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. 

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... 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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. 

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.

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.

Eavesdropping on Kids in the Coffee Shop

I have to share this with my blog followers.

So, I'm sitting at Beans and Bytes (the cyber cafe/coffee shop downtown that I don't work at) typing on this here blog and I hear a boy of maybe 10 or 11, still in his school uniform, say to one of his friends,

"Hey, I meant to tell you this. Remember that girl Tianna I used to like? I found out she my cousin."

I can't help but to giggle and glance at the kid. He looks back at me and shrugs, as if to say, "What ya gonna do?"

Keep your ears open, folks. You will be amused.

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.

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.

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?

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.