Da Flip Side a Paradise

I usually try to keep what I write here positive. I do this, in part, because enough people bitch about this island already. My voice doesn’t need to be among the chorus of complainers. And I love it he’eh. So, I try not to dwell too much on what I dislike. A fundamental life rule these days.

But by the same token, I don’t want to ignore or gloss over the frustrating aspects of living in St. Thomas. If I’m going to be at all realistic about what it’s like to live here, I should describe some of the inconveniences that make up daily island life. Following are some examples of the annoying bits:.

Ex. #1. You may recall the nightmare surrounding my mom’s car, Laverne. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to take Señor Espina, the loser of a driver, to small claims court for the roughly $3500 he owes my mom, knowing that I would likely have to garnish his wages in order to actually see any money. But both of my she-bosses as well as my lawyer buddy (Da Troof) finally convinced me to just go through the small claims process. Da Troof even stood in line to pick up the police report for me since he spends much of his time at the courthouse anyway. This took two weeks due to the first one being stolen from his car (along with other far more valuable goods). I kid you not. But he was nice enough to pick up another copy of my report while he was picking up his report. 

When I finally did get my hands on the police report, it was useless. Completely. And utterly. Useless. It stated that the cop arrived on the scene after both the driver and the vehicle were gone. This ain’t true. I know it ain’t true because I had a long conversation with the tow truck driver when he delivered Laverne. The cop must have seen the vehicle because he spoke with the tow truck driver. I also know that Espina was still there because the tow truck driver suggested that the cop take it easy on him. And the police obviously took his advice, seeing as that Señor Espina was drunk when the accident happened, yet failed to receive a DUI. But Espina did tell me that he had received a ticket for failure to maintain control of the vehicle. There is no mention of this on the police report. How could the cop have issued a citation if the driver had already left the scene? Either way, since neither the vehicle nor the driver are described in the report, I can’t use it in court. In order to proceed, I would have to subpoena the tow truck driver.

Pursuing the case would result in too much time spent on negative energy-draining crap. I have to stay angry in order to care. And I have to work to stay angry. So, I just gave up. Justice abandoned. 

Ex. #2. My co-worker, Loida, woke up around 4am on the morning of Monday, November 22, to a loud crashing noise outside her apartment. A few minutes later, her boyfriend alerted her to the fact that the racket was the sound of her parked car getting hit. An old man taxi driver from one house up the hill apparently lost control of the vehicle seconds after getting behind the wheel. So her car…it mash up, meh son. Not drivable. In the meantime, she has to get to work by 6:45 am, get her son to school, and her boyfriend needs to go halfway across to the island to his new job. The driver has insurance, which should pay for the cost of a rental. But she can’t get the rental until the police report is complete and turned into the insurance company. You’d think this would be easily done, especially since her landlord happens to be a police. He actually came out the house to assess the scene and write the report. He told Loida that since this falls under his department’s jurisdiction, he should be able to get her the report in a couple of days. Then it turned into Friday. Then it turned into the following Tuesday. Then it was Thanksgiving. Then all the computers in the department crashed.

So, when I returned to work on the 30th, after being in Oklahoma for five days, Loida still had no wheels. Only because she still had no police report. She finally received the report on Thursday the 2nd, two and a half weeks after the incident occurred. It’s now December 10th, and she still has no wheels because of course, the insurance company needs some time to get the paperwork in order. What gets me the most about this one is that she actually had a fucking hook-up in the police department! I just don’t get it.

Ex. #3. And finally, WAPA. Good ‘ol WAPA. For those of you who don’t know, WAPA (pronounced wah-pah) is the Water and Power Authority for the Virgin Islands. And it’s, arguably, the least efficient and progressive utility company in the developed world. Power outages and rolling blackouts are a normal part of life here. Even when the sun is shining and the weather is calm, the power goes out almost daily. An independent assessment of WAPA that came out roughly a year or so ago, reported that our utility bills are 300% over the mainland average. And our service is, by far, the worst I have ever experienced. The frequent power outages wreak havoc on electronic equipment, and of course WAPA is not liable for any of it. You ice machine dies after a power surge? Tough shit. That’s the cost of doing business on the island. WAPA is a large part of why everything is so expensive here. Businesses have no choice but to pass on their gargantuan utility bills to their customers.

So, a specific example of how this affects local business people. The lovely lady who bakes the majority of our sweets at the coffee shop runs her business out of her home. She lives on the West side of the island, which happens to be the least populated area. So, for the last couple of weeks, when WAPA has employed rolling blackouts in order to work on the archaic, sickly equipment that runs our electricity, the West side received more than their fair share of the power losses. Our baker couldn’t bake. She is mostly out of business until the current returns. In order to work around this huge inconvenience, she gets up at 2am to bake because she knows that at least she’ll be able to finish the job. This is a wife and mother of three doing her best to keep a small business going that also allows her freedom to be available to her daughters. And the island infrastructure makes it hella difficult for her to succeed.

There you have it, folks. Some examples of why people flee after moving to what they think is paradise. And it’s the reason why those of us who choose to stay here generally agree with the statement, “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”

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.

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.





Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 1

At a lovely (and sweaty) ceremony in her grandparents’ Lutheran country church, my dear friend Alissa married her beloved Michael on Memorial Day weekend. The occasion brought a perfect reason to visit my homeland after nine months of living in the Caribbean. Especially because Lissa let me be a bridesmaid.

Was she not a stunning bride?

As the trip drew near, I became increasingly convinced that it was necessary for some self-revelatory purpose. I expected all the ways in which I’d grown to become clear, revealing luminous new insights into my journey.

Much of this had to do with seeing my ex again. We have the same friends, so I knew we would encounter one another plenty. He even DD’d the bachelorette party! The closer it came to the trip, the more urgently I needed to release the overwhelming emotion that had amassed during the past year. It churned inside me, like a pregnant thundercloud, to the point that sixty seconds of thinking about our former relationship induced thirty minutes of weeping. Like an overdue mother, I desperately wanted to squat in the corner and get the thing out of me. It needed to end.

Of course, on a less introspective level, I merrily awaited the wedding festivities and some much needed quality time with loved ones, Mom included. And the shopping. It was imperative that I shop. Even though I am relatively poor, I needed some new clothes, and St. Thomas is about the least economical place to acquire them. Which brings me to the first comparison at hand: the consumer experience.

After living in St. Thomas, mainland shopping is simply sublime. The marketplace—clean, bright, open, and laden with choice—easily seduces my inner capitalist consumer…which probably bears direct relation to my hunting and gathering ancestors. Products in appealing packages call out like inanimate sirens enticing me to place them in my bulky red cart by promising to improve my life for only $8.99. Stateside shopping has everything that St. Thomas shopping does not: affordability, order, consistency, and variety. And that’s why we love American capitalism, right? For the big box marketplace saturated with options, but bereft of all surprise and local character. I am guilty as charged.

Okay, so it’s not really too surprising that the mainland offers better shopping than an island. But the difference in price is jarring, even though it’s understandable. Nothing is manufactured in St. Thomas, so all goods are shipped from elsewhere, thereby involving additional transit costs. Also—and this is one of my favorite things about St. Thomas—we have the most expensive utilities in the United States. By 300%.

No, I didn’t accidentally add a zero.

Therefore, all businesses have higher operating costs than they would stateside, especially if they rely on coolers and freezers to preserve product. These two factors—and maybe others of which I’m ignorant—add roughly 30% to all island goods. So, while most people make around 30% less than they would in the states, they spend about 30% more to live. And more people keep coming! Even if large numbers of them don’t last long.

The Neutrogena face wipes that I use are over nine dollars in St. Thomas at Kmart. At Target in Minnetonka, they cost five and change. There are deals in the states where you can buy four frozen pizzas for $10, what you might spend for one at Plaza Extra. I met a friend for lunch my first day back in the cities at a restaurant I lived five minutes from for two years but never patronized because I figured it was too expensive (even though I made more money at the time). It was so interesting to see that the lunch menu prices were comparable to one of the least expensive family restaurants on the island. Although the beer cost more.

I’ve always said, and I’ll repeat myself plenty with this one, the only goods cheaper in St. Thomas than stateside are your vices: alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs.

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.

Excuses, Excuses. More Ramblings. Part Two.

July 1- 16. A vehicle to despise. After moving into the studio, I started focusing on preparing to sell the Jimmy my mom left when fleeing for stateside medical care upon the discovery of breast cancer.

(Side note: I only moved in with Mr. T in the first place because Mom had to leave. I couldn’t afford our rent and wasn’t yet comfortable enough on the island to get my own place. Mr. T generously opened his home to me— a half-built, bachelor-pad dream house. Anyway, had to get that out because I don’t take living with someone lightly.)

The annoying thing about the Jimmy (whose name is Laverne) is that she's a stick shift, and I can’t drive a stick. Or at least it’s been quite some time since I learned. And the island probably isn’t the best place for me to brush up on my manual driving skills, what with its steep switchbacks and narrow thoroughfares. So, the “helper”, whom I will henceforth refer to as Señor Espina, was going to help me sell it, and in doing so, he would drive it for his personal use, which per our verbal agreement was responsible and not excessive. This worked out well for me because he could go deal with the mechanics and report back. I just had to make decisions and shell out cash (of which I had more than usual due to working my little white ass off) for the repairs. I kept him in cigs, beer, and food (in order of importance) in return for his assistance. I don’t know who was using who, but it was a mutually beneficial arrangement during the short time it lasted.

July 17. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid. The partnership was, indeed, a brief one. Three weeks, tops. Long enough for me to realize that my affinity for a café con leché skin tone has ended badly for me on more than one occasion. And that I should never trust a drunk who’s not in recovery. And that I need to learn to drive a stick shift as well as a vibrator. Fuck being dependent on others for something so simple.

So anyway, I’ll try to spare you the excessively dramatic details of what happened to Laverne. I actually think it’s worthy of reality TV drama. Not quite Jerry Springer, but dangerously close.

Señor Espina crashed her before noon on a Sunday, on the opposite end of the island from where he lives. Did he call to let me know what had happened? Of course not. Instead, he called his crack-smoking ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even have a car (or a job) to aid him. She did this by hitching a ride with a couple of crack-smoking, jobless friends of hers who somehow manage to possess a vehicle. This proved to me once and for all that Sr. Espina is a “living and breathing fuck-up” (thank you to The Wrestler for this fitting term) incapable of making a good decision.

In a strange instance of luck, this turn of events so excited the girlfriend that she couldn’t help but to maniacally leave four voicemails to inform me that Señor Espina had crashed my car and that I’m a “stupid little girl” for trusting him in the first place. All the while I’m in a volunteer organizational meeting for 7-7. While I'm exceedingly annoyed that Ms. Crazy was called in the first place, if she hadn't been involved, Laverne may well have landed in the impound lot. Then I would have ended up paying the nice tow truck driver a lot more than $375 because the near incoherent Señor didn't think it necessary to involve me, the acting owner of the vehicle. 

Dey say she total.

So now I have a wrecked vehicle that I can’t myself drive to a body shop, and I get to figure out how to get rid of her. In the meantime, Sr. Espina promised to pay me back, and we discussed the possibility of working out a deal for him to buy Laverne. We arranged for him to give me the money he owes for the tow truck when he got paid on the 1st of August.

August 3. You’re kidding, right? He didn’t show. I called. Turns out, he lost his wallet the previous evening. How did Señor lose his wallet, you ask? Why, he fell down the stairs, of course. Oh yes, this makes sense. So many people lose their wallets filled with hundreds of dollars of cash owed to someone else when they fall down the stairs. Only if you’re drunk from a case of Presidente on a St. Thomas Sunday, I guess. How are you enjoying your downward spiral, Señor?

August 4-Present.  To sue or not to sue. I’m still deciding whether to take him to small claims court. Mom just wants me to sell Laverne as is to get rid of her. She's unwilling to put more money towards the problem and doesn’t think we’ll recover any money from Señor anyway since he seems to have a drunk and broke past. Now, I’m not litigious, aggressive, or vindictive, but I do feel I was taken for a ride. (After making my own, perhaps, bad decisions. At the time I thought I was getting things done to the best of my ability. Really I did.) I would rather put my spare time and energy toward creative endeavors than the people’s court. But once in awhile I get really pissed at the hard-earned money Mom and I have lost, as well as the fucking pain in the ass I have to deal with now. Opinions on what I should do, anyone?

Also, in the midst of all previously mentioned items (in list form for brevity's sake):

My year-old laptop died (for the 2nd time) and mysteriously started working again, albeit with a daily warning message about my disk being corrupted and the blue screen of death making a visit once a week or so. This shall be my last PC.

My iphone died twice (dropped it) and was fixed both times by local technicians, for which I am very grateful because, as previously hinted, I am addicted.

A nasty rash spread over my whole body, inducing a doctor’s visit. He diagnosed it as an allergic rash and gave me medication that got rid of it, but we couldn’t figure out what I might be allergic to. Luckily, it hasn’t returned. My boss says I'm allergic to island drama. Perhaps.

I have been working with 7-7 to help put on a black and white photography exhibit at the end of the month, and to launch a new and improved website, among other endeavors.

Hershey recovered from tick fever only to develop intestinal tapeworms that I was fortunate enough to discover in his poo. Another trip to the vet.

My landlord is referred to as “Slumlord Dave” by a drunk Chris-Farley-type customer at the Toad and Tart. And I am also asked if I know how many times he had sex on my bed when living in my apartment 14 years ago. No, sorry, I don’t. But it must have been frequent if you feel the need to inform me.

So, folks, this is why I haven’t had time to write. But after getting all this garbage out of my head, I think I’m ready to roll again.

Momentum achieved!

Thanks for listening.

Excuses, Excuses. A Rambling Post of Epic Proportions. In Two Parts.

Starting from a dead stop. It requires energy and motivation. A lot of energy and motivation. I know very well how difficult it is to overcome inertia. Physics was one of my least favorite subjects, but I do remember enough to know that this has something to do with Newton’s Three Laws of Motion, so it’s not like I’m imagining things.

I’m talking about my writing life here, folks.

Or I should say, what writing life? I moved to St. Thomas almost a year ago with the intention of writing more, to even create a writing lifestyle for myself. My current reality, however, is that I write as much as if not less than when I lived in Minnesota—ironic because I’m far more inspired by life in St. Thomas. My goal is to get to the point where a day without writing is as uncomfortable and rare as a day without eliminating waste.

I am growing stronger (hopefully wiser) and more peaceful. Life feels rich and blessed and mysterious. I have lots of ideas, but have lacked the creative space and focus to explore them. Other than my blog, which frequently goes on hiatus when life gets too busy, I haven’t actually been putting fingertips to keyboard. Unless we’re referring to texting on my iphone. That I have managed to spend a good amount of time doing.

Anyway, in the interest of bringing those who care up to speed on my St. Thomas adventure, and to present my excuses for not having blogged since mid-May, I’ve constructed a two-part timeline of my life since last posting a silly little piece on goats.

May 20-June 3. Visit Minnesota. I had the best intentions to write, but socializing with loved ones and preparing for Lissa and Michael’s beautiful wedding left no time for creative endeavors. More reflections on my first trip back to the motherland soon to come.

June 3-4. Return to St. Thomas. My (ex)boyfriend/landlord/roommate was (still is) obviously seeing someone else. Granted, we knew our relationship was over before I left and that I’d be looking for a new apartment. (As with most break-ups, I guarantee the reasons for this one vary widely, depending on the party you ask.) The thought of staying in his house with only one bed, one bath, no privacy, and a surplus of awkward, was pretty darn miserable to me. Mr. T was very careful to make it known that he was not kicking me out, however. And we mustn’t sully his nice guy image. It was my choice to leave, but really, why stay?

June 5-7. Move out. Luckily, I have very nice employers at R&J’s, and they were kind enough to let me and Hershey occupy their downstairs apartment until I found my own place. So I moved in over the course of a few days with all the spare energy I had outside of work. This would be move number four on the island. Move number six in the last 18 months.

June 10-20. Ain't no rest for the wicked. A few days after moving into my temporary pad, I started what for me was a near grueling work schedule. Both R&J were off island, and they entrusted me to oversee coffee shop operations during their absence. I didn’t mind this at all, in fact, I rather enjoyed the added responsibility and challenge. It did, however, require me to arrive downtown at 5:30am and I leave no earlier than 4pm for the next week or so. Now this in itself isn’t that bad, but Thursday through Sunday, I worked at the Toad and the Tart from 5pm-10:30pm. So I was tired. Hershey was lonely. When not working, I took care of the dog, drove, slept, showered, and ate. I didn't write.

June 10- present. More work and little play. I’ve continued working around 50 hr weeks. When I started at the Toad and Tart, I was only supposed to do two nights a week. But while in Minnesota, the other server quit. So, I’ve been obliged to work all four nights. Which has actually worked out because I’ve needed the money. There is an end in sight, however. A friend of our Grillmaster recently arrived on island. She has bartending experience and needs a job. Woo-hoo. Two nights a week at the pub will be perfect. More financial stability and more time to enjoy life on the island.

Now, if only the old Tart and St Thomas life don’t scare her away…

Too late. They already did. Since I started this blog post, she already informed me that she's leaving.

Guess I'll be at the T&T four nights a week for a little while longer...

June (in general). Responsibilities. During my stay at the R&J’s homestead, I used what little spare time and money I had to give both my car and my dog some overdue medical attention. My car received an oil change, two new tires, and new front brakes. Hershey got all his vaccinations, pills for tick fever and started back on Heartguard.

Don’t stop moving. I didn’t want to linger at R&J’s for longer than a month due to an independent nature and  feeling impatient to settle in my own place. I looked at a couple apartments and took the one that let me have Hershey. I’m not good at apartment searching, job searching, etc. I don’t like to spend time focusing on the search- especially when I’m really in need, which I realize doesn’t make any sense. I like to make a decision and move on. The problem with this attitude is that I often settle for the first thing I can live with instead of taking risks and holding out for something better.

With which head are you thinking? And perhaps unsurprisingly, part of the reason I was in such a hurry to get my own place is because the person helping with my car and promising to help with my mom’s vehicle was also helping my sad and neglected libido. This required both privacy and anonymity.

July 1. Large room with a view. So I rented this place with some really cute features like:

a vaulted ceiling with exposed rafters, and

a view of Magen's Bay.

But it also was dirty, termite-infested, the couch has a hole, and whoever painted seemed to get bored after one coat. But I could afford it, I liked the neighborhood, and the gregarious, off-island landlord let me keep Hershey. It’s hard to tell the difference between island funky and a dump. I would never live in an apartment like this in the states, but your standards change in St. Thomas. They become less American and more…I don’t know… third world tropical?

But I like to think of my new pad as bohemian.

To be continued...

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.

A Teeny-Tiny Rock with Lots and Lots of Guns

Five people died as a result of gunshot wounds in the USVI last week.
Four on St. Thomas. One on St. Croix. 

There have been around 15 homicides in the VI so far this year.
Allow me to remind you that the year has just begun.
Average = 2 homicides/week.

Also allow me to remind you that the island of St. Thomas is 13 miles long and 4 miles wide. Its area in square miles is roughly half the size of Minneapolis proper.
We are a mere speck in the ocean.
A speck with around 55,000 human inhabitants.
Inhabitants who have, of late, been increasingly violent and gun-laden.

The week's first death occured when a toddler, the son of a cop, shot himself playing with daddy's gun.

The third person that died was the sister of my co-worker's brother. Two weeks ago, she was in the coffee shop with her kids. Only 25-years-old. Younger than me. Her boyfriend has been arrested for owning the unlicensed gun, and is a suspect in the death, the exact cause of which- accidental or planned- has yet to be officially determined.

We have one of the highest murder per capita rates in the world.

That's all. No soapbox. No musing. I simply thought it necessary to share this major problem in paradise.

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?

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.