Just returned from being away and its hard to be back. I want to herd sheep.
The first time I visited this beautiful island, I was struck by the French. Their sinewy, smooth bodies, olive skin and overall lithe beauty. Strolling the crooked-laned towns or walking the white-sand beaches in simple, tasteful clothes that seemed to almost fall off their frames. Quite a juxtaposition to the masses of overweight, sunburnt, loud Americans with their brightly colored visors flooding in to the small island to clog the casinos. Embarrassing.
But this time I fell in love with the natives or those that came from neighboring islands. We befriended a mild-mannered Jamaican who called himself Leechman, who pointed us to some more native doings. While I am sure we weren't too welcome, I enjoyed it immensely, the women were breathtaking, tall, strong, in microscopic miniskirts and brightly colored jackets. The men were broad shouldered, broad smiled and languid. Leechman talked lovingly of his wife and his family back home and would shyly lower his eyes if I was approaching him in something revealing. Softspokenly, he said he had saved his money to fly to Jamaica in August: "I'm so excited, I start to pack already."
As the days passed, I eavesdropped on conversations in indestinguishable Creole or just heavily-accented, equally indistinguishable English. Life for the natives appeared very industrious and hard, but not devoid of laughter and pride. I tried to imagine life only knowing islands. I studied their strong hands and gentle smiles, watched them calmly interface with the endless waves of panicky tourists. Maybe this is what we Americans need, not hours on a yoga mat, oodles of dollars to have people listen to our ills-- just to simplify. Sleep. Work. Home. Laughter. Sun. I fell asleep listening to a crew of natives return to a dock after a day on the Carribean, to be gently woken by a loud splash of two men falling off into the water. They surfaced laughing. I miss them all, even though I'm completely immemorable to them.
Even though I felt distanced from the casino-crew, I was occaisionally jerked back to my tourist status. As in when I couldn't find our itinerary and had no idea what time our flight was leaving the next day. I was told, all too distantly and casually that no, "you cannot call 800 number from te island" and that all Continental offices were "closed" for the rest of the weekend. Vrrrrrt: my US-CITY self re-entered my attempted-Euro-island self. "What?!"
Or the when I stared at the sweaty cook with my plate of "fish" in hand that had a huge, round, marrowy bone in the middle. His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed and I couldn't understand his gruff reponse. Ten minutes later and I was kicked to the curb with the same plate of goat.
The first time I visited this beautiful island, I was struck by the French. Their sinewy, smooth bodies, olive skin and overall lithe beauty. Strolling the crooked-laned towns or walking the white-sand beaches in simple, tasteful clothes that seemed to almost fall off their frames. Quite a juxtaposition to the masses of overweight, sunburnt, loud Americans with their brightly colored visors flooding in to the small island to clog the casinos. Embarrassing.
But this time I fell in love with the natives or those that came from neighboring islands. We befriended a mild-mannered Jamaican who called himself Leechman, who pointed us to some more native doings. While I am sure we weren't too welcome, I enjoyed it immensely, the women were breathtaking, tall, strong, in microscopic miniskirts and brightly colored jackets. The men were broad shouldered, broad smiled and languid. Leechman talked lovingly of his wife and his family back home and would shyly lower his eyes if I was approaching him in something revealing. Softspokenly, he said he had saved his money to fly to Jamaica in August: "I'm so excited, I start to pack already."
As the days passed, I eavesdropped on conversations in indestinguishable Creole or just heavily-accented, equally indistinguishable English. Life for the natives appeared very industrious and hard, but not devoid of laughter and pride. I tried to imagine life only knowing islands. I studied their strong hands and gentle smiles, watched them calmly interface with the endless waves of panicky tourists. Maybe this is what we Americans need, not hours on a yoga mat, oodles of dollars to have people listen to our ills-- just to simplify. Sleep. Work. Home. Laughter. Sun. I fell asleep listening to a crew of natives return to a dock after a day on the Carribean, to be gently woken by a loud splash of two men falling off into the water. They surfaced laughing. I miss them all, even though I'm completely immemorable to them.
Even though I felt distanced from the casino-crew, I was occaisionally jerked back to my tourist status. As in when I couldn't find our itinerary and had no idea what time our flight was leaving the next day. I was told, all too distantly and casually that no, "you cannot call 800 number from te island" and that all Continental offices were "closed" for the rest of the weekend. Vrrrrrt: my US-CITY self re-entered my attempted-Euro-island self. "What?!"
Or the when I stared at the sweaty cook with my plate of "fish" in hand that had a huge, round, marrowy bone in the middle. His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed and I couldn't understand his gruff reponse. Ten minutes later and I was kicked to the curb with the same plate of goat.
