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.

Meerkat Manor

For the nerds out there who now must know about this show.

Thanks for the tip, Mom!

Pillow Talk of the Sexiest Variety

Me: “Hey, remember when we were in St. John, and I told you about a dream where you were helping me along with some word I was trying to use? But I couldn't remember what word it was?"

Meerkat: “Yeah. I remember.”

Me: “The word just came to me out of nowhere.”

Meerkat: “Okay. And what was it?"

Me: “InexORable.”

Meerkat: “...Um, I think it’s pronounced inEXorable.”

Me: “Shit.”


A notable exchange for three reasons:

A. This marks my second premonitory dream in five years.

B. Usually I am the one correcting other people’s language skills. 

C. Finding his superior vocabulary overwhelmingly aphrodisiacal makes me an official nerd. Which isn't to say that this wasn't already clear.

Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 4: Conclusion of the Moment

Despite my new appreciation for consumer convenience, a litter-free landscape, seasons, and access to my indie rock habit, what I miss most about the Midwest are my kith. I still love my friends. And they still seem to love me. Thankfully (and not to my surprise), we picked up where we left off. Clicking into the intimate rhythm of true friendship after months or years with slight communication is a top friend criterion for me because (as you likely know) I’m an embarrassingly pathetic correspondent. Infrequent but very involved face to face communication is highly preferred to regular phone chats. For reasons I don't pretend to understand, fifteen minutes on the phone and I'm a claustrophobic mess.

Interested in what I’m up to? Don’t expect a return email or phone call, simply check my blog. Your updates are accepted via text, which is also how you're most likely to receive a response. I realize this is a shitty, narcissistic and very millennial arrangement, my friends. And I am sorry. I don't know how to change.

Since I know some of you are anxious for me to return to this topic…Yes, I still love the Ex too. And I tried to rekindle our relationship because it became even clearer during my visit that he really is one in a million. My attempts were kindly met with resistance. I know he still loves me in some fashion, but he's not in love with me, which is probably wise on his part.

On my part, there was much emoting. I may have been the teary-eyed bridesmaid…But it ended on a positive note. Thankfully, talking through what happened to us a year earlier (Ahem. What I did to end our four-year relationship a year earlier.) proved therapeutic. When he dropped me at the airport, an unexpected serenity filled me. A grace granted as peace. And I'm happy to report that the weeping spells have ceased.

Ah…
I tell you, the process of acceptance and release is golden.
Totally worth the preceding heartache and torment.
And, I can say with confidence, we’re both moving on healthily
… as friends.

Another thing that became clearer to me, but that I’m still trying to articulate properly, is the feeling of authenticity I get from people and places in St. Thomas that I miss at home in the Midwest. Which is strange since the island itself is the subject of so many a fantasy. Stateside places, suburbia and exurbia specifically, are nowhere lands. Near identical to any American town, character and charm are spare. People busily go about their days making little eye contact or conversation with those around them. Plus, compared to people in the VI, Midwesterners are SO darn reserved… and, dare I say at the risk of offense, a bit boring? Many of my friends excluded, of course.

I revel in the unexpected quirky surprises that make island life so spirited. For example, in the St. Thomas Kmart, people sing and dance to the Beyonce or Rihanna playing over the loudspeakers. (Except on Sunday when the soundtrack tends to be gospel.) People recognize friends and call out the island version of how are you: “You okay?” Jokes are cracked and laughter erupts. I fail to recall such public displays of vivacity and mirth back home.

Of course, numerous are the inconveniences and ass pains of living in the Virgin Islands. And there is a lot that will break your heart if you do any looking around. Some residents constantly bitch about these things, which I find increasingly irritating the more I grow to love this place. Especially if its lobbed with good ole American arrogance. Sure, I complain at times. But I try to vent, accept, and move forward. I’m mostly still entertained by life here and am rarely bored… I guess because living on a Caribbean island is still a novelty.

Back home is old news. The norm. What I’ve always known.

So it's not necessarily the Midwest's fault that I find the Caribbean so genuinely fascinating in comparison.  But shit...it was enough for me— a NON-risk-taker—to quit my old life and move here to write about the place. A lot of people who move here are not only not interested in the culture, but are actually rather annoyed by it. My opinion is if they don't like it h'eh, they should return to Akron or Buffalo or Vegas or from wherever it is they emigrated. St. Thomas so inspires and fills my heart with gladness on a daily basis. It’s eccentricities and history, the in and outflow of diverse peoples, the laid back vibe, the breathtaking vistas…I want to soak it all up…like when, after a long, frigid winter, I savored the first hot sunny rays to touch my alabaster skin. (Of course, it’s been well over a year since I enjoyed this particular sensation.)

I also realized while in Minnesota that I really do love Minneapolis. It still feels like home to me. But St. Thomas feels more like home all the time too. Which leads me to wonder, what exactly constitutes home? It’s a weighty question, I know. One for which I have no easy answer. But I think a person can feel at home in more than one place on earth. Ironically, one’s place of birth or youth often fails to invoke a sense of comfort or familiarity. This is certainly true for me, as neither the town I grew up in nor the town of my roots feel like home in the least. In fact, I avoid visiting these places because of their tendency to lull me into a vague state of depression.

So, while I still really love Minneapolis and it still feels like home in a lot of ways, I know that I’m not yet ready to return. My loved ones, of course, wanted to know when I’m coming back. (Not before you visit, bitches!) All I could say with any certainty was that I needed at least another year in St. Thomas. Maybe more. My Caribbean journey is not complete. In many ways, I feel like I’m just now getting settled… and started. Just now collecting the creative and spiritual energy I came here to cultivate. I know that when the time comes for me to move on, the directive will be deep down clear…a gut-level, intuitive knowing. It certainly won’t come solely from that insufferable source of all logic and rationale- my head.

Sorry parents, but this soul-searching adventure ain't over yet!

Minnesota & St. Thomas: Comparative Observations in Home and Place, Part 3: Diversity

Growing up in the Midwest, I was pretty much constantly surrounded by middle-class white people. Sure, my niece is of mixed race… and one of my good high school friends is Korean. The token over-achieving, highly intelligent black kid in school hung with our group of friends occasionally. But really, the dominate culture was white—ranging from the trashy to that of the country club variety, but basically very very white. Except, you know, everyone listened to rap and hip hop. Most of the black people from my hometown lived in the segregated river bottoms known officially as Pleasant Valley but lovingly referred to by all as The Flats. White kids from the North side of town were generally scared to enter The Flats, especially at night. It was the stuff of double-dares, lost bets, juvenile delinquency, scandal, and rebellion.

My small, private Lutheran college in NE Iowa had intense Norwegian roots, and was thus, also an overwhelmingly white community. But thankfully, much more progressive than the town of my youth. There were a handful of African Americans, but racial minorities were mostly a mix of International students. They had a small but solid population on campus, which consisted of specific cafeteria tables, the far corner of the dance bar, and certain sections in the library. I got to know this crowd more personally when I dated a guy from India. I found the encounter with other cultures immensely stimulating, which I’d like to think was part of my attraction to this particular person in the first place.

At my post-college job in Minnesota, all but maybe 5 of the 50 employees were white. And while I truly cared for the majority of my coworkers, I also found them incredibly boring. Little surprised me about their white, working-man lifestyles. But it's no shock that this mash potato culture felt too familiar and stale; I’d been steeped in it my whole life.

In St. Thomas, for the first time, I am a racial minority. And you know what? Not only does it not bother me in the least, but I rather enjoy the change. This became very clear during my Minnesota visit. It became so clear, in fact, that I used it as part of my stock sound bite when people asked what I enjoy about living on the island. The varying reactions to this comment offered great amusement.

In some ways, St Thomas is like a microcosm of the American melting pot myth, but instead of stretching across thousands of square miles of terrain, we’re all smashed together on an island that takes up less space than a small American city. My brother (the first of our clan to live in the VI) has compared St. Thomas to Manhattan, which is perhaps, a more accurate analogy than to the whole of the United States. Either way, we are an absolute mish-mash of cultures here; and it’s hard to avoid each other when you live on a speck.

I enjoy the island’s diversity most when working in the coffee shop downtown. The multitude of accents is a lingual symphony for my ears. My regular customers are local West Indians, some local Frenchies, a lot of Eastern Indians who own and work in jewelry stores, Arabs who own myriad businesses, scads of American transplants from all over the states, some Europeans, tons of people from the Dominican Republic (locally known as “Santos”), Puerto Ricans, Caribbean people from down island, a few from Africa... And this doesn’t even cover my daily encounters with tourists who flock to St. Thomas from all over the world.

Because of this multi-cultural interaction, I know that English people refer to potato chips as “crisps.” Continentals rarely tip because it's not part of the service industry in Europe. “Sorbeto” means “straw” in Spanish. Caribbean people from down island refer to all hot drinks as “tea,” so if they order “chocolate tea,” what they most likely want is hot chocolate.

“Shukron,” means, “thank you,” in Arabic, and we miss our loyal next door customers during Ramadan. They return to the coffee shop after a month looking both slim and cleansed.

Puerto Ricans prefer warm milk in their coffee, so it’s best to ask if they want leché calienté when they order to avoid them bringing you their tiny cups to tell you that it’s frio. (They tend to buy 8oz cups and fill them with equal parts coffee and milk. Since our milk is chilled, this significantly reduces the temperature of their café con lechés.)

Sure, these are all mere tiny (yet helpful) cultural tidbits, but from them I take true delight.

You know something else I just realized about all these cultures living together in St. Thomas? It’s really peaceful for the most part. Yeah, I hear complaints from various residents about ethnic groups other than their own— mostly stemming from frustration, ignorance, and stereotypes. Nothing new there. But the high percentage of violent crime in the Virgin Islands is rarely cross-cultural. Most violence is either domestic in nature, or drug-related and between young men who from h’eh. Okay, so it’s a faint silver lining, but it's visible if you focus hard and squint.

As someone who is curious about diverse cultures and people, living in a place where I frequently engage with a mix of ethnicities is invigorating. What's better is that we can usually talk about (and even laugh at) our differences matter-of-factly without worrying about coming across as racist. I have no problem being identified as the "white girl" at the coffee shop because...well, it's true. People here are often described by their ethnicity or skin color, not because it's the only thing people notice about one another, but rather it's an easy and accurate way to physically describe someone. So why try to vaguely describe a tall, mustached fellow without describing his skin tone as light or dark or white or explain that he's Indian? To people who aren't comfortable talking about race, this can seem rude or distatesful. But my experience here is more that it's simply useful. People have different skin tones. No need to be blind to it. We jus made dat way, ya know.

Obviously, I’m not ready to go back to Whiteville yet…maybe not ever. (Which is not to say that I’m planning to settle here either.) If and when I do return to the states, I won’t be able to live in the suburbs or a small town. For true. While there is diversity in Minneapolis, it’s far more segregated, due in large part to all the available space, which allows for highway chasms to separate neighborhoods.

When my brother spent VI slow season working in Minneapolis, he often bitched about the lack of human color in our midst. He quickly grew weary of white people. Now I finally get it.

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.