But the whole thing is a pride-swallower, since I’ll be earning half what I did in MN, and will also have no benefits and no 401K.

But then I remind myself that this is an adventure. I am young. And learning to live simply is valuable-- thinking of abundance in a way that has more to do with small daily joys instead of purchasing power.

Plus, they're training me to make all sorts of cool coffee drinks. So, I am learning a new trade. Now, there's a better word for that...we'll call it a craft.

Last Resort Option: Out

When I first considered moving to St. Thomas, I told people that if I couldn't find an office job, I'd just tend bar or waitress. It could be a fun adventure. I was mostly joking, but I considered it an option.

During the third session with my holistically awesome therapist who helped guide me through this major move, she asked what was the worse that could happen if I gave up my job and life as I knew it and moved to the island.

"I could get killed by a hurricane." I said.

"Natural disasters don't count. That could happen here too." she told me.

"I could get hit by a stray bullet. That happens down there, seriously. They have a gun problem on island."

"Nope, that doesn't count either. That could still happen here in your life now. The girl that was shot in St. Paul last weekend, that was in my neighborhood. But I'm not going to spend all my time worrying about my safety and that of my children because it's unproductive. It doesn't do you any good to focus on random violence and natural disasters because you have no control over those things and it wastes valuable mental energy you could use on something else.",

"Okay. Well, I could go through all my savings and end up waiting tables or bartending."

"Okay. That counts. You could go through all your savings and end up waiting tables or bartending."

"Anything else?"

Not that I could think of...

And at the time, this last resort didn't seem so bad. I mean, it's a risk. But not a crappingly huge risk. And when put in the perspective that I could lose all of the relatively little money I had and get stuck working in the service industry, it felt like a risk worth taking, especially considering the creative and spiritual (and okay romantic) pull I felt calling me to the island.

I've been here for a little over a month now and have been offered two jobs (while having applied for many). The talented chef at my neighborhood beach restaurant has asked me to waitress for him three times now. I have declined each time, telling him thanks, but I'm looking for an administrative job with benefits. I'll let him know if I get desperate.

And then last night a local proprietor sort of talked me into showing up at nine this morning to learn how to make drinks and see if I'll work out as season help at the bar. For some reason (...beer), I decided this was a good idea. It could be a fun adventure. At least I'm not sitting around all day with nothing to do but job search in a limited market. So I agreed to show up and meet with the senior bartender (who has served me on multiple occasions) and two other girls for training.

Now, I've never worked in the food industry before, preferring retail in high school and campus jobs in college. And then group homes before getting my first real business job. Yes, rather than waiting tables or pouring drinks, I've always preferred to work in group homes where wiping butts was part of my regular duties. I'm telling you, there's heart and soul in wiping butts.

So, after a tossy-turny night of weird, unpleasant dreams about my future bartending experience, I woke up late yet still determined to show up and try my hand at pouring drinks. After we started to actually work (which requires things like wiping down and stocking the bar and hauling ice around in a huge garbage bin ) it was pretty clear to me that these two other darlings (nice girls. asked to be called by nicknames sounding like stripper pseudonyms. i didn't fit in.) definitely knew exactly what they were doing.  And that no one was real interested in training me. Which was fine. Because after an hour, it was pretty clear to me that bartending is not an Ashley job.

I don't even really like bars. At least not enough to spend time in one six days a week. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good time out, but I'm not a big crazy party girl. Also, I know I would drink and smoke too much, which was my boyfriend's immediate concern (and he's certainly not prudish when it comes vices). But apparently bartenders here tend to party A LOT.

I don't want to memorize all the types of alcohol and drinks and shots. I don't want to spend my days with drunk people in an atmosphere smelling faintly of vomit, looking at a big-breasted mermaid painted on the wall.

Another thing is that I want to work somewhere air-conditioned. Maybe that sounds lame. But if I can't live in air-conditioning, I at least want to be saved from constant sweating during the work day. An open bar by the cruise ship docks definitely increases my sweat level. My face dripped so much during the short time I was there that the proprieter handed me a paper towel to wipe it off. Attractive, huh? Now that I mention it, I don't like cruise ships either and wouldn't want to look at them all day every day. Or serve and entertain their passengers.

I want to work in a nice, clean, air-conditioned office with other people who are better versed in Microsoft Office and 3-in-1 fax/copy/scan machines than mixed drinks and bottle openers. (I was supposed to bring my own? Who knew?!)

So, after two hours, I thanked the proprieter very kindly for the opportunity, but told him that I felt in my gut this wasn't for me. I got in my car and blasted the AC, thinking longingly about computer screens and desks. I certainly didn't expect that to happen when I left my job in the states.

So, I now know that bartending is not for me. But, dammit, there goes my last resort option.

And after the Leap of Faith...?

I ran. I jumped. I landed on the rock.
The safety net worked. But it won't hold much longer.

Now what?

I'm doing my best to stave off the feelings of self-reproach, desperation, and impotence.

I'm working on that faith thing...
Trusting in flow. Believing that I will encounter exactly what I need.
As long as I keep an eye out for it. Whatever it is.

Doing my darndest to keep the vice grip from clenching tighter around the center of my chest.
I guess that would be my heart.
The anxiety.
The fucking anxiety.
The anxiety that only hinders and never helps.
The anxiety I can't recall not knowing.

Trying to stay calm, cool, collected. Gotta stay positive, (thank you Hold Steady). Or as the ubiquitious bumper sticker on island claims, "Positive is How I Live."
Because as cheesy as it may sound, that's what it's about. This creating your own life thing.

It's liberating and it's terrifying.

What I'd like to feel is bold. Confident. Enthusiastic. Limitless. An omnipotent force in my own life.

I want the tightness that tries so hard to grip my chest, I want to whack it like a ping pong ball
And turn the worry into something light. Something that flies.

Turn it into something creative. Loving. Compassionate. Connected.
I want my soul salivating over the deliciousness of life.

But those circuits in my brain that are so used to worrying. They run deep. Like an ancient river bed,
always waiting for a new current to fill its dry banks.

And those nasty negative feelings and thoughts that tell me I won't find a job.
That it's hopeless. That I'm worthless and irresponsible. That I won't be able to pay rent next month.
That those strong magnetic forces that attracted me to this island, surprising me as much as everyone else.
That inspired me to leave a very good man.To leave a perfectly good well-paying, fully-benefited job in a down economy without having another lined up...
That the synchronous pull that led me here simply dropped me off and left again to entice the next idiot who fantasizes about things like romantic island adventures and writing books.

And I'm stranded on an island where everything costs more than it did in Minnesota with the exception of alcohol, cigarettes, and pot. And where salaries are very much below those in the Twin Cities.
Stranded and shit out of luck.

But that would be looking on the downside.
Because we create our own luck, right?

And I am an optimist.
An optimist trying to cultivate more pluck.

I don't really want to retreat back to the cage, do I?

Nope. Not when it's put to me like that, I don't.

Tropical Inspiration in my Neighborhood

Transporting your Vehicle to St. Thomas: A Step by Step Instructional Guide

(Or How to Slowly Go Insane by way of Caribbean Red Tape)

1. If you wish to transport personal goods to the island, in addition to your car, then I suggest you fill your trunk until it’s questionable as to whether it will stay closed. I managed to pack two large plastic drawers, one small file drawer, a wooden trunk, an old pressure cooker, and some miscellaneous kitchen utensils into the trunk of my Toyota Corolla. I could have shoved more in the empty corners if I’d had time. If I’d really thought ahead, I’d have stuffed the glove compartment and center console too.

But perhaps you’re moving to the island to simplify…

2. Remove any objects from the vehicle you’d prefer were not discovered by Customs agents, human or canine.

3. Drop your vehicle at Tropical Shipping in Riviera Beach before 3pm on a weekday.


Avoid my mistakes, and:

a. Refrain from losing your title, unless emptying the entire contents of your car in the Comfort Inn parking lot in search of the document you spent an extra $20 to expedite sounds like a valuable use of your time. Tropical will accept scanned copies if you are fortunate enough to figure out where your title is. And if someone is able and willing to scan and email you a copy. Once you are on island, however, you WILL need a copy of the original title.

b. Research the correct Tropical Shipping location where vehicles are accepted instead of relying on your not-so-dependable memory. Otherwise, you could spend a good part of the day driving to the wrong place, which, if nothing else, will make the process more adventurous since you won’t know if you can actually make it to the correct location by 3pm.

Note: Even if you are unfortunate enough to commit the aforementioned mistakes, the helpful (no sarcasm here) people at Tropical will gladly help you get your car on a ship, even if you arrive 5 minutes before closing time. Bless Them. But then again, who (besides certain branches of the government) closes at 3pm?

4. Get to the island yourself. No, you cannot travel in your car even though it seems there would be room. Once you’re on the rock, wait for a call from Tropical telling you your car has arrived, but a Customs inspection must be completed prior to retrieval. When you ask when to expect this, your question will be politely ignored and you will be told that they will call when it’s complete. You will thank them and wonder why you bothered asking.


5. When you receive your phone call two days later, it’s time to go to the St. Thomas Tropical Shipping port. While you may think that you’ll leave behind the wheel of your vehicle, you won’t be doing that for the next four to twenty-four hours. What you will actually pick up at Tropical is your Bill of Laden and an incorrect list of instructions about the treasure hunt on which you must embark to actually reclaim your car from the shipyard. You mean to mention the mistake when you return to Tropical, but by that time you will have lost the will.


Note: It is helpful to have a local companion from here on out, especially if you are unfamiliar with the island. You will at least need to borrow a vehicle until Step #15.


6. To proceed further, your car must be insured. I am still unclear on how insurance works here because I’ve been told different things by different people. My original understanding is that, while there are multiple insurance brokers on island, there is but one carrier. It is not a competitive market. They will charge you $350 if you are a new customer, and $260 if you are a current customer. Sometimes. Because my mom, as a new customer, paid $260. And if I’m looking at the documents correctly, we have different underwriters. So, my suggestion is that you go Guardian in Havensight above Caribbean Travel, which is where she paid $260 as a new customer. This covers liability insurance for one year. For some reason, very few people on island purchase comprehensive coverage. I haven’t been able to extract a truly good reason from any locals on why this is so. The vague answer I receive is that it’s not worth the money.


7. Next you proceed to the Virgin Islands Revenue Bureau (VIRB) because that’s where the instructions say you should go. Here you will stand in line for 15 minutes. When you finally advance to the front of the line, the lady behind the counter will tell you, “Road tax is at the inspection lane,” to which you will reply, “What?” and she will repeat in a tone of voice that is not any easier to hear (partly because she’s behind a plastic window, as most clerks are here), “Road tax is at the inspection lane.” You will thank her kindly for this bit of information.


8. Since you have to go that direction anyway, you might as well stop by the Excise Tax station in the Tropical Shipping grounds, behind the junior high school that looks abandoned but is not. Here the old woman behind the window has her chin on her chest and appears to be sleeping. Upon realizing you’ve entered the office, she will look at you with contempt in her glazed eyes and grunt something in your general direction. You tell her you’re here to take care of the excise tax for your car. You will hand her your Bill of Laden and she will tell you with hostility that you don’t need to pay excise tax. Then she will stamp your piece of paper and you are dismissed. The stamp is what you need.


9. If you’re lucky, someone will tell you that the inspection lane where you supposedly pay the road tax is located at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles (BMV). However, the inspection lane is NOT where you presently need to go. You actually need to go inside the BMV. You will probably into the first entrance at the BMV where many are assembled in a long narrow corridor painted a nauseating margarine color. You observe multiple windows with multiple purposes, none of which seem to be yours. After standing there for awhile looking perplexed, a skinny youth who seems to be wearing his weight in jewelry and apparently knows exactly how things work at the BMV, graciously tells you that road tax is actually paid next door. You will discover later that he is a professional who navigates the car clearing process for hire, a service I unfortunately could not afford at this juncture. I think it runs $100-$200. Perhaps this convenience is in your budget.


10. Next door you find a far more spacious room with far fewer windows and far fewer people standing about. You figure out that road tax is paid at the furthest window from the door. After sliding a few of your growing pile of documents under the plastic window, the clerk will turn up the radio and begin to sing along with a song. When she finally notices you, you’ll pay her sixteen cents per pound of your vehicle. My Corolla, a roughly 2500 lb vehicle, cost me $404.


11. Take a short trip to the next window to pay for the permit required to move your car from Tropical Shipping to the BMV. The permit will cost you $5. This is the least amount of money you will part with on your quest to retrieve your wheels. This is my favorite step because while you may think that they will give you said permit at this window where you paid for it, you are wrong. In order to pick up the $5 permit required to move your car one-half mile, it is necessary for you to go back to the other BMV office—the one you mistakenly entered in the first place.


12. After entering the narrow room where many people still swarm looking like they have no clue as to where they should be, the same skinny fellow with the bling points you to the middle window, where there is no sign stating that this is the place to retrieve the $5 permit, for which you just paid. Bless him. You wait in front of the window for five minutes while the girl behind it talks on the phone. When she acknowledges you, tell her you’re here to retrieve the permit you paid for next door and thrust some of your papers through the hole. (At any given time, you have no idea which paper they need to see.) She will give you back your pieces of paper, and you hope the one that contains your permit is included.


13. Now it’s time to go to Customs. Take a deep breath and make sure your patience pants are tightly buckled. When you walk in, you’ll notice an area behind a glass window where three people sit, two men on either side of a woman. A sign on the window advises you to stay seated until you are acknowledged by one of the officers. The woman looks at you and snarls, so you advance toward the window where you notice she is reading the newspaper. You hand her your stack of papers and she looks through them, muttering, “What is this…I’m sure you don’t have what you need. I’m sure you don’t. What is this stuff…?” She sounds as if she’s maybe having a stroke as she speaks to you. Perhaps English is her second language, a fact for which you usually have patience. But since she’s muttering as if you are a stupid person after all the steps you have accomplished just to get this far, you’re quickly arriving at a state in which you almost hope she is, indeed, having a stroke. Because, at this point, you’d like to see someone trapped in the clutches of excruciating pain. And you usually consider yourself a peaceful, loving soul. Take another deep breath. Tell her you need to clear your car through Customs and that you have already paid road tax and have insurance, and a permit, and have been to the excise tax place, etc. You’ll be handed a form with a few items circled, which you assume must be filled out. After filling in the blanks to the best of your knowledge you return only to find her wholly engaged in the newspaper. Fortunately, the man sitting next to her decides to help you. He’ll let you know you filled out the form incorrectly, and you will fix it accordingly. Then he’ll ask you a few questions about what you are transporting. He’ll stamp your Bill of Laden, and you’re done with that step. Phew.


14. By this time you may look at your watch and realize that this is all you can accomplish today. The next step is returning to Tropical Shipping to show them all of your documents, pay, and finally retrieve your car. But Tropical Shipping closes at 3pm and the inspection lane closes at 2:45. It’s now 2:15, and you know accomplishing this is not possible. So you will try again tomorrow. After a couple beers and a good night’s sleep.


15. Your first stop today is at Tropical Shipping. This will be your most enjoyable, as the personnel are helpful and pleasant. Perhaps because they work for a privately-held company instead of the government. After verifying that your documents are stamped and signed appropriately, you will pay for shipping your car across the ocean. They charge by weight. My Corolla cost about $1300. Then they will give you yet another piece of paper and you will meet a nice man in the parking lot. You will inspect your vehicle to make sure there is no horrible damage, even though you don’t care at this point because you really just want to get behind the wheel and drive the damn thing away. After agreeing that there is no new damage, you sign a piece of paper, and the car is yours again!


16. Now it’s time to return to the BMV to register your car. It’s just down the street from Tropical. You will pull into the back of the building where you will see the inspection lanes. Have your road tax receipt, title, and proof of insurance ready. They will tell you when to pull into the lane. Many people will be standing around, including an armed police officer. None of them will appear to be doing anything work-related. A dreadlocked young man will beckon for your paperwork. You’ll hand it to him and he’ll sign it without so much as glancing at your car. This is your inspection. He is nice enough to tell you which window to approach once inside.


17. Find a parking spot and enter the first door at the BMV. Get in line at the proper window and prepare to wait patiently. Not that anyone else waits patiently. Many of the other people loudly complain about the wait, banging on the window and asking if the clerk has gone to lunch. Meanwhile, the security guard instructs those waiting to form a straight line, to which one man replies, “Make them go faster inside,” to which the security guard replies, “They are moving fast.” This rowdy exchange continues during your time in line. At least there is a good chance you’ll be amused during your half hour wait.


18. When you finally advance to the front of the line, you will shove your paperwork underneath the plastic window and tell them you’re here to register your car. She will give you another form to fill out. You’ll step to the side and fill out the required information. When you return to the window, she will put her hand up to let you know that she’s not ready for you yet. When she finally acknowledges you again, you will get a plastic laminated number, and will be told to sit and wait for your number to be called.


19. Numbers will be called in no identifiable order out of one loudspeaker mounted in the center of the narrow, fake-butter corridor. You will strain to hear them, determined to avoid elongating what you desperately hope is the last step to finally driving your car away from this absurd jungle of red tape. It’s not easy to hear what is called over the loudspeaker, partially due to the noise made by bored and frustrated BMV customers (if you can call them customers) and partially because the speaker has a fair amount of crackle, and partially because cars seem to keep passing with music playing loud enough to actually drown out the announcements.


20. Luckily, you are able to hear your number called, as well as the window to which you must report. When you arrive at the window, you again shove your paperwork in the tiny opening. The clerk will not look at you, but you might hear her ask her co-worker when she plans to go to lunch. When she does make eye contact, tell her you’re ready to pay for your registration. She will leisurely calculate your fees and collect your new plates and registration sticker. She will tell you a sum twice what you expect, given the amount registration is said to cost on the posted sign. You will nicely ask her to specify the itemized expenses, and she will tell you registration, license plates, inspection fee ($10 for the dreaded gentlemen to sign the paper without glancing at your car), and a few other items you can’t remember and also can’t refer to later because on the receipt $41 is listed as “Other.” You will sigh and fork over the money, anxious to finally get your new beautiful VI license plates and drive freely around the island.


21. Finally, after multiple hours, thousands of dollars, and with a stack of more than 20 pieces of paper, your new VI plates and registration sticker are in your trembling, anticipating hands. Hopefully, you brought a screwdriver—not, not to hurt anybody— so you can change your plates in the parking lot. Follow the instructions on the registration sticker for application to your windshield.


22. Now it’s time for a Presidente. Or a Painkiller.


23. And for God’s sake, after all this, don’t forget to stay left!

The Payoff: Tropical St. Thomas License Plates