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.

Lovin' da Local Lingo, Part 2

It’s time for more Lovin’ da Local Lingo. I’ve learned many new words since last time and have tried to incorporate them into my daily vocabulary. Sure, Caribbean words sound incongruous coming out of a bespectacled white girl’s mouth. But that’s part of the fun, yes? I enjoy surprising locals in the coffee shop by inserting a local saying mid-conversation.

For Example:

One of our dear regulars, a lovely, salt of the earth man named Steve, was in early for coffee. On his way out, he stopped again at the register to buy a paper.

“Ashley, do you have any Daily News?”

“No, dey ain’t reach yet.”

He chuckled, “Dey ain’t reach, huh? You starting to sound Caribbean, girl.”

I smiled. “Maybe someone teef ‘em”

Steve shook his head and walked away saying, “Someone teef ‘em. You’re too much.”

So children, when an item or person arrives someplace, you say that it reach.

A related term is carry. If you take a person or an item somewhere, you say that you’re carrying them/it. As in, “I gon carry my dog to da beach on Sunday.”

And if you couldn’t tell by the context, if something is teefed, then it has been stolen. If someone be teefing from you, what they’re doing is stealing. This is one of my favorites. And can you really blame me?

Stay Tuned for More... 

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.

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!

Bama-Wha?

Working at the coffee shop with Loida, a born and bred St. Thomian, has been wonderfully enriching in many ways. One thing I particularly enjoy about working together is learning so much about the local lingo.

I am often delightfully surprised by the old world elegance of some of the words she says. She’ll occasionally use a term I haven‘t encountered since my days reading 18th century novels as an English major. This coming from a young woman of Puerto Rican descent—beautiful like a puma, Gangstress tattooed on the inside of her right forearm, and don't fuck with me written on her face.

One day while relaying the details of an argument with her boyfriend, she said,

“Ashley, I was so vexed wit him dat I…”

“Loida, did you just say that you were VEXED with your boyfriend?” I interrupted.

She smiled. ‘Yeah, I was vexed wit him. Why?”

“I just don’t hear that word often. It’s old-fashioned, Loida, I’m so surprised to hear it coming out of your mouth! It’s great though. Okay, go on, you were vexed with your boyfriend, and you…”

Another time we were talking about the food offered downtown for lunch. She said something to the effect of, “I like to get my stew chicken or my salt fish and all of my provisions…”

Again, I interrupted her. “Did you just say ‘provisions’?”

“Yeah, my provisions,” She nodded, “Like my dumplins, my plantains, my sweet potatos,” she counted out on graceful hands, forever active when she talks, “…..Why you laughin?”

“That’s just another word I rarely hear out of an old-fashioned context. Unless it’s the military or something. Do a lot of people use ‘provisions’ when talking about food down here?”

She nodded, “Yeah,” and shrugged like it’s common, no big deal.

I’ve since determined that provisions is used to describe the variety of local side dishes. And they seem to be smaller side dishes, because I was quickly corrected when I referred to baked macaroni as a provision. 

And then sometimes the words are so absolutely island-sounding that I’m both surprised and not surprised at the same time.

A couple weeks ago, while lifting boxes of soda to store in the back room, Loida said to me,

“Ashley, you wan get a bamacoo or wha?”

“Wha you say?” I asked, doing my best island accent but still sounding very much like a white girl from the states.

“A bamacoo, ya know. You get dem when ya lift sumting heavy.”

“A hernia?” I asked.

“Yeah, a hernia. We call it bamacoo.”

“Oh my god, that’s a great word! How you spell?”

“I don’t know... ask Juel. She probly know. My granmadda use it. I tink all island people do. ”

“Okay, use it in a sentence for me, Loida."

“Girl, you done lift dat ting, you gon get a bamacoo, ya know.”

“I love it. Thank you.That definitely makes the blog.”

Lovin' da Local Lingo

I’ve fallen for the St. Thomas vernacular.

While it’s sometimes still hard to understand locals when they talk to each other, working in the coffee shop has helped me grasp the island accent, lingo, and speech patterns more quickly than I might have otherwise.

The island language is loose and easy—ending consonants are often dropped and words run together or are left out entirely, especially when stateside people don’t need to understand. The pitch of the words flows up and down, as if tracing the hills and valleys of the island’s topography. Th’s are replaced by “t” or “d” as in “tick” for “thick” or “da” for “the.” Often a couple words are rearranged from ther formal English order. I notice this more in interrogative statements. As in, “What time it is?” or “What dis is?” For instance, I often hear in the coffee shop, “I could have a dumbread and cheese?” At first, this flip flop seems just plain wrong, but it soon grows charming. Especially because t’s are pronounced very sharply, adding a graceful staccato to the melody of words.

And, as in any local dialect, there are rules to be followed.

I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s an important enough part of local etiquette to be mentioned again. And that is greeting people according to the time of day: Good Morning, Good Afternoon, Good Evening, Good Night, and Good Day are the proper salutations. Though people often drop the “Good” and just go with the “Morning” or “Afternoon.” It’s quite nice when someone walks into a doctor’s waiting room, and says “Ahfta-noon,” to the group gathered, and most people respond, “Afternoon,” in a harmony of accents.

It takes some time to get used to doing this constantly, but after a bit of practice it becomes second nature. I must say, I have come to enjoy this social custom. Greeting the people you approach, to acknowledge their existence on this planet, rather than averting eye contact to avoid having to say anything, is a rather pleasant and connecting experience.

Another lovely aspect of the local dialect is the abundance of affectionate terms such as, “hon,” “sweetheart,” or the Spanish-influenced, “mame'”. It makes you feel just plain cared for and valued when someone tacks “honey” or “baby” on the end of a sentence directed toward you. People also tend to use the titles Ms. and Mr. more frequently than I hear in the Midwest.

Here’s an example from my life:

A taxi driver—one of our regulars—approaches the counter.

“Good Morning, Mr. J-----,” I say, “How are you today?”

“I am blessed, sweethawt, tank you. An’ I can tell dat you ladies are blessed as well from da smiles on yah beauttiful faces.”

And if he’s feeling generous, he will buy coffee for the ladies sitting up front. The ones who commune at R&J’s every morning before going to work in one of the jewelry stores downtown.

There’s an affectionate quality to the interactions that I don’t remember experiencing back home.

It’s funny that I’m writing this because when I first moved to the island, I was bothered and intimidated by how rude people can be. This is a complaint made by many who live here, transplants and island-cultivated alike. Sometimes clerks won’t make eye contact or even speak to you at places like Kmart or Pueblo. This doesn’t bother me as much as it used to because I’ve found that if you speak to people as if they’re real people and not just the roles they play (cashier, receptionist, etc.), they will often respond in kind. And if they don’t, you can’t take it personally because it’s just one of those things about living on St. Thomas. And the hospitality that can occur here is so genuine and generous that it makes up for any rudeness you may encounter.

Safari Bus Wisdom.

Tropical Tidbit: A Delightful Grocery Store Encounter

I'm in the produce department at Plaza Extra when I run into one of the bank tellers from next door to the coffee shop. I like this woman; she has flair and personality.

We greet one another, and I say hi to her little girl who looks to be about four years old. I ask the child her name, and she plays shy, moving her lips inaudibly.

Her mother looks amused and only slightly exasperated.

"Go on, baby, tell her your name. This is my friend, it's okay."

Again, she moves her lips, but I hear nothing.

Her mom looks at me with the same amused, slightly exasperated look.

"Her name is Star, but she said Baby Genius. She doesn't want to be called Star anymore, she wants to be called Baby Genius now."

The girl just looks at me with the same shy expression on her face.

"That's fantastic!" I say, "I can think of a lot worse nicknames."

Her mom smiles and sighs, "I guess I'm going to have to nickname her Baby Genius or something."

How absolutely, wonderfully precocious. Baby Genius made my day. 

Tropical Tidbits: Vocabulary Words

Antiman: A homosexual.

As in, "Da ship wit all de antiman heh today."

Flit: Mosquito killer that is sprayed in the air rather than on one's skin.

As in, "You should flit your room tonight to keep those dengue-infected mosquitos out."
Unintended connection of note: According to urbandictionary.com, flit was a 1950's slang term for homosexuals."


And... a photo essay on a bit of St. Thomas life:

"Drinking Roadies"

Have I mentioned that road side dumpsters serve as our public waste removal system?

"Ditching Roadies"

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.

Once...Was Enough

The bar is full, but not quite packed when we arrive around 10:30. The band is scheduled to start at 11:00, but few tings here start on time. (This tends to work well for me.) I mainly want to people watch, but do chat briefly with a European fellow. His hair, which looks to have once been red, is wispy and longish in a Back-to-the-Future-Christopher-Lloyd kind of way. What strikes me most is the giddy smile on his face.

“I usually don’t come to this side of the island but I’m starved for music down here, man,” he says with a goofy grin. I agree. It delights me to watch his diaphanous hair flutter around him while he paces enthusiastically around the room in anticipation of the band’s arrival.

I notice a girl with messy bleached hair and roots as dark as her eyeliner. Her big British jugs are held in by a much-loved Kurt Cobain tank under a short-sleeve plaid t-shirt. She wears tight cropped jeans and black boots- an ensemble I find both nostalgically comforting and anachronistically absurd. I don’t believe I’ve laid eyes on a Cobain shirt since high school. Many of the grunge kids I hung with were Nirvana diehards. For years, I was the lone Pearl Jam fanatic.

If this many people showed at a Pearl Jam knock off concert when I was a teen, it would have thrilled me, at least in finding other regional fans. But now I look around at those who exited their regular island orbit tonight to hear Once play at the Caribbean Saloon, and instead of excited, I am critically curious, expecting this to be lame. I know it won’t generate anywhere near the group energy produced at the ten or so Pearl Jam concerts I’ve seen over the past twelve years. This band will focus on hits, many of which are usually my bathroom or beer break songs.

Fittingly, the band looks similar to my high school alternafriends. The guitar and bass players even go so far as to look like teenagers themselves. But the lead singer must be well into his thirties. He wears long cargo shorts and work boots. His hair is brown, wavy and shoulder length. From behind, he does indeed look a lot like a mid-90’s Eddie Vedder.

But his voice is a caricature of Ed’s. This annoys me greatly, however does not at all surprise. I was, in fact, afraid of it. Eddie’s voice is quite distinct and easily mimicked. Most short-careered bands in the mid and late nineties copied his vocal style. This guy’s voice reminds me specifically of the singer from Seven Mary Three, the one who added “cumbersome” to many a poser’s vocabulary.

They play Alive first, a song I consider a set closer or encore pick, per Pearl Jam’s usual method of procedure. I reserve the enthusiasm exhibited by those around me, hoping they’ll break out a more random tune later in the show.

So, I am happy when they play Down, All or Nothing, Breath, and State of Love and Trust, and leave my barstool to move a bit among the crowd. During one of these exertions, I meet a very happy little guy from Puerto Rico. He approaches the stage and requests the Screaming Trees. I ask if he’s referring to the song from the Singles soundtrack.

“Singles soundtrack?!” He yells at me. “Yes, you know Singles soundtrack?!” But with his wonderful accent it sounds like he’s saying “Sinnells soun-track.”

“Yeah, of course I know it. I grew up with it!”

“Me too! Nobody in Puerto Rico ever knew the Sinnells soun-track!”

“You grew up as a Pearl Jam fan in Puerto Rico? God, you probably had an even worse time than me when it came to finding other fans! I thought I had it rough in Iowa, but I bet Puerto Rico was worse.”

“Yes, I was the only one! It sucked!” he yells at me above the music, smiling widely, and holding out his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.”

Here we are, both living on St. Thomas, yet neither of us born or raised here. Both making a specific effort to catch this Pearl Jam cover act, the closest we’ll get to seeing our favorite band live in the Caribbean. I look around at the diversity of the people—a favorite I’ve not yet mentioned is a large black man with one of those fat rolls between the bottom of his bald head and the top of his thick neck. He seems to know every word to these songs and he couldn’t be further from the grunge rocker stereotype.

At a real Pearl Jam show in Minnesota, I would mostly run into other 18-55 white Middle Americans. In a way, this makes sitting through what might as well have been a performance by the avatar band from Guitar Hero worthwhile. I get to pay a bit of homage to a bygone era in American rock music with a group of people as varied as the species of flora in the Virgin Islands.

I hope this island serves as a place of evolution for the diverse group here tonight as much as it does for me. Because who wants to be like a cover band and remain frozen in time?

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.

"That's Mr. Tool to you!"

Might as well have named it "I'm Clueless"