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 2: Landscape

Minnesota is a flat, landlocked mass covered in water-filled holes.

Space… p e r v a d e s .

Roads are luxuriously wide. And usually designed in a square, grid-inspired system. Yards are expansive, with beautifully manicured grass of the most verdant green. In the suburbs and towns, and even to a large degree the city, properties remain comfortably spaced with no less than a modest yard. Homes and businesses are smartly kept and neutrally painted. Neighborhoods are mostly homogenous and identical to suburban developments across America.

Vast amounts of real estate are employed as parking lots. Parking lots that allow for the widest berth instead of creativity in cramped driving. Untended vegetation consists of small woody areas or fields of prairie grass, all growing at a decorous pace. In the rural Midwest, your eyes pass over acres upon acres of agricultural land running to the horizon and beyond.

And litter, well, it seems practically to not exist.

Conversely:

St. Thomas is a lush, rugged speck in the ocean.

Space=preciouscommodity!

Roads are barely wide enough for two vehicles. There is no logic to their design, at least not one that is apparent to me. They seem to be built simply where they're necessary and possible, considering the mountainous topography. Rather than a grid, the St. Thomas road structure is more like the random scribbles of a young toddler on the world’s bumpiest Etch-A-Sketch.

Yards are generally small, and if someone has real grass, it’s assumed they’re rich in either time or money, if not both. Landscaped homes display vibrant, lush flowers, as well-tended as is possible with the fast and wild manner in which tropical flora grow. Every few months, crews of four or five hit the roads to cut back the bush with machetes.

Houses in St. Thomas seem to be built on top of one another up the mountainside. And they have character. You can easily get away with painting your house fuchsia or teal.



This is a poor photo and not the ritziest neighborhood. But you get the idea.
I love love love the fuscia house!



If you tried this in Minnesota, you’d be given the cold shoulder by your neighbors and would be the talk of many neighborhood bridge games and basement church dinners.

A St. Thomian will claim to have a farm if what they actually possess is a garden in their large, fenced-in backyard.

And the litter. The litter exists in heartbreakingly high numbers, especially in densely-populated areas and on the beach. Yes, we have some of the most beautiful beaches in the world, and frequently the people who enjoy them don’t find it necessary to collect their trash upon leaving. And since we don’t have curbside garbage collection here, dumpsters scattered across the island frequently overflow with rubbish. This functions as an excellent scavenging ground for wild chickens, dogs, and cats. As well as a starting point for the litter that will almost certainly find its way down the mountain to the sea and out into one of the swirling vortexes of garbage that humankind has created in each of our oceans.

Besides being relatively litterless in comparison, the Midwest is certainly beautiful in its own way, especially the bluff and hill saturated regions of SE Minnesota and NE Iowa, where the wedding events occurred. But damn, the island takes my breath away almost every day. The colorful and dramatic landscapes are beyond compare—a constant reminder of the Universe’s capacity for creating glorious scenes in nature. I have always been fond of the more exotic types of beauty, so it’s not surprising that I prefer the vivacity of a tropical island to, say, the serenity of a lake in the woods.

I never appreciated the tidy, ample space of the Midwest because I had never lived without it. I remember being aware of the free availability of space in the heartland when I visited NYC as a teenager. The hotel’s hallways and rooms were almost inconceivably narrow and small. And when I spent time in the urban residential neighborhoods of Chicago, it also became clear how much space is, well, just that…empty space. But what a difference the presence of empty space can invoke! 

I guess mostly, the presence of space gives a greater sense of, well...comfort and autonomy. Room to stretch out and not be bothered by others.

Now, one would think that the available of empty space would make one feel less constricted and more expansive. But, you know what? In the case of Iowa and Minnesota, this isn’t so.  I would argue that most people who live in St. Thomas feel far less constricted than they would in the states, especially the Midwest. It’s why so many people move here in the first place. Plus, I think having ample space just makes it easier to enclave yourself with others like you. There is less of a need to interact with people who are different from you and your kin. So while there was far more open space surrounding me in the heartland, my mind and soul are far more open here. On this tiny speck between the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea, I am, somehow, freer. I’m still trying to figure out why St. Thomas has this affect on people, but I am convinced that the landscape is a major contributor.




Another seascape. Sunday morning in St. John. Nature's church.





Island Animal Watch: Fire Ants

So the other day, Hershey and I were nearing the end of our routine walk up and down St. Peter Mountain Rd when I received a special tropical treat. It's a treacherous route with ample blind curves and only the slightest suggestion of a pedestrian walkway, but it's home so we make due. We were almost finished when I felt a tiny, hot, piercing sensation between my shoulder blades. Then I felt one further down my back. Then on my neck, my shoulder, and my left tit. I came dangerously close to breaking into the A.C. Slater ants-down-back-in-study-hall dance out of true purpose. (If anyone needs a reminder, check out this link at a minute, thirty. Thanks Kate for figuring out the episode! You're my bestie for a reason.)

After returning to my apartment,  I discovered a miniscule fire ant crawling up my arm. And it wasn't the only one. It took just a few minutes to remove the little shitters, but they left itchy red welts that lasted for days. I couldn't figure out how they landed on me until our walk the following morning. I must have accidentally brushed against one of the vines hanging from the bush on the side of the road. Upon inspection, I saw the same dusty red ants crawling to and fro between the leaves. I wonder if they sting the vine, and if so, does it mind?

I've always loved these vines; they're so very rainforest romantic.
But now I know to admire from afar.

Island Animal Watch: Lizards

I have a new lizard story. This one- like the parking lot goats- also inspired great delight.

One day last spring, while writing morning pages on the bench with the dogs, I noticed a new lizard the size of a gecko hanging around the rock. It didn’t look like a gecko though. It was brown instead of green, and more angular and craggy, like a tiny dinosaur. Every once in awhile it stopped crawling and did what looked like the humpy push-up dance made popular by boy bands in the late nineties. (An example of which you can watch at 2 min, 35 sec in the following video. And might I add that I dig this performance far more now than as a teenager. Must be the power of a smaller musichead ego on my behalf, JT's successful solo career, and nostalgia.)

I found this a bit unusual, but it did not prepare me for what happened when Harley started to stalk him. Mr. Lizard did the push-up hump and then he stopped and blew out this big, bright orange and green bubble from his neck like a 10-year-old showing off her Bubbalicious skills. Oh my spirits, I was so bewitched by this fantastic display from such a small and ugly beast that I thanked the Universe aloud for the creation.

I’ve since learned that this type of lizard is an anole. The throat bubble is a dewlap, and the act is called flaring. It’s a territorial thing the males do when threatened.




Communing with nature certainly has its rewards. 

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.

Facing Raw Fish

Hello. My name is Ashley, and I am an ichthyophobe. That is, I have an irrational fear of fish. It’s certainly not the most severe case of this phobia, but it’s enough to limit my contact with the breathtaking ocean filled with sea creatures that surrounds me. In addition to making damn certain that I do not come into physical contact with a fish, I am of course very particular about how I ingest seafood, on the rare occasion that I do. If the supposed "food" resembles a live creature, if for instance the skin or legs or head are still attached, my appetite is sunk. So, it’s not surprising that sushi has never been a dietary option for me.

I feel a tad shameful about this aversion toward eating and touching sea creatures, in part, because sushi is very hip. The elements of design, health, and exoticism appeal to anyone who fancies sophistication, especially in regard to their gastronomic habits. Since I’d like to be both sophisticated and hip, I have tried sushi on a couple occasions. But I hated even the California roll. So, I deduced that I wasn’t a sushi person, not solely because I’m squeamish about fish, but because I don’t like something else foundational about sushi. I blamed it on the seaweed.

Last Friday I progressed a step forward in facing my fish fear when we defied routine and went out for sushi. Mike loves it and hasn’t eaten any in the six months since I’ve been here. So partly for him, I decided to be open to the experience. It helped that Beth is vegan, so I wouldn’t be the only one ordering a vegetarian roll. Since I’d had somewhat of a heavy, late lunch, I wasn’t too worried about not getting full either. Naturally, this is something that would worry me.

Enkai is situated in Frenchtown, but not where all the other restaurants live. Rather, it’s tucked back where the Contiki and other party vessels are docked. The restaurant is open-air, dimly-lit and cozily Asian-inspired. We sit in a row of three at a high table overlooking the dock. A fish swims around a bright light in the water. It’s a big fish. Bigger than a Muskie or a Northern. It looks like a small shark to me. We spot more and more fish until we finally realize that not one, but something like seven fish are swimming around the light. And instead of allowing the fish to stifle my appetite, I opt to relax and enjoy the beauteous moment.

Mike knows what he wants without looking at the menu and insists I try a bite. Since the description of what he orders includes something called eel sauce (a doubly nasty creature, being part fish and part snake) I advise him that the chances of me trying his food are incredibly slim. I ask to please be allowed to simply enjoy my veggie roll tonight. Building an appreciation for seaweed is adventure enough for me right now, thank you very much.

Beth and I split an avocado roll and each order a veggie as well, hers with no dairy please. The sushi rolls are elegantly served—the plate arrangement looks truly like a piece of art. Mike's spicy tuna wrap sits in the center of his plate, framed on the left and right by his highly desired This is How I Roll roll, on the outside of which is draped pink, fresh raw fish of some kind. I think it salmon but later discover it to be tuna. Drizzled artfully over the top is a red sauce, which I suppose somehow contains eel. However, so taken am I by the beauty of the sushi rolls, I don’t really think too much about the eel. It also helps that my ginger mojito is almost completely gone by this point, and I'm fixing to order a glass of white wine.

My fish-free rolls are amazingly delicious and satisfying. I find that I delight in dipping the segments into soy sauce and wasabi paste. And I love the sliver thin slices of fresh ginger. Proving myself a complete sushi novice, I use Beth’s sauce dish for dipping my first couple bites until she points out to me that I have my own bowl in front of me for which to dip. Oops.

Mike is so enthusiastic about his This is How I Roll that he convinces Beth, the devoted vegan, to try a piece. Tempura shrimp and raw tuna with eel sauce definitely fall under the category of animal products, in my mind, and I'm sure Beth's as well. I also know she hasn't forgotten that there is more than likely dairy in the rolls. Oh, the power of persuasian and a well-designed environment...

The bite impresses her. It impresses her so much, in fact, that she has another. And then she joins Mike into pressuring encouraging me to try a piece for myself.

“Just try it, Ash. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t like sushi,” he urges.

“Can’t you just be happy that I’m even eating a vegetable roll?” I say, not unlike a teenager. “It’s progress! Plus, I’m eating with chopsticks too. I haven’t mentioned forks all evening!”

“I just think you’ll like it.” He replies, shrugging.

I look to Beth for support. She doesn’t help.

“Ashley just try a piece. It’s good. It tastes familiar. Like home.”

Somehow this convinces me.

So I let the piece soak in soy sauce and wasabi before popping it in my mouth, trying to sop up as much enjoyable flavor as possible.

But she’s right, it is familiar. And it’s good.

The last time I ate sushi, it tasted like someone had plucked a sea creature and a piece of seaweed from the ocean, rolled it with some rice, and plopped it directly on my plate. But this, this tastes like delicious, warm, flavorful food.

I feel a bit victorious afterward, similar to the proud glow I felt after losing my virginity. Perhaps I’m on my way to becoming one of the cool kids after all.

Fleas and Ticks Jump Everywhere

Never did I expect to be one who de-ticks dogs with ungloved fingers.

I’ve always been the squeamish of the squeam when it comes to creepy crawlies. Well into my twenties, I still cannot kill bugs mainly because the thought of getting that close and feeling their body crushed beneath my fingers makes me flap my hands and fake-gag.

However, I must say that I’m cohabitating with insects better now than at any previous point in my life. (My boyfriend, Mike, doesn’t fully appreciate this fact, never having known me before.)

But now I have two dogs that spend most of their time outdoors. And, as you may have guessed by now, they’ve acquired ticks. And when I say they’ve acquired ticks, I mean that we have a tick infestation. They have ticks between their toes, ticks in their ear folds, ticks on their eyelids, ticks in their armpits, and most concerningly, ticks on their bungholes.

We have ticks on the walls, ticks on our sheets, ticks on our bedroom floor, and ticks in the laundry hamper.

I bemoaned the ticks for a few days, trying unsuccessfully to inspire Mike to take some time out of his legitimately busy schedule to help me exterminate the problem.

I even found ticks crawling up my legs, an event that didn’t phase him in the least. I think, upon complaining, he absently said something along the lines of, “That’s gross, baby.”

And then one evening while lying in bed, Mike discovered a tick crawling on him. Suddenly, he felt boldly determined to fix the tick problem once and for all, declaring,

“We have to figure out this tick problem. Like tomorrow. We can’t live like this. Yuck Ash, this is gross.” He shuddered, as if he had to convince me of something I didn’t already know.

Now, I have been picking at the ticks since their arrival. My ape-like fascination with ridding unwanted items from the body is beneficial in this situation. Ticks, hair follicles, blackheads, ear wax— I easily become obsessed with removal.

But the ticks are thick and getting thicker. Mere picking will not solve this problem.

Spraying does little good, especially since Harley flees from the blue bottle of tick killer. Tweezers work quite well if I catch the dogs while they’re relaxed. I am truly a plucking pro. But mostly the tweezers just make the dogs understandably nervous and squirmy, creating a two-person task out of the deal. Plus, it’s harder to tell the difference between a blood-pregnant tick and a dog- nipple when using a tweezers. I only had to make this unfortunate mistake once…

So, I’ve gotten to the point where if the dogs are near, I’ll pull ticks off with my fingers. I’ll even keep two or three pinched between my index and middle finger until I can walk over to the tick bowl of torture and flick them inside to be squirted with the blue bottle. They can’t avoid my aim, and I can’t hear any cries of misery as they drown in poison.

I’ve observed some interesting things about ticks. For instance, the gray prune-like ones, grotesquely plump with blood, will sink to the bottom of the toilet when thrown into the bowl. But the small black ones will swim nimbly to the water’s edge and climb out if you don’t flush quickly enough. They’re resilient little bastards.

And it’s funny how ticks make fleas seem so benign. When I first arrived on island, I was devastated when Harley caught fleas from a stray dog that hung around for awhile. But since the tick infestation, I barely even notice the fleas. If someone points them out to me, I’ll likely respond, “Oh, it’s just a flea. It won’t hurt anything.”

That I can pick ticks off the dogs and walls with my fingers and hold onto them until discarding in the next room shows the severity of the problem, but more importantly, it shows growth on my part.

A few nights ago Mike and I sat at the dinner table. We were pretty much done eating and sort of lulling about before we went on being productive again. Harley approached, as he often does, and I noticed a fat, juicy tick on his back. I attacked it with zest, easily plucking it off his body.

“Ashley, that’s gross.”

I held up the tick between my fingers, filled to blue plumpness with Harley’s blood. Its legs, which looked comically small and worthless, especially compared to their strength and ability in an un-saturated tick, wriggled about helplessly.

“It reminds me of the blueberry girl from Willy Wonka,” I said, amused.

“Ashley, that’s disgusting,” Mike said with no small amount of revulsion. “You don’t pick ticks at the dinner table! Yuck. I guess I’m done eating tonight.”

And then he performed the same bit of facial drama I’ve always displayed in the presence of bugs.

He fake-gagged.

This, my friends, was a first. I never before have grossed-out another individual by my handling of an insect or any such small and wiggly inhabitant of this earth.

And yes, in my world, this is definitely growth.

Where Where Where Would You Poo?

If you were homeless, that is.

I saw something on Sunday morning that sullied my wholesome Midwest sensibilities. Something that got me thinking about this very question.

I was feeling particularly grateful on this, the second beautiful weekend morn, that I didn’t have to stay inside and work. I had enjoyed coffee at the cyber cafe downtown and was walking up Government Hill to visit Beth at the Galleon House, where she works all weekend as the front desk manager. The job allows her to hang with friends on the verandah overlooking historic downtown Charlotte Amalie. And do fun things like cook vegan dishes and make beaded jewelry.

While climbing 99 Steps, I notice a homeless woman who has, of late, been living in the hillside park within the circular drive on Government Hill. She is stationed on the upper part of the park, relatively close to the road that serves as a driveway for local restaurants, lodgings, and attractions, not to mention the Office of the Governor. She appears to be crouching. It looks rather like a bathroom squat to me, but I don’t think it possible.

I continue up the steps, trying not to stare. But naturally, I can’t help but glance in her direction the closer I get to the top. I am compelled, however disgustingly, to decipher what exactly she is doing. To disprove my suspicions, I hope.

But yes. It certainly seems like she is positioned in a bathroom squat. When I get behind her, I confirm that her pants are, indeed, down and she seems ready to wipe her ass with what looks like paper, and not of the toilet variety.

Oh my. I just witnessed a homeless woman shitting in the park before noon on a Sunday.

I share this with Beth and she seems far less surprised. Perhaps she’s seen more grit than me. (Although, I must add that two of my St. Thomian co-workers assured me they had never seen someone poo in public.)

“I don’t know, Beth,” I say. “Don’t you think she could at least wait until the sun goes down?”

“Could you wait until the sun goes down?”

She had a point.
When you have to go. You have to go.

But I’m privileged to be choosy about where I void my bowels. I used to drive twenty minutes home from work during my lunch hour for the mere comfort of shitting in my own home.

I’ve never before pondered the bathroom habits of the homeless. Does it create anxiety? It certainly would for me.

What has brought this lady to the point of pulling down her britches and squatting in the park under the midday sun, while not even bothering to hide behind a tree? It seems to me, from this and other observations, that she suffers from a debilitating mental illness and lacks access to the medication and resources necessary to keep her functioning more normally. This, of course, is the unfortunate cause behind many instances of homelessness in America.

Knowing this, I still can't help feeling repulsed, but her condition is also heartbreaking.

Thoughts, anyone?

Where would you poo?

Iguana Bonding

You may have noticed that this so called blog has been on hiatus.
My excuses are many.
Mom on island for the holidays. Moving for the fourth time in a year.
My attempt at a comeback is a few daily nuggets from recent island life.

So, last week on my way back to work from lunch, I notice my favorite downtown cop outside the coffee shop of my employ expertly holding a bright green iguana in both hands. I approach, nodding toward the iguana,

"Why?” I ask.

"He was in the street about to be hit by a car, so I'm moving him to the grass." (This gentle act exemplifies why I like Spratley best.)

Since he is safely in the arms of the officer, unable to crawl over my foot or up my leg, I invoke the courage to pet the lizard. (Okay, after a few reads, I just noticed the double meaning of the preceding few words. But honestly, what can you do when you’re seriously talking about touching a reptile?!) I softly stroke his back with two fingers and notice the eye that previously looked at me is now closed. I interpret this as a sign of relaxation.

"Does that feel good, honey?" I ask the lizard, in my just-for-animals voice.

"If you stroke the top of his head, he'll close both of his eyes. They like that," says Officer Spratley.

I stroke the top of the iguana’s head and the eye facing me closes again. I sincerely hope the one on the other side of his head is doing the same, but don’t think to ask. And in this silly little moment, my heart opens to the reptile. Making him feel good makes me feel good and the whole interaction makes me feel more connected to the island.

I suppose now it will be even more traumatic when Harley drags their carcasses into the house.

Day Sail to the British Virgin Islands

Hey ya'll.

Oops, my Britney impression accidentally popped out again.

But I guess these days it would sound more like:

It's Ashley, bitch.

And with that, let's begin this pictoral journey.

A month or so ago (yes, my story-telling is on island time), we chartered what I think would be considered a small yacht and sailed to Jost Van Dyke for the day. Jost (pronounced y-oast, rhymes with toast) Van Dyke is a little island in the BVI, past St. John. I think it cost about $70 per person, plus $10 or $15 to get into the BVI. For this you get the boat's captain to take you there and deal with all of the passport stuff. Plus, there are some light snacks and a cozy, comfortable interior in case, for some reason, you don't want to sit on deck in the sun.

Port of Entry

We received stamps on our passports along with an official certificate declaring us welcome in the British Virgin Islands for the rest of the day. After attending to this official business (which required no actual attending on our part other than remembering to bring our passports and sipping Presidente's on board while the Captain cleared us), we took a short trip to White Bay, the next inlet West and home of the famed Soggy Dollar Bar.

Yes, we sunblocked the tops of their heads.

The water in the above picture is not digitally enhanced, nor is it chemically treated. This is true blue Caribbean ocean water.  I fantasized about water like this as a child in my bathtub and at the local swimming pool. This water makes you feel as if you absolutely must jump in and become engulfed in its translucent, warm beauty. This is why, believe it or not, it wasn't even hard to convince me, the fish phobe, to jump off the boat and into the sea.

Which is a good thing.

Because the reason it's called The Soggy Dollar Bar, is the lack of any docks at this beach, so if you want to go to shore, you have to swim. So a lot of the cash transactions at the beach bars include wet money.

Some Soggy Dollar Bar Items of Note:

A whimsically painted sign above the toilet that delightfully rhymes:

 "In this land of sun and fun, we don't flush for number one."

Seagrape trees.  I found myself frequently staring at their rich red bark.

A kitty who loves people. It's a good thing, since she's constantly surrounded by beaching tipsy tourists. She allowed me to pick her up without a yeowly fuss, so I brought her to join us at the table.

"Would you Memorex the moment already? I'm bored."

Someone also felt it necessary to turn the camera on me. Thank you Universe for the crop feature.This is what I look like these days. I haven't turned into a salty old sea hag quite yet.

Ain't my armpit a beaut?

Not a bad jaunt for a regular old Saturday. Many islanders travel from one rock to another for entertainment and variety. Each island has it's own personality and all have gorgeous beaches. Why not island hop?

And, of course, no marine outing would be complete without a homeward sunset shot.

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.