Is the Corolla a Klutz? Or is it Me?

Since moving here just over a year ago, I've had nine flat tires. Yes, that's right. Nine a 'dem. I was even fortunate enough to enjoy three in one week—all separate tires!

The first of the bunch occurred pretty much a year ago exactly. And of course, both Mom and Mr. T. happened to be off island. So, alone and very St. Thomas fresh, my non-mechanical ass had to figure out how to get the tire repaired without anyone holding my hand.

Which isn't to say that no one helped me. R. at the Island Latté inflated my tire with his compressor brought by J. from home. He also recommended a repair place in town, across from the old cemetery with the aboveground graves. I drove by the shop twice without noticing it. I don't know what I expected; something looking more like a legitimate business and less like a lean-to with an empty office attached, I guess. Next door sat a mini-mart with what seemed like two separate loitering stations in the parking lot. One for dominos...and one for, well...sitting.

During this initial visit to the repair shop, I made two ahfta-noon friends. Julian, an older gentleman with a cane, bought me a Presidente’ and offered conversation while I waited. He talked of growing up on the island, getting shot in Vietnam, and working locally as a chef. When I told him I wanted to write a book about St. Thomas, he expressed immediate concern that I would focus soley on the negative aspects of his home. I assured him (and made a commitment to myself) that this was, in no way, my intent. I am interested in the whole spirit of the Virgin Islands, most of which really doesn't suck. How and why people get drawn in...why some never leave and others flee. Julian was one of the first locals that I conversed with. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him at the shop again, but I did meet his brother there once.

The other ahfta-noon friend was a street rasta who I'm sure said something about my beauty (it's really nothing special about me, I assure you) and then presented me with this charming flower creation:

Cool, huh? Tourists have to pay for them.

Last summer, while getting two tires replaced at the same establishment, I noticed an abandoned stroller in the group of rag tag chairs at the sitting station. The stroller was positioned in a way that suggested it sometimes functioned as an extra piece of furniture. Feeling brave, I thought it fun to plop down in the child carrier and join the men for a little Sunday morning communion. Admittedly, they seemed a bit wary of a stateside girl with a pit bull mix entering their territory. But they were amused when I asked if this gathering was their version of church.



Yes, that's moi in the stroller. Guard dog to my right.


On another radiant Sunday morning last month, I discovered my 8th flat tire outside the Meerkat's house.

Ain't she a beaut?

He was away on business, so once again, I had no man to help solve my problem. With most of the day stretched before me until my evening shift at the pub, I decided it was time for me to change a tire. This being my 8th in a year and all. (Yes, if you’re keeping track, I have had a flat since…) I watched a how-to on You Tube, found readable instructions as well, and set about the task.

Cranking the jack took an inordinate amount of time and copious sweating, grunting, and swearing.

I really don't think it's supposed to be so taxing a process. 

Hershey offers his assistance.

The most difficult part turned out to be removing the lug nuts. Oh my. Luckily, I was parked next to a railing that I leaned on while jumping up and down on the wrench. Never, ever ever have I ever felt so light and airy. And...I was successful at removing but one lug nut with my weight alone. Fortunately, a frantic search for WD-40 proved successful, and dousing the lugs with lube got those babies a-movin’. Let me tell you, I have an entirely new respect for this basic household product.

The rest of the process was pretty easy. My hands got dirty, but it was a satisfying kind of dirty.

Photographic Evidence

As silly as it sounds (and yes, you all have license to tease me), changing this tire was an empowering new victory for me. A small step toward realizing my true strength and potential.

And of course by the time I finally got out to the pool, it clouded over and soon started to rain.

Don't let him fool you. He's scared to swim.

Another Parking Snafu

I’m running late for work again. But I’m still downtown early enough to nab a free parking spot on Government Hill. A parallel space at the top is free, and with no cars behind me, I decide to make an attempt. I’m encouraged by the easy way I slid in last time I parked here, especially because it’s no easy endeavor. The one lane road is quite narrow, of course, and the spots are on the left. Since I’m used to parking on the right, left-side parallel parking is an extra challenge. On my first try with this spot, my sole success was in bestowing a permanent scrape upon the Corolla’s right front bumper.

Today the space is almost mine, but I scrape the cement wall to my left before backing in completely. I try to straighten out and back in again, but a line of three cars forms behind me, and the thought of making them wait does not appeal. St. Thomians are extreme honkers.

This is making me sweat.

I continue the hunt, checking for angle spots on the downside of the hill. All the good ones at the very bottom are taken. But there are still plenty of ridiculous spaces left.

Foreground = Silly Spots.

Background = Legitimate Spots.

Why are these parking spots ridiculous, you ask?

Well, it is simply impossible to properly park in them. They are far too small, for one thing. I drive a Toyota Corolla of modest size and still have trouble fitting within the painted white line. It doesn't help that the angle of the line is strange and unrealistic, like an empty puzzle space with no pieces to fit.

Does the shape look odd to you? Or is it just me?

But by far the worst thing about these spaces is that if you inch ahead so as to not have your rear bumper sticking into the one lane road, you run a serious risk of having your front tire fall off the ledge.

And this, folks, is exactly what happens to me.

My front left tire drops off the ledge and my rear right tire flies up in the air, and there my car balances like a three-thousand pound sea-saw.

My first reaction is, “Of course this would happen to me. It was only a matter of time.”

I look to my left and see a man and a woman watching. The man—young, serious and lean—

already looks like he’s fixin' to help.

I clumsily manage to get out of the car and greet my witnesses.

“Good Morning,” I say, trying to smile, “this is typical for me.”

The woman looks on and offers friendly, concerned remarks.

The young man gets to work examining the situation.

I start trying to call Mike, who is already at work downtown only a couple blocks away. I don’t know what I think he’ll do to help me, but I’m convinced that I need to reach him. He doesn’t answer. Mike always answers.

One of my regulars (large hot chocolate & warm bottle of water) stops by the scene. She saw the whole thing. She's a stateside girl about my age, and is heading to her legal assistant job in the building next to R&J’s. She looks all cute and professional, per usual. I sometimes feel pangs of envy when she comes into the coffee shop for how cute she looks going to her office job. I used to look cute and professional going to my office job rather than my current peasant uniform of a mocha-stained yellow polo.

Luckily, she is very sweet, and offers to help. I’m hesitant to be behind the wheel while trying to get out of this mess, so she drives while the young man and I push on the rear bumper in an attempt to add a counterweight.

My new friends do their best, but the Corolla only slips further over the ledge.

Fortunately, more helpful people approach—two guys and a woman I recognize from the coffee shop.

They strategize on the best way to return my tires to the pavement. It’s decided that I need traction beneath my dangling tire. What we need are rocks and boards. I’m beginning to think I should keep rocks and boards in my trunk for these instances.

I continue trying to call Mike. I think I mentioned during the telling of the Corolla’s last adventure that I am generally of little use when it comes to problem solving with heavy objects. 

Another regular (16oz mocha with whip) who works in the government building nearest to where my car is “parked” comes out of her office and asks if we want to take a look at the old board behind her building. She holds it up for us to see. One of the guys determines that it will work. And they go about stacking the rocks and board underneath the wheel.

We try backing out again, this time with me steering. (I really need to do something besides try, in futile, to call my boyfriend.) Even with three people pressing down on the elevated back bumper, and one pushing from the front, the car still won’t budge.

More rocks are found and shoved under the board and tire. And, as if sent by Providence, four strapping men walk through the permit lot toward where our group is gathered. They are recruited and all four get positioned to push from the front.

I, sitting impotently in the front seat, have finally gotten Mike on the phone by dialing his assistant’s extension. Just when he gets on the line, we’re ready to roll. I take the moment to ask him stupidly,

“Sorry. Did I interrupt you?”

To which one of the most recently acquired men pushing from the front says to me,

“Sweetheart, this is no time to be talking on the phone.” He sounds irritated, and I can’t blame him. At least he did the Caribbean thing and left the sweetheart part in.

“Gotta go. Nevermind.” I say into the phone and hang up.

Four people push down on the back bumper. Four people push up on the front bumper. I gently push on the accelerator. And the Corolla backs up over the ledge and onto the cement once again.

The crowd quickly scatters; I imagine they’re all late. I’m feeling a bit dazed as I exit the car. By the time I get out, most are gone. Only the first man and woman remain.

“Thank you,” I try calling out after the dispersing crowd. “Good karma points to you all…” My voice trails off as I realize they can’t hear me.

“Thanks,” I say to my first two onlookers.

The young man keeps his head down, going over to inspect something- perhaps the ledge or the rocks we used.

“Hey, let me shake your hand,” I say.

He stops and allows me to shake.

“Come into R&J’s and I will by you breakfast, lunch, whatever you want. Thanks so much.”

He blows it off like it’s no big deal that he spent the last 30 minutes helping me out of my silly parking snafu.

I walk toward work feeling a little stunned and very grateful. Twice now, my fellow islanders have gathered together, with little effort on my part other than doing something stupid in the first place, and have saved me with muscle and ingenuity.

Once again, I am, without a doubt, blessed.

Sanded In

So it’s my day off, and I’m heading to the beach with Beth, the friend, and Hershey, the dog. We are at Hull Bay, one of the only dog-friendly beaches on island. It looks busy for a Thursday, and there are no obvious parking spots. I drive to the end of the beach before I find a space that looks easy and empty. But as soon as I pull onto the sand, I suspect we may be in trouble. The ridge between the road and the beach is further than I expected, which I worry will keep me from backing out, especially since sand doesn’t offer much in the way of traction.

No sooner do I exit my car than a pretty blonde mom in a white pickup stops on the road and says, sounding concerned, “Oooh, that’s the stuck spot.”

“I had a feeling …” I say.

“You’ll be okay,” she says unconvincingly, “Just think positive.”

“Just think positively,” I correct her grammar in my head.

“We’ll be fine,” Beth says, heading down the beach to find a landing spot.

I guess we’ll worry about it later.

Later comes, and we discover that, sure enough, the car’s going nowhere. My tires spin uselessly, only digging deeper into the sand. It’s quite similar to being stuck in an icy Minnesota snow bank, except it’s not dangerously cold outside, and I’m facing the ocean. Damn, why did I leave behind the small shovel that lived in my trunk expressly for these moments? I guess I figured it wouldn't be needed in the tropics.

Fortunately, after it becomes obvious that we’re stuck, it takes only a couple minutes for multiple men to offer assistance. Hands-on Beth jumps in to problem-solve too. I always feel useless in these situations, being dimwitted when it comes to manipulating matter. Especially matter that is heavy in nature.

It's determined that we must place something under the front tires for traction enough to get us over the cement ledge between the sand and the road.

A Dude-like character approaches and tells us we're not going anywhere without a four-wheel drive vehicle pulling us out first. I tend to agree with him, but everyone wants to try without it first. I dig the jack out of the trunk, and we use it to lift the front frame. Then we place some rocks under the tires and lay boards on top of them for traction. (The boards are conveniently there, probably left over from previous stuck incidents.)

Of course, none of this is my idea.

We finish this task, and The Dude re-approaches,

“I got a truck coming.”

(From where did these helpful souls come?!)

The truck somehow attaches itself by rope to my car's posterior in a manner they promise will not rip off the bumper. With the truck pulling and five of us pushing and Beth behind the wheel, we get the car out of the sand and onto the road.

Beth lays on the horn when the car starts to move. A celebratory, elephantine burst of cheer, I assume, but she later tells me that her hand, in fact, was on the horn accidentally. Anyhow, it works in the moment.

“Good karma points to you all,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

And we gone.

These are good people here.
I am blessed.

The Importance of Staying Left

Since Saturday morning is so radiantly sunny and glorious, I decide to take the Lionel Pierre Barry Scenic Drive to my old apartment where I am to spend a rare Saturday off inside cleaning. I like this route because it reminds me of my happy college years in Northeast Iowa with its rolling hills and farm animals. Except that when you look up and out, you cannot help but notice the vast ocean before you instead of corn fields. Parts of this lovely road are, however, even narrower and windier than St. Thomas’ main thoroughfares.

It occurs to me that perhaps I am driving a bit too close to center, especially when I notice that the car approaching me could be doing the same. Unfortunately, before I can alter course, a noise informs me that, without a doubt, this car and I have engaged in a minor sideswipe.

We both stop in the middle of the road, per island custom. I get out of the car and the woman passenger in the other car does the same. Everyone is fine, except for my side mirror, which is lying in the road.

Meanwhile, cars are backing up behind our vehicles. We are blocking traffic, and I want to get on my way. The man in the driver’s seat peers out the passenger window at me and says,

"Well, we were a bit surprised, but at least we're both listening to NPR."

I am unable to respond with anything witty. Only a surprised giggle.

Then the woman and I pick up my mirror, get back into our respective cars, and we gone.

Sans the passenger mirror and with a window that won’t roll, the Corolla is now truly an island vehicle.