Rosacea! Rosacea!

I’m journaling in Roosevelt Park on my lunch break. It’s a gorgeous sunny day. Not too hot. Nice breeze. The kind of glorious January day that, not only makes all the inconveniences and absurdities of living in the Caribbean completely worth it, but also makes me feel closer to the divine. I thoroughly enjoy my time in the downtown park with its benches and palm trees and cobblestone paths. And I've even grown a bit fond of the fountain with the chipped paint that holds no water, but does display a collection of uninspired graffiti tags.

Unfortunately, it’s time to return to work. The afternoon tourist shift. Which always passes more slowly and with far less love and mirth than the morning local shift.  I stand up and tilt my head back toward the sky to apply eye drops. The sun’s rays on my face feel delightful. While in this precarious position, I hear a voice on the path behind me.

“Ya need me put ‘em in fah you?”

I finish my task and don my shades before straightening up and turning around to see who talks to me.

“Nah, I good. Thanks though,” I say—blinking rapidly behind my sunglasses—to a dark-skinned man wearing a cap. I don’t recall seeing him before. I pick up my purse and start walking in the direction of the coffee shop.

“Wh’eh you goin?”

“Back to work.”

“Wh’eh you work?”

“R&J’s Island Latte’. On the waterfront. Next to Foot Locker.”

“Okay, okay. Yeah, I know dat place. Neva go deh but I know it. Know all de place on dis island.”  

“Yeah? You from h’eh?”

“Nah. I bahn St. Kitts.  But I live St. Thomas 25 years. I know dis place. It home.”

“Yeah. It’s home for me right now too.”

“I can walk you back?”

“Sure, if you want.” I shrug.

We pass the building that’s falling down. It sits between a well-kept law firm and a non-descript government agency. The sidewalk in front of the crumbling building is barricaded to keep pedestrians from getting hurt by falling debris. I walked by this dilapidated structure on the way from my car to work at least once a week for almost a year before I consciously noticed its miserable condition.  I was in the government parking lot with Loida, and my eyes happened to settle on it from a couple city blocks away.

“Holy shit, Loida,” I said. “I never noticed how bad that building really is.”

“Oh, dat place been fallin’ down since I a kid. Usda be homeless people, crack-heads and shit, living in it but dey board it up now and da sidewalk block so people can’t hurt deyself.”

“I wonder why the owners have let it get so bad. It’s nice real estate”

“Me no know.”

The capped fellow and I’ve only been walking together for about 60 seconds, but he’s greeted all three people we’ve passed.  And the person’s appearance apparently dictates his salutation. When we walk by a lady who looks Spanish (local nomenclature), he greets her with the appropriately flirtatious, “¿Hola, como esta, mi amor?”

Well, he’s certainly gregarious, I think.

“This island full ‘a colorful characters.” I say.

“Yeah, people all different color. White people. Black people. Brown people. Spanish people. Chinese people. All different kind ‘a people.”

“Yes, it’s very culturally diverse, which I love. But this place also just plain full ‘a characters, man.”

“You like characters?”

“Yeah, for some reason I seem to be drawn to crazies. Probably why I’m so attracted to St. Thomas.”

“You like to sleep wit black men?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Cuz I like white gerls. I like all color gerl. White gerls. Black gerls. Yellow gerls. Red heads. All kind ‘a gerl.”

“I’m sure you do. I've got a man though. And contrary to popular practice here, I am monogamous.”

“That too bad, sweetie. I h’eh d’oh, if ya change ya mind.”

“You have a job?” I ask.

“I fix electrical ting.”

“You have an actual business? Like with a business license and a name and stuff like that?”

“Nah. I word ‘a mouth. Unda da table.”

“Ah, so you don pay taxes or wha?”

He laughs. “It work fah me, sweetie.”

 We’re getting closer to the heart of downtown Charlotte Amalie—five blocks saturated with jewelry stores and teeming with tourists. It’s getting more difficult to walk two by two on the sidewalk. I’m starting my transition into tourist-dodge mode, realizing that I’m at risk of punching in late.  I’m always at risk of punching in late. I walk ahead of my mate, although he remains just a couple paces behind me. I’m far more concerned with getting back to work than I am with continuing this conversation.

While I wait on the corner in front of Tanzenite International for the safari bus traffic to pass before crossing the street to the post office, I hear my friend behind me say what I’m pretty sure is, “Rosacea!” very loudly. That’s a weird thing to shout in public, I think. I turn around and see him standing in front of a Scandinavian-looking tourist. He’s standing very close to her, saying loudly in her face, “Rosacea!... Rosacea!” I take a closer look and, sure enough, her face does have the pink bumpy signs of the unfortunate skin disorder.  She looks confused rather than offended.

Is he really saying this? I think. My god. Is this man crazy? Does he have Tourrette’s or something? Fuckin’ a, this island is full of strange people!

Then he grabs her hand and offers some pleasant mumbo jumbo about having a nice day in St. Thomas.

He catches up to me in front of the post office.

“Were you saying, ‘rosacea’ to that lady?” I ask him.

“Yeah.”

“Were you referring to her skin condition?”

“Yeah, dat what it call, right?”

“Right…but, dude, that’s really rude. I can’t believe you did that!”

He smiles.

“That’s like going up to someone and saying, ‘Big Pimple! Big Pimple!’ or ‘Lazy Eye! Lazy Eye!’”

He just keeps smiling and laughs.

“So you sure ya don wan have sex wit a black man?”

“I’m sure. I have a boyfriend who I’m very satisfied with, thank you.”

By this time we’re on Main Street, and it’s swarming with people wearing beach cover-ups and visors and tennis shoes. I notice him spot a couple of young attractive tourists, and he abruptly stops walking with me and greets the girls. Oop, I think, amused, he knows he’s not getting anywhere with me. And he’s done moved on.

I finish the walk back to work replaying the encounter in my head—taking stock to make sure I’m not dreaming or haven’t entered into a dimension where life is an offensive black comedy. But by the time I reach work, I’ve determined that this is, indeed, my real life.

On Having a Caribbean Gardener

The gardener is washing his truck in the driveway. He does this most Saturday mornings. It’s part of his routine at the Meerkat’s house. He was, in fact, washing his truck the first time they met. The Meerkat walked down the driveway to find a stranger scrubbing down a large blue truck. The gardener introduced himself, shifting the hose from one hand to the other in order to shake hands, and made a half-hearted attempt to appear as if he were actually watering the bushes. But as soon as The Meerkat turned away to walk down the steps into the house, the gardener returned to rinsing his already shiny Toyota Tacoma.

Now, if the Meerkat were actually paying for either the gardener’s services or our water supply this might be a problem. But we suspect the gardener is paid by the off-island landlord. And our cistern has yet to run dry. So, it’s a bit less bothersome that he uses the house’s water and driveway space to keep his vehicle more spotless than either of our own.

One Saturday morning not long after the Meerkat and I started spending all our free time together, I came over to do laundry and use the pool. He happened to be off island, and I was still staying at my own place while he was gone. The gardener wasn’t yet accustomed to my constant presence. He was used to the house being empty with the Meerkat’s frequent travels.

When I reached, I saw the gardener’s truck parked at the top of the driveway. I approached the house and noticed two pairs of shoes strewn sloppily by the entryway stairs and what looked like t-shirts haphazardly hung over the handrails. It appeared the gardener had some help this morning. But I didn’t actually see anyone about the front of the property. I figured they were cutting bush on the hill below.

I entered the stuffy house and started turning on fans and opening windows. I got no further than the dining room when I was both surprised and not surprised (a frequent paradoxical sensation in Stt) to spy a large black man floating lazily around the pool. One of his comrades was cutting bush next to the patio with a machete. The other one seemed to be drying in the sun after taking a cool dip. “Well," I thought, “there goes my plan to use the pool.”

I don’t know if they suspected that somebody was home, but shortly after I arrived, they got out of the pool and sort of went back to work. And when I say they sort of went back to work, I mean that two of them washed the truck in the driveway, while one of them used a chainsaw to whack off the overgrown bush around the house. Not that there is much overgrown bush to be whacked because as far as I can tell, the gardener comes here three out of four Saturdays a month. Either somebody must be paying him well or the perk of getting a free car wash makes it worth coming here almost every weekend.

I have since come to friendly terms with the gardener. I know his first name and we always exchange pleasantries. He is a very nice man, always smiling. I think he's from somewhere down-island. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is his second or third job. And I never feel uncomfortable being alone on the property with him. But, as you can tell, he’s definitely a gardener with a Caribbean sense of professionalism and propriety.

Last weekend, the Meerkat offered him $20 and a bottle of water to dispose of our Christmas tree. The gardener seemed happy to comply. We saw him walk up the driveway with the dying tree on his shoulder. We figured he put it in the back of his freshly-washed truck and threw it in the dumpster on his way out of the neighborhood. Later that afternoon, the Meerkat was sweetly walking the dog while I napped before my shift at the pub. At the top of the driveway, he caught a strong whiff of Christmas tree. Peering over the edge of the uncleared hill bordering the road , he could just barely see the shimmer of tinsel that remained on our tree. Apparently the gardener had simply walked up the driveway, and tossed the tree down the hill, which we learned is where he throws all the dead bush he cuts from the yard.

The Meerkat could have easily saved himself $20 and done this himself. But he would have, of course, gone to the trouble of strapping it to the top of the Corolla and hauling it to the dumpsters. And then we wouldn’t have the pleasure of smelling our still fragrant Christmas tree every time we walk the dog. So, I guess what we should really do is thank our Caribbean gardener for extending our Christmas cheer into the new year.

Dying tree pre-disposal. 

My Meerkat Meets the Veep in Pueblo

Hello to my thirty-seven loyal readers! I'm excited to offer something different today. A break from Ashley's prose. The Meerkat has agreed to guest blog about meeting Joe Biden last weekend in our nastiest island grocery store. I hope you enjoy his story-telling as much as I do. Yes, he uses big words. I don't know them all either, and thus have included some links to vocabulary definitions. 

The amusing – and somewhat surprising – recurring question in the flurry of responses I received to the flurry of texts I sent was not, “What was Joe Biden doing in Pueblo?”, but “What were you doing in Pueblo?”

For the uninitiated, the impetus of that question requires some exposition of Pueblo itself.

Like so many things in the VI (banks, franchised restaurant chains, “locally produced” consumer goods), Pueblo comes to us from, and is headquartered in, Puerto Rico. Pueblo, writ large, fell victim to severe financial distress in 2007. Thanks to a white-knight purchase by the owners of the Holsum Bread Company (another “local”/PR institution), I am told that many of the Pueblos on our big-sister island have recently been refreshed and are now quite nice. But the beneficence of capital has, apparently, yet to trickle-down to the VI locations, and our hometown Pueblos simply fail to meet the quality standards of a Puerto Rican grocery store.

(Let’s pause for a moment to consider the tenor and resonance of those words, “…fail to meet the quality standards of a Puerto Rican grocery store.”)

On my very first day in St. Thomas, I was told to avoid Pueblo like the plague. (Actually, the exact words were “you’ll get the plague”. But even now, fully inculcated into the Island, that warning seems incredible: Hantavirus, unquestionably; Ebola, perhaps; but THE plague, no way!)

In spite of this well-intentioned if, y’know, very mildly hyperbolic advice, I have, myself, been in a Pueblo three times during my nearly two years here. The first was about a week after initially arriving. I left empty-handed, but it was by far the most formative of the visits. As I entered the store, there was a crudely lettered sign of indelible ink on the discarded flap of a corrugated cardboard box, “We Have Fresh Meat Available”.

As is my wont, I looked for the real meaning in the rhetorical white space of that sign. Yes, fresh meat is theoretically available, but it isn’t necessarily what’s displayed out there in the refrigerated cases. To get the FRESH meat: come at the right time, make sure you’re not being followed, ask for the “other” butcher, say the secret code word, engage in the secret handshake, and flash a little cash to make it worth the guy’s effort. Unperished perishables are a privilege, not a right!

My second visit was born (or perhaps, borne) out of necessity. The first bands of a hurricane that had been threatening the Greater Antilles for over a week were bringing torrential rain and gale-force wind and a deserved sense of helpless panic. I was acutely cognizant of the fact that there was nothing that remotely resembled comfort food in my house, and I was not about to risk bone-crushing, catastrophic, irreparable devistation without a supply of Fig Newtons and Cheetos. I was certain that every other grocer on the Island had long-since shuttered-up, opting to exercise the better part of valor, and that this was likely my only opportunity. Further specious justification was that, in the aftermath of a Category 4 storm where there would be no electricity or sanitation or access to even rudimentary healthcare, it would be impossible to distinguish between foodborne illnesses and waterborne illnesses thus somehow mentally indemnifying both Pueblo and my own questionable judgment.

The third visit, the one where I met the Vice President of the United States, was, like all good things that happen to bad people, the result of unflappable laziness and unwarranted luck.

Saturday, a corporate guest moved into my home for a temporary stay. He’s an affable fellow, an employee, a passing acquaintance from when I lived on another Island in another time. Like all of us who have relocated from the Mainland, he moved to the Caribbean primarily to tend to the care and feeding of his Cirrhotic cells. And last month, in a moment of inattention and/or megalomania, I agreed to his manager’s plan to involuntarily relocate him from his Island to mine. So, while having this house guest is not the preferred situation, I brought it on myself. Besides, corporate guests support my assertions to the IRS that the house (of dubious quality) that my employers provide me in part-exchange for my services (of dubious merit) is not, in any way, taxable income!

After he unpacked, I briefly mentioned that I needed to shop that evening. This was meant only to give him a vague indication as to my whereabouts so he could gauge how much time he had to rifle through my underwear drawer and medicine cabinet. He misinterpreted it as an invitation to come with, so we agreed to meet at 6:30.

Grocery shopping in St. Thomas can be an intolerable nuisance unless you elect to view it as a challenging sport. It is widely accepted that no shopping list, irrespective of how short or how simple, can be filled completely at a single store. Further, shoppers should never assume that just because they have purchased an item at a store – even frequently and recently – that that same item still will be at that same store. So shopping requires a multivariate calculation starting with the drive time to another store measured against the temperature inside and outside of the car measured against the perishability of the items already purchased measured against the viability of recipe substitutes the shopper already has at home. A proper shop takes about as long to complete as an international cricket test match and, while I know of no formal study being done, I viscerally sense that a fair barometer of a Thomian shopper’s ability to complete a shop without a carload of curdled milk and celery with the turgor of a wet shoelace is their past success with those standardized test questions which begin, “A train leaves New York heading west at 50 miles per hour…”

So my guest and I set-out, I with limited patience and even less emotional energy for straining a conversation to find shared, substantive relevance (we both, at the time, still sober). I drove us to the place I believed offered the best chance of finding enough of the items on our list for us to declare the shop completed and return home. It is located on the south central part of the Island; it caters to the yachties; the prices are unconscionable, but the selection is good (“Island good”), and this was not a time I cared to economize.

But nope, the holiday left that grocer’s shelf picked-over and, after recovering from the cognitive dissonance of comparing what I had just spent to what I had just purchased, I realized that there were too many basics still missing. The options were to trek 20 miles east to another “upscale” market, or battle Saturday evening traffic to attend a relatively closer “big box” style supermarket or, worse, both. And any of those options coupled with prattling-on about the relative merits of coral islands versus volcanic islands was beyond my mien. So as we exited the parking lot, I heard words fall uncontrollably out of my mouth, like some locality-adjusted Tourette’s patient, “I need to stop by the Pueblo that’s across the street.”

As we walked-in, the person standing by the front door caused immediate alarm: he was white, he was wearing a sports jacket and creased trousers. By the time my mind had assimilated these incongruities, the fact that he had an earwig attached to a curly-cue cord tucked into his shirt collar and was talking into his wrist seemed, almost, not to rate notice.

There had been confirmed newspaper reports and unconfirmed sightings of the V-POTUS on our Island. Putting two and two together with a concerning lack of alacrity, I began walking the aisles. At the north end of the seventh, between the sections of cookies and cookies that try to pass themselves off as crackers was Mr. Biden carefully considering Oreos.

I am as prone to being star-struck as anyone. But on the occasions when I’ve encountered celebrity, I’ve deferred to a more reserved approach. These people are constantly beset by space invaders; sharing problems or proffering babies for kisses. People in the public eye certainly must eternally suffer Purell-chapped hands or head colds or both. And here’s a Constitutional Officer of the United States, and he’s just trying to sneak a packet of partially-hydrogenated munchies into the buggy before his svelte wife catches-on and protests. Give the guy some peace. (The self-interest in all that enlightenment is: How much more likely is this famous person to be impressed by, and remember, the one person who passed and smiled and nodded cheerfully, if curtly, in the endless sea of those seeking autographs and photographs?)

My guest, whom I had lost conscious awareness of, was following a few paces behind me, and did not share my ascetic interaction style.

“Good Evening, Mr. Vice President! Nice to meet you…” I turned to see my guest, hand outstretched. Dutifully, The Vice President shuffled the cookie packets he was holding to free his right hand.

“Well, Hell”, I thought, “the man’s now lost all momentum trying to divine the relative advantages of White Fudge Covered and Double Stuff, so I might as well go ahead and get my licks in.”

I walked back, smiled, shook, and was told that it was good to be seen today. And immediately texted every Democrat -- and a few of the Republicans – I know.

Which leaves the answers to all of the questions unasked in those reply texts:

…I don’t know. I suppose his boss got to go to a tropical Island for vacation. And since he doesn’t need to convince anyone he has an American birthplace…but, yeah, I’d’ve thought St. John too.

…But remember, the VI has zero electoral votes. So I guess that makes gaffes pretty risk-free.

…Yes, just as unnaturally white as they appear on TV. Surprisingly not the kind of thing that makes you wish you knew if he uses polonium as toothpaste – the kind of thing that makes you wish you had a black light.

…Not really, all politicians say, “Glad to see you today”. I don’t think it’s indicative of some relapse of plagiarism.

...I know, the plugs looked awful when he had them implanted. And they didn’t seem to work. Bald gracefully. But that’s just my opinion.

…Yes, a total class act, a good sport, and a welcomed visitor on my Island!

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.”

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...

Photographic Evidence

...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 fowl really do have free reign of this island.

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.)




It's that long skinny one with the white rabbits over on the left above the fridge.
I want it for myself someday.

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.

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!

Island Animal Watch: Goats

Back in the heartland, one place we could actually hang out with farm animals (instead of mooing from afar) was at the state fair. Whenever Mom and I attended the fair, we spent most of our time in the livestock barns. Our favorite animal to visit turned out to be goats.

“Goats?” you say. “What’s so appealing about goats?”

I don’t know…there’s just something so cute about their faces. They have these adorably demonic eyes and floppy ears and the most amusing disposition—eager to greet in case you have something yummy for them to nibble. We spent lots of time at the fair petting and talking with goats. For some reason, I was always eager to tell my friends about it afterward. As a teenager, mind you. They didn’t really understand all the fuss...

I’ve retained my affection for goats, and so it was with much delight that I encountered the following herd upon leaving the PriceSmart parking lot last week.

I actually had to stop my car so they could pass. And then I turned around and followed them through the parking lot like a member of the fucking paparazzi to get photos.

The goats just kept on a-comin’. I couldn’t believe their number. The way they run is so charmingly childlike and clumsy that I damn near squealed-- all alone in the car.

They seem to be self-herding, but must belong to someone. I’m told that they’re a common site at PriceSmart. Home Depot too.

Whatever their story, the unexpected goat stampede brightened the end of my shopping experience immensely and gave me a jolt of happy for the rest of the day.

But wait folks, I’m not done yet. I have another St. Thomas goat story for you.

One day, while driving past the Drake’s Seat lookout, a funny- looking dog ran across the road in front of me, his leash trailing behind him. But something about the animal seemed strangely undoglike, and it took my brain a few seconds to recognize that this was, in fact, a small leashed goat. I glanced to my right and saw its presumable owner, a rasta man standing on the right side of the road, near the bench that operates as Drake’s Seat. This must be a favorite hangout of theirs, as I’ve seen them there since.

...Toto, we not in Iowa no mah, ya know.

Island Animal Watch: Livestock

I am really quite fond of animals. I realize that sometimes this makes me look silly. For instance, I can’t help but to invent animal dialog with all manner of stupid voices that usually border on the infantile. I am completely guilty of projecting human qualities onto my pets and other animals. Furry and/or four-legged creatures of nearly every variety bring me joy. And the creatures of St. Thomas have not disappointed.

Of course, in the Midwest, animals were all over the place. The part of Iowa in which I spent my formative years was agriculture central; cows and pigs in fields, grazing their days away, were a staple of the local landscape. It was a bit rarer to see sheep, though they definitely existed. On the occasion that I did pass a field of sheep, it gave me the pleasant sensation of being on holiday in Europe.

When I was a tot, we lived in the country for awhile. Mom and I drove by a pasture of cows daily, and it became ritual for us to moo to them when we passed. This was our way of greeting our bovine neighbors in a way we imagined they could understand. Imagine being the operative word here.

And then, of course, there were squirrels and chipmunks and bunny rabbits scampering through town as well as the usual domestic animals owned by family and friends.

The difference between the American Midwest and the American Caribbean in terms of living with animals is that, like all inhabitants of this island, we seem to live a lot closer to animals here than stateside. There is less space and fewer fences in St. Thomas between the general public and animals, both domestic and wild. And since there is such little room, livestock that used to seem far away and removed in the Midwest, seem extraordinarily up close and personal in St. Thomas.

For example it’s not at all uncommon to see a ram galloping in someone’s front yard or a cow tied up on the side of the road. And when I say on the side of the road, I mean, like right off of the road. A few months ago, I saw a loose cow clomping down Crown Mountain Road like it was her own personal walking trail.

She looks like a wild, smart, and sassy cow to me.

Must be the island-rearing.

Ignoring Fashion Rules: An Unexpected Consequence

I’m running late for work. This is typical. Although I left a full thirty minutes before I start, stopping for just a minute at the store. Still, I’m running desperately late. I forgot that traffic is much heavier at 8am than at 6:30 when I usually commute. Also, it’s Tuesday and the massive Oasis of the Seas is in port, along with four other ships, so pretty much everyone who works downtown in the tourist biz is here today.

Free parking is gone. Oh well. I expected that. When I chose to sleep an extra thirty minutes, I opted to pay $5 dollars for parking. What can I say? Sleep is precious in my world.

With the volume of traffic in town, it almost feels like driving in a major city again, and I'm pleasantly surprised when the LOT FULL sign is missing from the entryway to the parking lot.

Walking out of the lot, I pass a bum of sorts sitting next to the small gap in the fence that serves as an exit. I’m absorbed in my thoughts and offer no salutation. Before I can walk completely past, he says,

“Good Morning to you too,” sounding miffed.

“Morning,” I respond absently, without breaking pace.

While still in earshot, I hear him comment to his crony on my pairing black shorts with a brown purse.

Seriously, yo.

A Caribbean bum dissing me for ignoring an age-old fashion rule?

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?!

The funny thing is, only since I’ve lived in the V.I. would I even dream of ignoring this fashion rule. I used to run late for work specifically because I couldn’t find my brown belt when sporting an earth-toned ensemble.

I must tell you, I’m far more amused than offended.

Creative Construction Cooking on Island

For the past two weeks, I've been staying in my boyfriend's half-built house. The cement frame is up and the beautiful French doors, and a gorgeous bathroom with beautiful tile, but the rest is still very much in progress.  I feel like I'm staying with Miss Havisham, but instead of the grand house being in the process of dilapitating, it's in the process of being built. Living here is reminiscent of camping. (Up until a few weeks before I arrived, Mike still used his outhouse.) The stove/oven is not yet hooked up, and Mike doesn't believe in microwaves. So, any cooking is done on a barebones outdoor grill consisting of cinder blocks, a propane tank, some gas piping and nozzles, a grate, and two big rocks. A few nights ago we made BBQ chicken skewers and veggie kabobs.

       Those things in the middle, between the food, are rocks.




The food was delicious- you'd never know it wasn't prepared on a Weber or Holland.

So then, the other night we were craving nachos. While at Pueblo buying ingredients, it dawned on me that we have no oven or microwave with which to melt the cheese.

"Mike, how will we melt the cheese?"  Right after the words left my mouth, I knew what he would say.
And he confirmed my suspicions.

"A blowtorch."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why not? It works great."

So we blowtorched 'em like so:

I'll tell you this. They were better than any microwave or oven nachos I've ever consumed. And believe you me, I've consumed many a nacho in my day.

Land of Lizards

In Minnesota we had squirrels, raccoons, and apossums. In St. Thomas, we have lizards.
Big lizards like iguanas:

 And little lizards like gekkos:

I actually think there are more lizards in St. Thomas than there are squirrels in Minnesota. You see them everywhere. Gekkos sometimes even make your house their home. A few years ago when I didn't even know where the VI was really located, my brother, who lives on St. Croix, told me he had a gekko living in his bathroom who earned his keep by eating bugs.  I absolutely could not believe he had a lizard living inside his house, and that he was okay with it.

Well, I now have gekkos living in my apartment. Tiny ones we spy escaping from their cracks in the wall from time to time. We also receive a fresh crop of lizard dung in the office/library corner every few days. Mom thinks the tiny ones we see aren't capable of making waste that large, which is to say that we may have a bigger gekko living somewhere in our house too. Surpringingly, sharing my home with gekkos bothers me less than sharing it with centipedes. They're cuter, not nearly as gross. And the mofos will get out of your way a lot faster.

Last week I was spending the afternoon at my boyfriend's house-in-construction. I removed myself from the  hammock to grab my sunglasses, went back outside, realized I'd forgotten my book and went back inside to retrieve it from the "kitchen table". My eye caught something I hadn't noticed the first time I entered the house, among the dog toys on the tiled part of the floor lay half of an iguana. The top half. It's dead head looking directly at me. Harley (a year-old, 90lb Weinereimer)  galloped up to me, his tail wagging joyfully, eyes filled with excited pride as if to say, "Look at the gift I brought you. Doesn't it make you happy?"

It did not make me happy. I screamed and ran into the bedroom, closing both the door to the living space and the door to the porch so Harley couldn't drag either half in for me to admire. I sat on the bed and waited for the boyf to get home from work so he could remove the iguana carcus.

A couple days ago, I'm sitting at the table innocently typing away on the laptop when I look over and see Harley walking through the door with a very large, very whole iguana in his mouth. I screamed. Harley dropped the iguana and it started to run away. I screamed again and ran away to the bedroom and closed the door. I couldn't stay in there all day, however. It was before noon and I was actually supposed to be somewhere. I saw that Harley was back outside so I peeked out of the bedroom and saw no visible creatures in the "great room." I slowly escaped my bedroom prison and closed all the french doors leading outside (there are four).

When I finally mustered up the nerve to leave the house, I found the iguana trying to hide from Harley in the doorway to the garage. The top part of his tail was no longer attached to him, but rather lying on the sidewalk a few feet away. This devastated my squeamish soul. When I walked by him, the poor, scared creature tried to squeeze himself even more into the crack between the door and the wall. I fled. Every lizard I saw on the drive to my apartment made me jump.

I couldn't return until the boyf got home from work and rid the porch of multilated and/or dead iguanas.  He found him in the yard and sent him down the hill. Said the poor guy looked like he'd had a long day. I'm surprised he was still in one piece.

I don't know if I'm cut out for this tropical living...
But I suppose if I lived with Harley in Minnesota he would bring me squirrel heads.
And it would be cold there.

Local Color: Safari Busses

So, our version of mass transportation in St. Thomas is the independently-owned sarafi bus. Sarafi busses are basically a big pick-up truck with the bed converted into a seating area a little smaller than a short bus. Most of them have about four rows of seats, and I suppose four people could fit comfortably on each bench. Some are for tourists (the ones with all the white gawkers) and some are for locals. Many safaris also operate as a means of personal self-expression, presumably for the owners.  And I guess safari-bus owners are just as complex and multi-faceted as anyone...

 Does anything seem incongrous about this picture to you?

And I thank him for nudi-mudflaps.

And for money plate covers too.

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