Domestic, Light and It's Really Freakin' Cold

I've got plenty of fun and ridiculousness to blog about in the coming days, but for now, I felt this reflection from Kenny was extremely a propos:

Boats… and oceans… and islands… and the sun moving across the sky. It is a whole other way of life, and a whole other way to live. You can’t know – as I didn’t until I started spending time in the islands – how peaceful sitting on the front of a boat, feeling the waves hitting the bow and watching the clouds do much of nothing is until you’ve been there, yet somehow I think we all sense it.

This was a map to the life I found in the Caribbean; this is a map of the soul that emerges once you experience how still you can be.

We all need songs to sing. Some of us need to write down our truth, and I am one of those people. These are about where I’ve been, what I’ve seen and especially who I find myself becoming.

Life is a journey, as much as it is earning a living, and finding your place in the world. Along the way, if you are paying attention, it’s the people you meet, the stories you hear, the lessons you learn and the way it all makes you feel. These are some of my stories, my travels, and the people who’ve crossed my path.

-Kenny Chesney

It's currently frigid in New Jersey, where I currently am for about 12 days. My one hundred pounds of luggage is apparently on island time, and wanted to stay in Ft. Lauderdale. I am hoping it will catch up, since it holds every Christmas present I had purchased. Eeek!

Until next time...

You know you love me.
XOXO
- Island Girl

"I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by."

Here are a few pictures from the past week or so - Doug Holst's goodbye (or rather, see you soon), happy hour in St. John, the regatta, and Meghan's frat-themed birthday party are all included!

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=31385119&l=49ac6&id=53100829

Time for work... and then I will be picking up my little brother at the airport! I am sure there will be loads of fun pictures and stories to upload over the next week.

Until next time...

You know you love me,
XOXO
- Island Girl

“I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.” – Woody Allen

“In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.” - Albert Schweitzer

Thanksgiving Day! We all headed to Trevor and Liberty’s house at around three o’clock, first stopping to pick up Doug Holst, and then heading to Kmart for beer and wine. On a side note, the four of us were the most dressed up people to ever enter a Kmart in the history of the company, and we certainly got odd looks from the other consumers. Not that we were particularly dressed up by mainland standards, but the boys were wearing ties and the girls were wearing heels with our sundresses. It was as if we were going to a Kmart dressed for a black tie affair.

Liberty was cooking up a storm in the kitchen and had all the hors d’oeuvres laid out on the table. While Meghan and I offered to help Liberty with anything she needed, the girl was taking charge in the kitchen like Nigella Lawson and told us our only job was to open the first bottle of wine. This was not such an easy job for me, as there was no fancy corkscrew – just an old fashioned one. Pat ended up having to open the bottle after my feeble attempt to use the “outdated” corkscrew. Note to self: if one considers themselves a fan of wine, one should learn how to open a wine bottle in any situation, with any tool.

Our afternoon consisted of everyone gradually arriving and forming a circle with the lawn chairs. We sat, talked, drank and nibbled on the hors d’oeuvres Liberty laid out for us. One by one, we would leave the circle to go walk up and down the front road while talking to our families at home on the cell phone. Then my turn came, and I must have won the prize for Most Minutes Used On Thanksgiving Day (Ever), as I had my brother pass the phone around the Schwartz cousins’ dinner.

Eventually, it was time to fry one of the birds, and the boys all held a vital role in the frying. Scott, an Australian who joined us for the evening, decreed that “you Americans will fry anything.” Damn straight we will!

At around nine, the turkeys were done, the food was laid out, and the boys started carving the birds; we were certainly ready to eat. Our night was filled with as much laughter and enjoyment as our plates were filled with delicious food. (Props to Liberty on preparing an amazing dinner for us all!) And let me tell you, if anyone has the slightest doubt as to how they are going to cook their turkey next year, I am a big proponent of frying them.

We all fell into our tryptophan stupors and eventually made our way back to our circle on the lawn. The sky was extremely clear, so we were trying to make out some of the star formations. Living in New Jersey, you don’t realize how many stars are actually in the sky, let alone be able to attempt making out the Big Dipper. Down here, it’s like hordes of Christmas lights have been strung up high in the sky for everyone to admire.

Though it was odd to not be a part of the Schwartz craziness or see my Arms cousins, all in all, it was a wonderful Thanksgiving. In a way, it made me realize how thankful I have to be. Sometimes, you need to shake things up to realize how good you have it. A good kick in the teeth, as Walt Disney once said, is sometimes exactly what you need. My kick in the teeth ended up being laid off of a job I loved, but everything really does happen for a reason.

I have so much to be thankful for. Power and water, for one. My health, and the health of those I love. Friends that turn into family. Fried turkey. Flip flops that don’t give you a blister between your toes. Cruzan coconut and pineapple juice. Kenny Chesney’s “Be As You Are” album. Croissants. Laughing at the bar with my friends. Fashion. The Philadelphia Phillies. A refreshing new president. Online shopping during the holiday season. Country music. AIM Talk function. Jeans. Catamarans (and being friends with the captains). Sunny days. Sea turtles and coral reefs. Cowboy boots. My family, no matter how far away I may be from them. The promise that anything and everything can happen at any moment.

*And to think that I thought for a while there that I had it made; when the truth is, I was really just dying to live like Jose. Just fish, play my guitar, and laugh at the bar with my friends. And I pray every night I can do it all over again.*

I am thankful for this adventure.

“In this world of sin and sorrow there is always something to be thankful for; as for me, I rejoice that I am not a Republican.” - H. L. Mencken

You know you love me.
XOXO,
- Island Girl

"You think just because she is a woman, we would not suspect her of treachery?"

Tuesday morning, I awoke to a warm room with no buzz from the air conditioner. I turned on my computer, and alas, there was no internet. No internet automatically puts me into a panic, but when I went to brush my teeth, no water dispensed from the faucet. Oh. Dear. God.

"No water. But why is the rum gone?"

At first, I thought the utility bill was not paid properly. But when I heard the loud buzz from the generator at the Ritz-Carlton, I felt a slight wave of relief that it wasn’t just us. I put on my bathing suit and denim skirt and headed out the door to Coki Beach for work.

When I arrived at Coki, it seemed as though none of the stands had power either. This could possibly be a disaster, as beer needed to be kept cold, food couldn’t be cooked and the blenders couldn’t blend without power. I spoke with my boss, Peter, who informed me it was the entire island that was without power. Yep. Thirty-two square miles without power or water indefinitely. Fan-friggen-tastic.

A few stands had small generators they could use so profits wouldn’t be at a total loss for the day. This was fantastic, as it was one of the busiest days I had on the beach. Thank goodness Boise could work those blenders, because the orders for Bushwackers just kept coming in. No power or water meant lots of drinking on the beach!

Rumors circulated throughout the day about the lack of power and water on this 32-square-mile rock. First, I heard there was an explosion at WAPA (Water and Power Authority). Then I heard a fire raged throughout the building. And finally, as rumors kept circulating, the lack of information turned into, “There was a terrorist attack at WAPA.” I guess that’s the world we live in today; if are without water and power for 3 hours, we automatically assume some radical from the Middle East has sabotaged our lives.

After the day ended at work (around 4:30 – I stayed an hour later because it was so busy), I headed into Red Hook because the power was still not back on. I ended up at Island Time, the outdoor bar at American Yacht Harbor with a view of the harbor and St. John. It was unbelievably busy for being only five o’clock. The sun was just setting, and it was getting more and more difficult to see without the assistance of light.

Liberty and Josh brought out little lanterns so us island villagers could see our drinks (just to make sure we were drinking our own drinks.) Unfortuntely, Island Time had to close at around 7, so we made our way over to Saloon, where the entire restaurant was filled with hungry people. Saloon had a generator and was able to make a select few things on the menu; however, serving a restaurant full of hungry people all at the same time is a bit of a feat. We all waited for our food as patiently as possible.

Now, what is there to do on an island where there is no power and no water? Go to the bar and drink. So we all had a great time, even if we were squinting from the lack of light in the bar. One by one, most everyone left, hoping for the power to return eventually. This left Doug and Dave Holst, CJ (a Tuesday and Friday night regular at the bar), and myself.

Doug started to tell me of a time where CJ took him on an adventure throughout the island. He ended up at a tiny little roach coach drinking Spider Rum – a jug of rum with bitters and a tarantula fermenting in the bottom. While Dave and I were aghast, CJ made a suggestion to Doug that we go on a final adventure before Doug left island.

Though I was hesitant at first (as I believe anyone would have been), I knew I trusted these guys more than anything. So I told them I was game and ready to go. The four of us paid our bar tabs and we left Saloon.

We jumped into CJ’s SUV, and I placed my bag underneath the seat, only to place a twenty in my back pocket. Doug and Dave sat in the back, and since I was the only female, I automatically got shotgun. I was psyched for the adventure, and pretty sure it was going to be a wild night.

We made our first stop at a little roach coach, where CJ attempted to order four special drinks he had been craving – gin and coconut milk. Unfortunately, the coconut milk was unavailable, so we made it three gin and cokes and one gin and cranberry. Note to self: gin and cranberry tastes like Christmas in a plastic silo cup; while this may be to your liking, having the taste of spruce needles and cranberry in my mouth was not all that pleasant. Dave and Doug proclaimed that the gin and cokes were fantastic, although I wasn’t sure if they were being sarcastic or not. Doug made friends with some hefty St. Thomian before saying some alcohol-induced, ridiculously-phrased farewell.

We made our way in the pitch black (the night only lit by the abundant stars and the occasional battery-powered light) back to CJ’s car and continued on our adventure. We were bound and determined to raise some hell, so CJ turned up Willie Nelson as loud as Willie could sing on those Bose speakers as we cruised throughout the island. You want to find trouble, you play Willie Nelson. It's that simple.

The thing is, there are only a few main roads in St. Thomas, and as long as you see water you really can’t get lost. So CJ drove us around every main road (and some back roads) he could think of, bringing us through some of the shadiest places on island. However, even the shadiest of places were deserted due to the pitch black of the night. We followed every road everyone could possibly think of; Doug kept spouting off random disreputable places he kept a record of in the back of his mind. Each one we came to proved to be a disappointment due to the lack of electricity and patrons.

About twenty minutes after we first sipped our gin concoctions, Dave finally realized that gin and Coke really had a quite unpleasant taste in reality. (Duh, Dave. Really.) CJ’s drink had been long gone, so he decided that the remainder of my usual Cruzan coconut and pineapple drink was fair game. After one sip, he proclaimed my drink tasted like suntan oil, but kept drinking anyway. (Yes, we were still on the road. No, there is no no-open-container law in the Virgin Islands. You can literally drink and drive. However, you cannot be intoxicated while you drive. Brilliant, huh? Welcome to the islands.)

After many unsuccessful attempts at finding the most trouble we could possibly get into, we finally decided our best bet was to head back to Caribbean Saloon. What a letdown! These guys were telling me tales of island mobsters, fermented tarantula rum and general insaneness, and here my adventure consisted of going for a ride around the island in CJ’s SUV before heading back to the bar I frequent half of every week.

CJ ended up heading home, leaving us three hoodlums at the bar for another three hours. The power amazingly came back on, and immediately, Doug hopped on the Video Crack (video poker machines) and ended up winning a couple hundred bucks. Of course, in an attempt to make sure he did not gamble all of it away, Dave held Doug’s winnings for the night. When Doug ran out of his gambling allotment, he turned to Dave and yelled, “Give me twenty of my money!” repeatedly. This sent us into hysterics.

Eventually, we all returned home… the next morning (or same morning, just a few hours later) was not too much fun for any of the three of us. But when we awoke, it was a bright, sunny day... and the power and water was still back, which was the most pleasant surprise. While we didn't get into any trouble and didn't end up raising any hell, it was one of the most fun nights I've had.

"It is only in adventure that some people succeed in knowing themselves - in finding themselves." - Andre Gide

*And those who need adventure, they can sail the seven seas
And those who search for treasure, they must live on grander dreams
And if I've seen his face since then it's only been in dreams my friend
Since I came to the end of my pirate days...*

You know you love me.
XOXO,
- Island Girl

Pictures, Pictures!

Still working on the next blog - and there's a lot to tell! In the mean time, enjoy these pictures! :)

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2040436&l=72a92&id=53100829

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2040431&l=ef6dd&id=53100829

Instead of Turkey, We’ll Have Mahi Mahi Grilling and Pina Coladas in The Blender Chilling

*While everybody’s praying for a Christmas of white, come to think about it that would be alright. As long as it’s sand and not snow on the ground, and everyday our skin gets a little more brown.*

The holiday season is upon us! It doesn’t seem like it, since I have decided to forego autumn and some of winter this year to extend my summer season. While I’ll find it odd to not be with my family this year for Turkey Day, it’s kind of awesome to have Thanksgiving in 85 degree weather!

We have plans to relax for the day (surprise, surprise) and maybe make a trip over to St. John to relax on a beach. While I do not have to work (yes, I got a job! See below for details!), a couple out of the group will have to. Dinner will be at Trevor and Liberty’s, and they are hosting quite a few people. Apparently, Liberty is quite the ambitious chef and has ordered each of us to only bring wine or liquor, though I may have to sneak in a particular dessert or something. Yes, we are having turkey (not mahi mahi), and I still do not eat seafood. I am sure it will be a wonderful holiday with everyone here.

The great thing about being here during the holiday season is I have managed to avoid all encounters with awful Christmas sweaters and sweatshirts. The downside? No Awful Christmas Sweater themed parties. (Or is that an upside as well?) I realize that eventually I am bound to run into someone in some awful Christmas tank top… or bikini.

Also, I have not seen one place of business prematurely decorated for the holiday shopping season. This is so revitalizing to not have a constant reminder to “BUY GIFTS”, “SHOP”, “SPEND ALL OF YOUR HARD-EARNED MONEY IN THIRTY MINUTES”, or “YOUR HOLIDAY WILL BE A DISASTER IF YOU DO NOT BUY EVERY GIFT RIGHT THIS MINUTE (TWO MONTHS IN ADVANCE).” The holidays seem to be celebrated for real reasons, not commercial ones.

I have also managed to avoid hearing horrendous Barbara Streisand carols on repeat since last holiday season. This must be some kind of achievement worthy of a Guinness World Record! (I never understood why she has a Christmas album anyway.) At the least, it’s made me very happy that I do not need to hear the same five songs on repeat done by different artists. It’s uplifting to hear holiday music with steel drums. Kenny Chesney’s “All I Want For Christmas Is A Real Good Tan” is one of the very few holiday albums I actually own and like enough to listen to, because it’s so different and… sun-kissed! Even my Jersey boy Frankie (dare I say it) can get a little bland if you listen to it constantly.

***Yes, it’s true. I have a job… sort of. It’s a quintessential island job if there ever was such a thing. I am cocktail waitressing for nothing but tips up and down Coki Beach. I make my own schedule; I show up around 11 and work until about 3:30. I can take a break whenever to jump in the water and swim if and when I want. It’s just a little extra spending money… enough to pay the bar tabs. And to pay for the flight home for the holidays. Arrival in Atlantic City is set for 11 PM on December 17th, and I will be home for 12 days before returning to the land of fun and sun for ringing in the New Year island style! I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me.

*Don’t worry, baby, we’ll celebrate plenty. I’ll buy you some shades and myself a brand new bikini.*

You know you love me,
XOXO
-Island Girl

“Nights I Can’t Remember; Friends I’ll Never Forget”

A few years ago, my uncle had the unfortunate and heartbreaking opportunity to write his own eulogy. He came up with a few things on his list that he never got to do that he wished he would have, and expressed his hope to his children and the rest of his family to live out his legacy. This list included everything from buying an extra seat for him at a Phillies game to driving a red convertible on a sunny day. At the end, he left us all with a poignant quote: “In life, we don’t remember the days. We remember the moments.” His quote has been one that resonates in my head, and I am sure it will for the rest of my life.

About a year after his passing, I was food shopping in Wegman’s and came across the little gift and greeting card department. A small, white square magnet caught my eye, and it read:

We do not remember days; we remember moments. –Cesare Pavese

I smiled to myself as I remembered my aunt telling me she once received an anniversary card from my uncle with a beautiful poem handwritten inside, only to later find it was written decades ago by a well-renowned poet. Some people may call it plagiarism (and a big no-no for someone so highly educated); I consider it a quirk of his. Of course, I bought the magnet, and it sticks to the refrigerator at home for everyone to see.

My Uncle Matt seemed to have forgotten the other half of the quote by Signore Pavese. The full statement reads:

We do not remember days, we remember moments. The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.

I’ve found myself unable to write about my experiences here. Not because of writer’s block or my busy schedule (or the rum, for that matter), but because the details seem to have been slipping my mind. Garth Brooks explains this in a song he penned entitled “That’s The Way I Remember It:”

Some of our stories fade as we grow older; some get sweeter every time they’re told.

All of these stories are sweet in their telling, and they will, I am sure, become more saccharine and amusing as the years go by and we all recount them. We may be able to piece some nights and days together as bits of the puzzle come back to us, one by one. I will remember something more prominently than anyone of those that live next to me, and I am sure they will remind me of something I may have (sometimes purposely) forgotten.

The days seem to run together here, and there never seems to be a set time each week where everyone reserves the time to let loose. There is never a day like the stereotypical Monday here, where it seems like it’s the most difficult thing in the world just to get out of bed and go to work to start the workweek. Our lives here are not governed by a particular hour or minute, but rather what we are feeling that that moment. We don’t eat lunch at one in the afternoon because it’s one o’clock, but we eat when we are hungry. There are no rules about time to start – or end – a day or night at the bar; it goes without saying that “it’s five o’clock somewhere” was certainly penned in an island like this. We live by moments here; not calculated days.

The funny thing is, as I type my closing statement, “Next Thing On My List” by Toby Keith has just popped up on my iTunes player. I am smiling and giggling slightly as I think to myself that Uncle Matt could have heard this song as he was writing his own eulogy, and decided to "borrow" Toby’s concept for the song. I’ll leave you with the lyrics.

Under an old brass paper weight is my list of things to do today:
Go to the bank and the hardware store, and put a new lock on the cellar door.
I cross them off as I get them done, but when the sun is set
There's still more than a few things left I haven't got to yet.

Like go for a walk, say a little prayer,
Take a deep breath of mountain air,
Put on my glove and play some catch.
It's time that I make time for that.
Wade the shore, cast a line,
Look up an old lost friend of mine,
Sit on the porch and give my girl a kiss.
Start living...that's the next thing on my list.

It wouldn't change the course of fate if cutting the grass just had to wait.
Cause I've got more important things like pushing my kid on the backyard swing.
I won't break my back for a million bucks I can't take to my grave.
So why put off for tomorrow what I could get done today?

Like go for a walk, say a little prayer,
Take a deep breath of mountain air,
Put on my glove and play some catch.
It's time that I make time for that.
Wade the shore, cast a line,
Look up an old lost friend of mine,
Sit on the porch and give my girl a kiss.
Start living...that's the next thing on my list.

Raise a little hell, and laugh ‘til it hurts,
Put an extra five in the plate at church,
Call up my folks just to chat.
It’s time that I make time for that.
Stay up late and oversleep,
show her what she means to me.
Catch up on all the things I’ve always missed.

Just start living… that’s the next thing on my list.

You know you love me,
XOXO
-Island Girl

If You Want The Rainbow, You've Got To Put Up With The Rain

It’s been a bit uneventful these past few days. I have moved to a new apartment, which is situated literally right next to Doug and Chris’s house (we share a porch!). The view from the back porch is absolutely stunning. Here, we’re at a much higher elevation, which allows for a constant tropical breeze and the most amazing views of St. John, Tortola, St. Croix (on a really clear day) and a few other scattered islands. There’s nothing that compares to this view in New Jersey.

As I type, I am sitting in a lounge chair with the sun shining in the sky to my right and a grey cloud looming overhead – the perfect opportunity for a rainbow. I’ve only actually seen a handful in my life. I actually only clearly remember seeing one rainbow back at home. The vast majority I have seen have been here in the last two months.

There are certain circumstances required in order for the phenomenon to take full effect. The sun must be behind the viewer at a low angle and water drops must be present in the air.

Depending on your point of view, the rainbow is either a very short arch, an entire refracted circle, or a series of small rainbows nesting inside one another. Some viewers may only see the five colors, as originally calculated and as most kindergarteners draw with their Crayolas*, or the full Newton-quantified seven gradating to create millions of colors, as more accomplished painters portray in their works of art.

If you happen to view a rainbow from an airplane (in the sky, presumably), you will find that a rainbow is not only just that stereotypical arch that accompanies leprechauns and the fantastical pot o’ gold in Irish folklore; it generally is a full circle, barring the interruption of the refraction of light. It goes without saying that there is more than what meets the eye.

Whether you can take in the full beauty of the way certain circumstances meet and fall into place is dependent upon your point of view. Some folks are so perfectly content with seeing the first arch that they don’t even realize they are missing that second or even third supernumerary refraction of light.

Several individuals aren’t so impressed with the vision until they find an exact scientific explanation. Some see rainbows everyday, and are not so fazed by the occurrence.

Then there are those who are too busy rushing to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow to take in the exquisiteness of the rainbow. Inevitably, they blink on their journey to the end of the rainbow, robbing themselves of both the gold and the beauty of the rainbow.

But few can just marvel at the phenomenon that every circumstance fell into place for this reason.

*I’ve been trying to slow it down. I’ve been trying to take it in. In this here today, gone tomorrow world we’re living in, don’t blink.*

You know you love me,
XOXO
-Island Girl

*I could totally use a box of Crayolas right now.

I Don't Know When, I Don't Know How, But I Know Something's Starting Right Now...

The other day, I noticed that my longstanding friend Brian had posted on Facebook that he was hashing out his five-year plan. Two or three years ago, even a year ago, I would have said that I, too, was hashing out a five-year plan. However, I commented to him that I couldn’t believe he had a five-year plan, as I didn’t even have a five-minute plan at this point in my life. I had no idea what I was going to be making for dinner that night, let alone know exactly what I wanted to do in the subsequent five years.

A Five Year Plan. Wow. I cannot even fathom that now. I’m not saying that I’ve let all of my life goals get swept away by the tropical breezes here, but I have come to realize that making a plan doesn’t necessarily mean it is going to work. Hell, I planned on staying at my previous job for a few years with the attempted notion to get promoted, moving on to other companies and climbing up the ladder before feeling confident enough to own my own business someday. That, clearly, was proof that no matter how much you plan, forces beyond our own (whether God(s), other people, or destiny) laugh in our face and say, “Plan? You expect to detail exactly what you want to happen to you in your life?”

I believe it was John Lennon who once said, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” That could not be truer. We are taught at an early age to answer questions like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” When you are four, answers like “a princess,” “a superhero” or even “a mermaid” generally suffice. That is, until you are taught that you cannot be a princess unless your mother and father ruled the land, you cannot be a superhero unless you possess some sort of super-human power, and you cannot be a mermaid with the ownership of legs.

When we round that age of about nine or ten, our fantastical ambitions have most likely morphed into something like “a CEO,” “a fireman,” or “a fashion designer.” Still, our ambitions have a bit of the same raison d’être. The future CEO (once dreaming of becoming a princess) has longed for a position of authority (most undoubtedly with the least work and the most benefits involved). The future fireman (once aspiring to be a superhero) has anticipated the adrenaline rush of saving others’ lives. The future fashion designer (once desiring to be a mermaid) has anticipated the opportunity to problem solve and transform one entity into another.

And although we spend our adolescence and early adult years trying to shape our dreams and follow the plan we have created for ourselves, forces beyond our control shape, change and mold our potential plans into the paths we have taken. The little Jersey girl who once dreamed of being a mermaid became a fashion designer, and now remarkably finds herself at sea (luckily, with legs - and detachable fins for snorkeling).

So I have been thinking about my so-called plan. I have decided I will not give it a time frame, or any exact specifications. But instead of sitting beachside and waiting to rescue my prince in the middle of a storm like Ariel herself, I don’t want fate to be the only thing guiding my life.

I came up with two general scenarios as to how the next portion of my life could go:

Scenario One:
On or about December 10, 2008, I make the trek home to New Jersey. I set up interviews in Philadelphia and New York, and end up finding a wonderful job in the fashion industry that allows me to grow professionally. I come back to the island for a vacation New Year’s vacation (which has been planned since May) with my best friend, and bid farewell to the island.

Scenario Two:
On or about December 10, 2008, I make the trek home to New Jersey. I set up interviews in Philadelphia and New York, but due to the economic standing of our country, worthwhile positions are few and far between. I decide to come back to island, finish out the high season soaking up the sun and laughing at the bar with my friends (with a job to pay the bills, of course). I decide to take the GRE’s in February, and apply to graduate school to receive my Master’s degree in fashion apparel studies in the fall. I come back to New Jersey in time for the summer, and prepare to further my education (thereby effectively avoiding a “real” job for the next year or so.)

I am not quite sure which scenario would benefit me more, both personally and professionally. Granted, this whole getting-my-Master’s-degree-idea has been short-lived in its seriousness, but I feel it may end up benefiting me more in the long run. But do I necessarily feel I can make a decision so “long-term”? I find that I keep pushing decisions off to “see how things go.” Will my newfound inability to make a decision eventually decide my fate? And who is to say that either of these plans will actually pan out as written?

Either way, I do feel as though I have a good idea of where I want to be. I know that I am regaining my professional clarity that I once felt was jumbled inside my head. I know that there is no other field I want to be a part of as much as fashion. But I also know I want to be here on island for a while (a while meaning anywhere from the next month to the next five-six months).

If only St. Thomas was a fashion Mecca…

*Don't let your dreams be dreams.*

You know you love me,
XOXO
-Island Girl

Get Up, Stand Up. Stand Up For Your Rights.

It's November 4th - probably the biggest day of 2008! I sent my absentee ballot in early last week, so I am hoping it arrived.

I am not one for proclaiming or supporting any particular candidate. I believe there is a reason why your ballot is kept secret, so why does everyone feel the need to proclaim who they voted for? How come celebrities are endorsing politicians? Why are people updating their Facebook status with "Suzie has donated her Facebook status to getting the vote out for Barack Obama"?

Why can't people just endorse voting in general? Voting was always so underrated when I was in grade school. I don’t understand why it wasn’t as important in the curriculum. I do remember in fifth grade when they did an election simulator and we all got to “vote.” That should have gone on every year – not only for the presidential elections, but for the township and state elections as well. That would have planted the seed in each of our heads that any vote is important.

When I first got here, I posted a little political rant about why the people here could not vote in our presidential election. I still do not understand that. But the thing is – they GET it. They were out there campaigning all over the island, throughout the streets, everywhere – for the local elections. The citizens here are aware that every vote counts. Why aren’t we?

I found this to be the most interesting: for the past week, the radios have been playing Caribbean music… all about Obama. (Note there was not a single mention of John McCain. He never lived on a tropical island.) I believe the words were “Obama, we love you. You will be the first African American President of the United States. Barack Obama, we love you. We hope you don’t come too late.”

The catchy tones of the steel drums and the kitschy lyrics weren’t written to sway any opinions, obviously. These songs (and there are MANY of them) were meant to exude a sort of hope that I think lives throughout the rest of the world. The entire world is counting on this election. (See: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/27542176)

Because we now live in a global community (no matter what anyone says – if you work in fashion, manufacturing, or anything of the sort, you will understand that. Those who don't yet will - give it time.) Countries are merely companies at this day in age. We lend each other money, we perform different transactions, and there is plenty of competition. And as much as some people don’t want to admit that, it’s the truth. What any country does affects the rest of the world.

And what the United States does affects the way the rest of our global community looks at us. It’s something you really learn when you go overseas. As Americans, we come across as arrogant, sons-of-bitches that think they’re on top of the world and know everything. We tend to have an “I’m better than you” complex. And quite honestly, as a general whole, we are arrogant assholes.

When it comes down to it, we are no better than anyone else. There are different cultures and different ways of thinking. It’s all relative. I believe that there are people educated enough to know that, though few and far between. I wish people who traveled overseas would try to represent our country in a more positive light.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a proud American. I am so proud that my grandfathers have both served our country. I am so proud that I have friends stationed all over the world representing our country. I am so proud that I am one of the few that when asked the question, “What are you?” I answer “American” instead of my heritage, like so many Americans do. (Plus, it’s so much easier than saying, “I’m Russian, German, English, Welsh, Scottish, Romanian, Ukrainian and German, and probably some other stuff mixed in for fun. Plus I’m half Jewish, half Christian. I grew up in New Jersey, I am a Philadelphia fan, I listen to country music and I live on an island in the Caribbean.” I guess I am a true American – a pile of mush!)

I just wish there wasn’t such a fine line between arrogance and pride. As our country faces a recession and possibly a depression, it’s a kick in the teeth we just might need. We have grown so much so quickly that it has become overwhelming. I like to relate this to my wardrobe – it’s the best way I can.

For the past few years, since I have been a tax-paying citizen with a dispensable income, I have collected a massive amount of “stuff.” This stuff wasn’t necessarily things I needed, or things that I wanted, but just “stuff” to have. I would go through my wardrobe about six times a year, getting rid of bags and bags of “stuff,” just to replace it with more over the next few weeks and then repeat the sequence over and over again.

It could be the change in the economy or the fact that I now live on an island without a Gap or a Starbucks, but I am finally realizing that that “stuff” isn’t important. It doesn’t fill any void when you buy a $24.50 t-shirt from the Gap that you really don’t love.

What is important is style, quality and taste – taken straight from Tim Gunn’s book. Having a small wardrobe that is concentrated and that you love is the key. You might spend more on each individual piece, but you think about it before you buy it. You wear every piece, you love every piece and you appreciate it in the end. And it ends up being a wardrobe – not just a collection of “stuff.” It’s been a European philosophy for ages.

This philosophy can be applied to the status of our economy and country as well. If each individual scaled back instead of scaled down in that same sense, our economy may actually have ended up in a different place than it is now. (Or maybe not. I’m not an economist by any stretch of the imagination.) But maybe if everyone started realizing this philosophy, we wouldn’t be portrayed as these greedy, arrogant Americans to the rest of our global community.

We’re now on different time than mainland ET; the US Virgin Islands and Puerto Rico do not participate in daylight saving time. That means it is about eleven o’clock here, versus your ten o’clock. At this point, Obama has 207 electoral votes versus McCain’s 135. It’s almost time for bed, and I guess I will find out the results in the morning. As much as I would love to stay up, some of this political crap is mind-numbingly boring.

I hope you all voted, no matter who you voted for.

Me and all my friends
We're all misunderstood
They say we stand for nothing
There's no way we ever could
Now we see everything is going wrong
With the world and those who lead it
We just feel like we don't have the means
To rise above and beat it

Now if we had the power
To bring our neighbors home from war
They would've never missed a Christmas
No more ribbons on the door
When you trust your television
What you get is what you got
Cause when they own the information,
They can bend it all they want

So we keep waiting
Waiting on the world to change
We keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change
It’s hard to be persistent
When we're standing at a distance
So we keep waiting
Waiting on the world to change

You know you love me,
XOXO
- Island Girl

Life is Not Tried, It is Merely Survived If You're Standing Outside the Fire

You see I know change. I see change. I embody change. All we do is change. Yeah, I know change. We are born to change. We sometimes regard it as a metaphor that reflects the way things ought to be. In fact, change takes time. It exceeds all expectations. It requires both now and then. See, although the players change the song remains the same. And the truth is, you gotta have the balls to change.
-Vinnie Jones

I’ve seen a few changes in myself over the past six weeks. While six weeks is a short amount of time to have a person “changed”, it is clinically proven that it takes 21 days to break or form a new habit. I feel I’ve broken and formed quite a few habits here; hopefully for the better.

No more Starbucks for this girl; and I have almost kicked my caffeine habit. My once Clairol-produced highlights have been enhanced greatly by the sun’s rays. My skin is a warm tan (with the exception of the natural ivory bikini permanently on my body). A pair of heels hasn’t graced my feet in six weeks, and my usually short Achilles’ tendon seems to be thanking me for the seemingly flat-footedness.

I feel comfortable with the fact that my make-up regimen has transformed into some good old SPF 30, some concealer and mascara. I have really come to understand the importance of sunscreen (at least SPF 30) in any sun, whether covered by clouds or shining like a beacon. (That goes for all of you at home; even when you step out in the middle of autumn, you should be wearing at least SPF 15. Check out Clinique.com for a downloadable SunBuddy, which updates you with the UV index by the hour. A God-send in this sun!) No sunburn, wrinkles or skin cancer for this girl!

I returned home exhausted this evening after a full-day boat trip to Hans Lollick with a bunch of friends. I sat and watched a syndicated rerun of Sex and the City. Carrie proclaimed that she realized that city girls are just the same as country girls, only with cuter shoes. I’m not so sure that’s entirely the truth. (Though as much as I love my Reefs, city girls do have cuter shoes than island girls.)

As a city (or Jersey, in this case) girl, I feel I was less open with people and more introverted. I would walk into a bar, wait for a friend, and I would feel a little uncomfortable and slightly stand-offish around the surrounding strangers. If walking down the street in Philadelphia, it is socially acceptable to keep your head down and avoid eye contact with the person walking in the opposite direction. If you do happen to mistakenly make eye contact, a slight smile suffices.

I have always been the kind of girl who has been extremely creative, but had the so-called logic to avoid crazy impulses, think things through and end up deciding against following through (or following through as cautiously as possible). I tend to over-analyze things, no matter what the subject. I pride myself on having street smarts and have always been the “mom” of the group.

So just having the balls (for lack of a better term) to come down here was the start of this budding “fearlessness”. As I become more and more of an island girl, I feel I’ve been pushing the envelope a little more. It’s really great, because I experience so much more than sitting on the sidelines.

I have no problem striking up a conversation with someone at the bar or grocery store, whether I am with friends or not. It could be the fact that the island is running a few years behind mainland, so it’s not as overwhelming. It’s also a very warm culture (literally and figuratively), and that seems to rub off on everyone down here. A “good morning,” “good afternoon,” or “good night” is an expected greeting to anyone within your 25 foot radius.

I’m trying to push myself. To be honest, I never liked snorkeling because it was something half-athletic that I felt I wasn’t good at. My mask would constantly fog up, I did not like the idea of the possibility of jellyfish swimming around me, and I always ended up with a mouth full of salt water. However, when I finally took the time to slow down and take my time over in Lovango Cay the other day, I saw the most amazing reefs and fish I hadn’t seen the other two times I had been there. I realized you just have to alter your breathing a little, not worry about the jellyfish, and go at your own pace. I’m so glad I did.

I find that my “sea legs” are a lot better now. I’ve never been one for sea sickness, since I pretty much have a stomach of iron, but I always felt a bit uneasy getting around on boats. I would walk as cautiously as possible, holding onto whatever I could, or just stay in the same section of the boat. Lately, I’ve been on boats quite a bit, and it’s that same philosophy as what I discovered snorkeling. If you slow down and just do it, it’s worth it. What’s the worst that could happen? You fall into the Caribbean Sea? It’s not Jersey water, for crying out loud!

Maybe I am developing more of a laissez-faire attitude due to the culture that I’m surrounded by. It could be that I am surrounded by all of these wonderful people who have such an influence on me because I admire them so much. I seem to be changing from the inside out.

*I’m going to stop looking back, and start moving on and learn how to face my fears. Love with all of my heart, and make my mark. I want to leave something here. I want to go out on the edge without any net; that’s what I am going to be about. I want to be running when the sand runs out.*

Some things don’t change though: for example, I had what I deemed a near-death altercation with a crab the other night. I’m pretty sure, anyway.

The thing is, this crab came into my territory. It secured itself right in front of my door opening to my apartment. I had two hands full with groceries, and a crab was blocking my way. There was no way I was letting that bugger in my apartment.

The sheer size of this thing scared me to death, to be honest. Now, it couldn’t have been more than 9” across, which meant that I was 4 feet and 9 inches taller than the crab. But it had claws, and I did not.

I placed my groceries down on the ground and picked up the broom sitting on my patio. I attempted to move the critter out of the way, so I could make my way inside without a crab. Some may have found this to be an opportunity for dinner; however, I do not eat seafood, so I was of no threat. Instead of going with the flow, Fred (as I had named him) had latched himself to the tracks in the door, refusing to break free. With his free claw, he started snapping at me.

This is the point when I actually started to talk to Fred, attempting to soothe him and coax him out of the doorway. He got a little angry with this and the looming broom, and started snapping both claws at this point. I again, tried with the broom to lift him and move him three feet over so I could run inside as quickly as possible without the new pet I had acquired.

Nope. The little bugger decided to crawl into its shell with one claw out, latched onto the door. Thankfully, I have a sliding door, and I was able to open the door without him getting inside at that point, and quickly shut it. He then situated himself at the point where the two sliding doors meet, and planted himself there for about three hours. I was convinced I had a new, unfurry and thus unwanted pet. Fortunately for us both, Fred left right as I was about to go out for the night.

So baby drive slow, 'till we run out of road
In this one-horse town, I want to stay right here
In this passenger seat, you put your eyes on me
In this moment now, capture it, remember it.

And I don't know how it gets better than this
You take my hand, and drag me head first
Fearless.
And I don't know why, but, with you I'll dance
In a storm, in my best dress.
Fearless.

You know you love me,
XOXO
Island Girl

It Was The Night Things Changed...

Well, it’s certainly been a while since my last post. Everything and nothing has happened since the hurricane… first off all, let’s start with…

WORLD CHAMPIONS.

WORLD F*CKING CHAMPIONS!

We all went on what seemed like the most intense bender of our lives with these games – I don’t think we could have lasted another two games! It was so disappointing to have Game Five postponed in the middle of the game; however, at least we had a day to regroup and prepare for the partying that would follow. I can tell you right now, you can find the most dedicated Philadelphia fans in… St. Thomas, VI.

That’s right. I don’t care if you stood out in the cold and the rain to watch a game that went until 2 AM. I don’t care if you parked your butt out on Broad Street for 7 hours to wait for a 4 minute parade to come around. I don’t care if you painted your face, tipped over that car while celebrating, ran up the stairs of the Art Museum, or even stood in line at 7 AM when Modell’s opened to start selling the copious amounts of champion t-shirts. That does not a more dedicated fan make.

We carted our Phillies phan gear 1500 miles away and wear it more proudly here than we would at home since we are all displaced. We made it known that if we were at the bar, the Philadelphia game must be on at least 70% of the TVs (and thankfully, the bartenders complied). We also made it known that those in our group of friends that were not from Philly (i.e. Missouri, Michigan, Massachusetts, etc.) had become Phillies Phans by association. As soon as Lidge threw that last strike, every single one of us were on the phone with our families, fellow phans back home and of course, those Yankees fans with sour grapes. Instead of each plunking down $1000 for a roundtrip ticket just to go to the parade down Broad Street, we made our own parade (literally, of course).

I will always remember that exact moment and the feeling of that extreme emotion, no matter how much I had to drink that night during our celebration. It’s moments like that that don’t go away; in twenty or so years, one image of Lidge falling to his knees, one taste of Jagermeister (ugh!) or one morning when I wake up with a hangover that I think might be the worst of my life, will bring me back to that moment. And while I wasn’t in Philly, I know I wouldn’t trade it for the world. (Though I would be OK if we had to wait another few years for another championship win; I don’t think my body could handle another hangover like that for quite a while.)

Here’s some suggested reading for you all; this article explains why it’s more than just a game. And that couldn’t be more true.

http://www.philly.com/dailynews/sports/playbook/20081031_Rich_Hofmann__The_joy_goes_far_beyond_final_score_of_World_Series.html?referrer=facebook

World Champions!

This link might work to see the video I put together from our night of celebrating (let me know if it doesn't!)
http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=514518204762&ref=share

*Tonight we stand and get off our knees. We'll fight for what we've worked for all these years. The battle was long, and it's the fight of our lives, but we'll stand up champions tonight. It was the night things changed; we see it now. These walls that they put up to hold us back fell down; this is a revolution; throw your hands up because we never gave in. We sang hallelujiah...*

You know you love me.
XOXO
- Island Girl

Don't Bring Nothing But That Sunshine Smile

The best I could come up with for pictures was loading everything onto Facebook... I'll post the link to each individual album for you. You don't need to set up a Facebook account to view; they are public albums. Enjoy!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038291&l=d5674&id=53100829

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038125&l=14154&id=53100829

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038121&l=33bb9&id=53100829

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038117&l=2e03b&id=53100829

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038115&l=be3b7&id=53100829

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037546&l=e76d4&id=53100829

Don't mind the general debauchery and the rediculousness that some of these pictures are!

"Sometimes there's a moment where somebody takes out a camera and says, "We should capture this moment! We should take a picture!" And you get all excited, "Yeah, we should! Let's take a picture!" And then you look around, "Who could take the picture for us? There doesn't seem to be anybody around! We'll have to do it ourselves." And then there's the most awkward thing of all, where you have to look at all of your friends, and decide, "Who do we not care about enough to capture this memorable moment? Hey, Karen, you want to, uh, step out and take that? Yeah, don't worry, we'll Photoshop you in later." - Dane Cook

You know you love me,
XOXO
- Island Girl

Rock You Like A Hurricane

Now, onto the biggie. You know, that little blob on the radar that everyone thought was going to be a downgraded from tropical storm to rain. In the news in the past few days, did you happen to come across a little blurb about Omar? As in, Hurricane Omar? Yes, that’s right. Hurricane. That tropical storm decided to manifest itself into an official category three hurricane, and it headed right over the Virgin Islands.

(Clearly, there is no need for any of you to worry any longer, as the Omar has left, and I’m sitting here typing this.)

So my day Wednesday consisted of going into Red Hook to pick up a few things at the drugstore, grab an Iced Mocha from Lattes in Paradise, and check my mail. Things that would take a half hour if at home, but here took an entire afternoon to accomplish. I ran into Nick (my quarter-Armenian friend on island, and probably the entire Armenian population in St. Thomas; go figure) right by my mailbox.

“You ready for the tropical storm? They’re saying it might turn into a hurricane.” He said this like it was nothing.

“Uhhh, I’m sorry. I thought you just said hurricane. Hurricanes don’t happen in St. Thomas.”

“Yeah, well, no, they don’t, but something’s coming. Schools are closed today and tomorrow.”


In my mind, I started freaking out. But clearly, I had to keep cool. “Um, so… any pointers for this hurricane thing?" Like, flee the island maybe?

Nick just laughed. “Lots of water, non-perishables. And rum, don’t forget the rum. Good luck.”

I wished him luck too, but who was I kidding? I was going to need all the luck in the world for this damn storm! My front yard and parking lot flood so much when it rains I considered purchasing a dinghy for rainy days. Now, imagine what a hurricane would do! Oh dear God!

I headed right over to Marina Market, where I reminisced about WaWa and snowstorms in New Jersey. And how whenever Cecily Tynan predicted more than a quarter inch of snow, everyone fled to WaWa to load up on bread, eggs and milk. Marina Market was buzzing just like WaWa before a flurry. Except for the fact that everyone was wearing shorts, tank tops and flip flops.

I loaded up my basket with five huge-ish bottles of water, two cans of Maneschevitz matzoh ball soup (of which I am pretty sure I was the only taker), a Hershey’s dark chocolate bar, crackers, cheese, some chicken (so much for the non-perishables)… the list went on and on. I spoke to the man at the meat counter, who said not to worry.

“I am sure it’ll all blow over without a hitch. I doubt it’ll even be a tropical storm by the time it hits here. Just a few hours of power outages, and maybe some flooding and we’ll be good to go.”

He was not reassuring enough. I continued to load up my basket until I realized my arm was about to fall off from carrying all of this around. I paid for my items and headed back to my apartment, where I promptly asked Jeeves about the impending doom. I prepared myself for a category one hurricane, which was about the worst (or so I thought) it would be. After I learned what a category one meant, I calmed down quite a bit. Rain and wind, maybe some minor flooding. No biggie, I got this.

I then received a phone call from my landlords, who suggested I stay with friends the following night, as the storm was supposed to hit Thursday at approximately 2 AM. The storm was expected to pick up, so they were going to be staying with friends as well.

So I texted Doug, who of course was fine with me staying there the following night. I headed over to their house for dinner with all of the roommates, Doug’s parents and Don and Ally. We had an absolutely wonderful meal (cooked by Kate, of course), and sat and talked for hours. We decided we would have a Tropical Storm Party the next day. This was much more reassuring than the man at the meat counter earlier in the day.

So I went home Wednesday night stuffed and a bit excited about the impending doom that was now given a name: Omar. What kind of a crappy name was that? (My apologies if there are any Omars reading this.)

Thursday rolled around, and I packed my bag filled with all of the necessities, in case there was no power or running water available for a few days. Necessities meaning: my prettiest clothes, my Cleveland Wrecking "Destructive Tendancies" t-shirt, my iPod, laptop, my investment of make-up that requires a train case to carry, my stuffed pug and my emergency food/water supply. I’m pretty sure the Six (what I will refer to Doug/Chris/Kate/Meghan/Brian/Pat as from here on) thought I was moving in.

Meghan came by and picked me up, and we headed to Molly Mallone's at the harbor with everyone for an amazing lunch. It was Mr. Scarborough’s birthday, so we had a few drinks and then headed back to the house for the Tropical Storm Party – which had now been upgraded to a Category One Hurricane Party.

The next 12 hours were a bit of a blur. Beer pong. Upgrade to Category Two Hurricane Party. We ended up teaching 11-year Ally how to play beer pong (with water, of course, and her dad present). The Holst brothers came over, and more beer pong ensued. I was playing wine pong (as I am not drinking beer going forward); now, most people don’t know this, but the thing about wine pong is that you want the other team to drop the ball in your cup so you can drink the wine. This was confusing to Brian, my partner who was playing beer pong, and who couldn’t figure out why the Holst (Doug and Dave) boys kept dropping the ball into my wine cups, and I wasn’t dropping a single ball into their beer cups.

Then, the Scarboroughs and Don and Ally went back to their hotel, and we creeped into the empty cable-ready apartment next door and watched the Phillies game. Imagine 9 people and one island puppy cramped into a studio apartment, waiting for the potentially 2nd most exciting night in recent Philadelphia sports history (the most will be when they win). Even Doug and Dave, who are from Michigan, were cheering the Phillies on. Not that they had much of a choice.

The winds were picking up outside, and so was the rain. In the top of the seventh, things were looking good, and Doug declared that he was going to jump in the pool if the Phillies won. Sure, jumping in the pool in the middle of a category two hurricane sounded like a brilliant idea, no?

I can’t even explain the craziness and excitement that ensued after we realized our Phillies were headed to the World Series for the first time in 15 years. There was some jumping, a few phone calls, someone prying the one unboarded window open to crawl out of, bathing suits on, a waterproof camera (we hoped, anyway), and lots of cannonballs into the pool. The next twenty minutes seemed to consist of a photo shoot of everyone jumping into the water in the middle of the hurricane in the funniest ways possible. When we finally realized that the rain seemed to be turning into pellets, the gusts of wind were gaining strength and it was freakin’ freezing, we all headed into the house back through the window and dried off.

The Holst boys went home as the island technically was in a state of emergency, and it was a few hours before the eye was supposed to hit. More beer pong ensued, and I did much better this time. Maybe it was the thrill of my team going to the World Series, or maybe I was starting to realize that if I kept playing my game of wine pong, I would not be in great shape the next day.

Slowly, Chris, Kate, and Meghan trickled off to bed. Brian, for some reason unbeknownst to me, brought out his machete (I kid you not). I believe there was some kind of living creature inside the house that wasn’t supposed to be inside, and Brian needed to scare it off.

Now, when you have a machete and dozens of empty beer cans scattered around, wouldn’t your first instinct be to play machete stick ball? Doug was the pitcher, and he ended up striking out Brian. The one-half inning game was very short lived, since Pat had just discovered that the hurricane had been upgraded to a category three.

HOLY CRAP! A CATEGORY THREE HURRICANE?! I came to this island thinking that it was fairly safe, since there hadn’t been a hurricane in fifteen years. Go figure. Just my luck! Luckily, I got my lesson in meteorology from Pat, and we learned that the eye was supposed to miss St. Thomas by a hair. *PHEW!* Instead, it would hit St. Croix, which is something like 40 miles away. (On a clear day, you can see out to St. Croix.)

We all went to bed with the security of the windows boarded up and eventually woke up to the smell of stale beer wafting through the air. Not exactly the most ideal smell to wake up to.

At 7:30 AM, Kate and Chris had to head to work. The sun was shining through the cracks of the plywood boarding the windows, and there were no clear signs of any damage relating to Omar. No power outages, nothing.

Nothing for us, anyway. St. Croix was not so lucky. Boats sunk, power outages lasted for days, and some structural damage was evident. Flooding was prevalent on St. Thomas, as I am sure it is on St. Croix as well.

Pat and Brian headed to work, and Doug headed out for lunch with his parents. Their rain-soaked vacation was coming to an end that afternoon, and they luckily (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it) had no flight delays or cancellations. Meghan and I lounged around the house literally all day. We watched The Office, had lunch, took a few catnaps, checked our email, and just enjoyed doing nothing.

Finally, I headed home to find that the community staff had already pumped the water out of the parking lot (no need for that dinghy) and most of the development. Unfortunately, the mud and warming puddles of stale rainwater left a stench for days. My outside door is still swollen from all the rain.

Now that things are back to normal (or as normal as they seem to get around here), I can say that I have survived a category three hurricane. And a 6.1 earthquake. How’s that for wanting to experience something different? The funny thing is that the tropical storm I was so petrified of ended up turning into this huge hurricane, and I had one of the most fun days/nights of my life.

And my team is going to the FREAKIN’ WORLD SERIES, BABY! WOOHOO!

“There’s a spirit of a storm in my soul.”
You know you love me,
XOXO
- Island Girl

All Shook Up

Ah, it feels so good to have a new Kenny Chesney album to listen to. Better yet is the fact that I get to live these songs on a daily basis; his albums tend to be the soundtrack of our lives down here. Even if all the boys make fun of his “stupid tractor song,” his five-minute marriage and his height, I know they all secretly covet the graceful guitar and steel drum melodies. (It’s true: I know at least one of them has Kenny on his iPod.) For those who are impartial, be sure to listen to That Lucky Old Sun (Just Rolls Around Heaven All Day) from his new album, featuring Willie Nelson. It could be one of the best country songs written in a long time.

For me, it’s that design mentality of immersing yourself completely for inspiration. I feel that being down here is bringing about a renewed perspective on everything from culture to growing up to design and style. I know that sounds rather odd, with the obvious lack of anything resembling a fashion environment here. However, every once in a while a change of scenery can recharge the mind and spirit.

So continuing on with one of the most exciting weeks I’ve ever had…

Early one morning last week I awoke to the apartment shaking. I tried to peel one eye open to look at the clock, and it was six AM. The first thought in my mind was, “Is there a train station right around here that only runs once every few weeks?” It would not surprise me, to be honest.

No, that wasn’t it. There are no trains on this island. It was an actual earthquake. But at six AM, it didn’t matter that there was a sound of coconuts falling on the roof, the lampshades were shaking uncontrollably, and the bed seemed to be inching forward. The power had gone out (and when that happens here, you can forget about doing anything involving electricity for at least an hour). It didn’t matter that in first grade, we learned that if an earthquake ever happened (in New Jersey, of all places), one should position themselves in a doorframe. All of that was shot to hell. It was six AM for crying out loud! I closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

I later woke up around 9 and remembered the shaking of the room. It then occurred to me that earthquakes actually happen outside of New Jersey, and that just may have been an earthquake. The power was restored, but I had all sorts of internet problems as I logged onto my computer, so when I finally got decent access, I asked Jeeves (www.ask.com, so much better than Google) about earthquakes in the Virgin Islands – and lo and behold, there were twelve reported while I was getting my beauty sleep! TWELVE! And one at six AM was reported in the BVIs at a 6.1 magnitude! That was the one I felt, and let me tell you, it was kind of awesome.

Then my cell phone started going a little crazy, and I had received three text messages from different people all at once. It seemed a little fishy to me, and I realized my phone service was just restored after some kind of earthquake-related hiatus. Thank goodness it did, because I had to call my “little” brother to wish him a happy twenty-first birthday!

"Stars are dancing on the water here tonight. It's good for the soul when there's not a soul in sight. This boat has caught its wind and brought me back to life, and I'm alive and well. And today, you know, that's good enough for me. Breathing in and out is a blessing, can't you see? Today's the first day of the rest of my life. And I'm alive and well."

You know you love me,
XOXO
-Island Girl

"Ah! A heading. Set sail in a... uh... a general... that way! direction."

Things have been pretty crazy for about a week now, hence the long wait for this post. I know you all must be dying for the next episode! In the past week, I have been to another country (legally, might I add), experienced a 6.1 earthquake, a category 3 hurricane, and my team is FINALLY going to the World Series. In a nutshell, this week has been AWESOME.

Let’s backtrack and start from last Thursday. With Kate’s dad and stepmom still down, Kate decided to put together a boat trip on her dad’s birthday to celebrate. (This is where the whole going to another country thing comes in.)

At 8 AM with passports, sandwiches, water and beer in hand, we arrived at the dock and boarded Lady Sol. We were lucky enough to be taking her out on her maiden voyage. We ended up cruising from island to island, from American to British waters. Our first stop was at a jumping rock, where Kate, her dad and Chris decided to plummet 30 or so feet from the top rock. I decided to opt out of this jump; not because I was scared of the actual jump, but because I was uneasy about getting from the boat to the jagged rock. I know: no guts, no glory.

We made our way over to Jost Van Dyke, where Kate, Chris and Paul brought our passports and legal documents to the police station to check in to this British-owned island. Brian and I made our way down to Foxy’s (one of Kenny’s main hangouts, and a big favorite among the locals) only to find the bar closed. A bar closed at 10 AM?! What on earth?!

No, it wasn’t that it was 10 AM that caused the closure. It was the fact that Foxy’s has an operating season, and we came about two weeks too early. But, we did get a chance to all sit and talk with Foxy, as he shared a few jokes and tales, as if he were putting on a show. (Foxy is an older West Indian gentleman with a heart younger than most his age; oh, and he owns Foxy’s, if you didn't already figure that out.)

“You know what kind of dog dat is?” Foxy asked in his West Indian accent.

“Looks like a black lab.” Kate replied.

“No. Dat’s an island dog. You wanna know how I know?”

We were all puzzled as anything. Surely, this overfed and overheated four-legged creature was a black lab; the black hair was quite indicative to us.

“Tree tings. One: he’s black. Two: he sits on his ass all day. And tree: he don’t know who his daddy is.”

Uneasy but genuine chuckles came from around, and more people gathered around Foxy to see his first performance of the day.

“You know, I don’t know why you white folk call us colored. Look at us; we are black. When we are born, we are black. When we stay out in the sun all day, we are black. When we get sick, we are black. When we get cold, we are black. When we get scared, we are black. When we die, we are black.”

None of us knew where this was going.

“Now, you white folk, on the other hand, should be called colored. When you are born, you are pink. When you stay out in the sun all day, you get red. When you get sick, you turn green. When you get cold, you turn blue. When you get scared, you become yellow. And when you die, you are grey. So why aren’t you the colored ones?”

Foxy made a point none of us had ever thought about. And while everyone was laughing, myself included, I thought how different views on race are here versus home. The minorities in Mount Laurel are so vastly disproportionate to those here. We “white folk” are the minority here, but not in the way that two white girls driving down Broad Street through Temple are the absolute minority. It’s kind of a refreshing experience here; around Temple, not so much.

After Foxy took his bow and invited us back when he opened up, we headed back to the dock and cracked open another beer. Three beers down, and it was only 11 AM. Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere. (This was the day, by the way, that I discovered I could no longer drink beer because of the carbonation; we won’t get into any digestive chronicles here and now though.)

We headed over to Sandy Spit and dropped anchor for a few hours. Sandy Spit is this little, itty bitty, tiny island that is mostly sand and a few scattered palm trees. It gives off a feeling of such remoteness, yet there are plenty of islands around. In fact, a Corona commercial was actually shot there.

We all tossed new, unopened beer cans out and dove in after them and swam to shore. We just hung out and relaxed and talked and drank and enjoyed the day. When we could feel ourselves starting to fry from the Caribbean sun, it was time for the next stop on our itinerary.

Our next stop was White Bay, where we hung out at Soggy Dollar Bar. Now, for those who don’t know, there is a reason the bar is called Soggy Dollar Bar. The bar is situated perfectly on a beach, and there is no dock. Boats come in and anchor, and passengers jump into the crystal clear blue water with their dollars tucked in their shorts or bikini tops and swim to shore. Hence the whole soggy dollar thing… the bartender actually has a clothesline where he hangs the wet dollars to dry.

The reason to go to Soggy Dollar, other than the general debauchery, is for the official Virgin Islands drink: The Painkiller. Most people know me to be a Malibu and pineapple juice kind of girl, but when I was introduced to this drink, I thought the world of it. I came home and attempted ordering it, and no bartender in the tri-state area has even heard of it; one bartender actually offered me an aspirin. Actually, if I had to pick one drink to represent myself, this would be it. Spoken like a professional drinker.

To further explain the phenomena that is the Painkiller, I will read an excerpt from an actual souvenir cup from Soggy Dollar Bar (no, Dad, I didn't pay for it; it came with the drink):

The Original Painkiller

Originated and Perfected at Sandcastle’s Soggy Dollar Bar in the 1970s, this smooth, full-flavored rum cocktail has become the essence of Caribbean imbibing. The correct concoction of premium dark Rum, Cream of Coconut, Pineapple, and Orange juice (proportions are secret), topped with fresh Grenadian Nutmeg makes the swim (no dock) to the Soggy Dollar Bar worth the effort. Perhaps it’s the setting of White Bay, the thirst from the swim, the perfect blend, or just because of the tradition of the “original” Painkiller at the Soggy Dollar Bar… whatever the reason, welcome and enjoy!

Some people may frown at the freshly ground Grenadian nutmeg or the general sweetness of the drink. But let me tell you, this drink has some kick to it. I like to think of myself like that as well.

So, we grabbed some lunch and some Painkillers, hung out and talked, and swam for a bit. There was some snorkeling to be done, and –

“Wait, does anyone see those girls on that boat?” Brian yelled out. We looked in the direction of his gaping mouth and saw the gleam and reflections of… wait, were they wearing metallic star-shaped pasties while sunbathing?!

A string of not-so-nice names popped into my head, but was too shocked to even say anything. Brian’s gaping mouth had turned into about ten gaping mouths from our boat. These girls were crazy. I hoped they had a lot of sunscreen on… because, you know, the reflection of the metallic adhesives could have catalyzed the process of sunburn.

After we all got over the porn-star-like sunbathers (none of us even noticed if any of them were pretty), we hung out for hours on the boat and in the water. Paul discovered that some kind of catamaran race or party was going on, so there was quite an influx of people at a usually very deserted time. We had our iPod turned up, and we were jammin’. Then all of a sudden, a flash went by and we heard a “Woohoo!”

One of the pastie girls waterskied right by us. Yup, you heard me correctly.

Eventually, the sky turned grey and the skies seemed to open up. It didn’t seem to slow anybody down, but we then decided it was time to move on, since it was now about 4:30. We raced along the water, which was slowly becoming more rough, and ended up back near the jumping rock. We decided to anchor for a while and hang out in the last hour of sunlight.

Four shot-gunned beers, a back flip off the boat and some snorkeling later, we decided to head back to the Yacht Club as the sun went down. It was then that I learned that the green flash – you know, the one every pirate marvelled at in the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie – actually exists. You know...

BARBOSSA: Ever gazed upon the green flash, Mr. Gibbs ?

GIBBS: I reckon I’ve seen my share. Happens on rare occasions, at the last glimpse of sunset, a green flash shoots up into the sky. Some go their whole lives and never see it. Some claim to have seen it. Some say…

PINTEL: …it signals when a soul comes back to this world from the dead!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEtCaDCy7Jc

For those who are still blithely unaware, James Prescott Joule (I have no idea who he is, he just came up on the Google search) describes it as “at the moment of the departure of the sun below the horizon, the last glimpse is colored bluish green.”

This was (and is) absolutely unbelievable to me. Chris said she’s seen it twice, and Vanessa had seen it once. The trick is you have to be on open water with a flat view of the horizon with no land masses in the way. There is a certain point in the sunset where the sun seems to flatten, and then creates digs in the sides. When these digs meet, the green flash occurs. Or, you know, the scientific part of it all could be crap, and it could mean that a soul has come back from the dead. One day, my friends, I will see that green flash.

We headed home that night, and even though our tired little butts were…well, exhausted, we still headed out for the Phillies game (and some dinner) with the rest of the crew.

On a side note, I'll be posting the rest of my crazy week shortly... obviously, you see that we have power and I have survived Hurricane Omar (yes, hurricane. Category three, to be exact.)

Maybe I could have been a pirate. Maybe in my next life, that's what I'll be.
You know you love me,
XOXO
- Island Girl

"Yeah, well, Hurricane Gloria didn't break the porch swing. Monica did!"

Ah, yes. I am well aware that it has been a while since my last post. I am alive, just slightly... soaked.

We're currently awaiting Tropical Storm Omar (let's hope it does not amount to anything bigger). From what I hear, there will probably be several lengthy power outages, a general shutdown on island (schools are out - no snowdays here!), and a lengthy 36-ish hours inside. I'll be staying at Doug/Chris/Meghan/Brian/Kate/Pat's house tomorrow night, so I am sure there will be a "hurricane" party of some sort. The important thing is we have stocked up on bottled water, non-perishables and rum.

This might give me some time to sit and write about the past week or so, and the excursions and anecdotes I've experienced in that time. Although, I have to say, I am quite used to typing my stories instead of hand-writing now, so it may be a different experience...

So, I will update you all after Omar passes. Check out www.stormpulse.com for all the awesome hurricane/tropical storm tracking features. I'm hooked on the site now.

So until the power comes back (we're counting on it going out)...
You know you love me,
XOXO
- Island Girl

Just Sing A Song And Bring The Sunny Weather... Happy Trails to You.

It is 9:18 PM as I sit typing this, deliriously tired. Why, you ask, is this island girl tuckered out before an eight-year-old’s bedtime on a school night? Because I decided to hike today. I heard that snicker come from you; that’s not very nice.

Now, when Kate asked me if I wanted to join them on this hike, I was not in any way anticipating the enormity and complexity of this trail. No. I was foolishly expecting maybe a mile/mile and a half total, reaching a small beach where we could have a few beers, lay out, snorkel and take in the scenery for the afternoon. Ha!

Six of us (Doug, Chris, Kate, Kate’s dad, Kate’s stepmom and I) piled into Doug’s car and we took the car ferry from Red Hook, St. Thomas to Cruz Bay, St. John. We made a pit stop at the ATM, and then headed on our way up one of the three roads on St. John.

AHHHH! SIDE BAR! I’m starting to see a lot of what Kenny sings about on his Be As You Are album – today I saw the sign for The Quiet Mon and had to hold in my excitement, as bouncing around in the car squeezing 6 people in it was not in my best interest. IT EXISTS! These places really do exist!

OK, back to the story. We got to the Reef Bay Trail sign, packed four backpacks and headed down the trail. At least it started down. Then up, then over, then up again, and down, past the “Wandering Jew” tree (which I so badly wanted a picture of so I could tag it as myself on Facebook), then down, past the Mango tree, through the swarms of bugs, past the termite mound, down some more, through some rocks, over a fallen tree, over the soldier crabs, and down to the rocks. We then came to a fork in the road, so we took it. (Did anyone notice the Berra reference? Or am I just trying too hard to be funny?)

I remembered that according to the map on the sign at the beginning, this point meant we were at the 2.2 mile mark. That’s already more than I do at the gym, so I was thinking about the dreaded trip back. The fork in the path meant we got to see a gorgeous little waterfall and some ancient petroglyphs. The petroglyphs were representative of my smiley face sketches in my fifth-grade math notebook, but I later learned they are thought to be inscribed by the Taino Indians about four-thousand years ago. Which is pretty freakin’ awesome.

We backtracked on that path and came back to the fork in the road. We took the other side down, a little bit up, through some rocks, trekked through a quarter mile of mud and muck, around the sugar plantation ruins, through the overgrown grass and onto – SAND! We were finally at the beach!

The sand, however, did not continue very far. No, the sand turned to rock, and we were met with a slightly disappointing beach. But the water refreshed us; we ate our sandwiches, and then decided to trek back. We noted that others who had taken this hike with a park ranger were taking a dinghy to a boat that would take them back to Cruz Bay. We scoffed at this idea.
Now, the thing is, on the way down, Kate’s dad and I had a conversation about whether going down was worse than going up. We decided down would be more difficult, as gravity was quite a factor, and you had to look everywhere you were stepping. That general consensus was completely, scientifically, physically and absolutely inaccurate in every way possible, as we were about to find out.

So we went through the overgrown grass, back around the sugar mill ruins, trekked through another quarter mile (that seemed like a half mile at least going back), through some rocks, a little bit down, and a bit up. Then the pack separated: Doug, Chris and Kate were convinced that if you moved faster, the trail would be shorter. And then Kate’s parents and I decided to take our time and try not to kill ourselves. We decided that neither plan was necessarily better, as it was the same trail we were hiking.

After what seemed like forever, we got to the fork in the road, which meant 2.2 miles left. WHAT?! I was ready to sit down and yell for the park ranger right then and there. But there were bugs swarming everywhere, so I figured it was best to forge ahead.

Up the rocks, over the soldier crabs, over the fallen tree, through some more rocks, up a little, past the termite mound, through more swarms of bugs, past the Mango tree, and then… no, not the Wandering Jew. That was in my head the whole time: if I can make it to the Wandering Jew, I’ve got this. No, the trail seemed to go up and up and up forever. I swear there were three termite mounds on the way back as opposed to the one on the way down. Were we taking the right trail back?

We came to three large rocks in the middle of the trail. We decided it was necessary if we wanted to finish the hike alive that we sit and let our heart rates slow a little. I sat and noticed something I have never noticed on myself before: sweat. I was drenched in it. It was dripping from my eyebrows, into my eyes. My Banana Republic 1x1 ribbed tank top that I love so dearly was soaked in this excess fluid I didn’t even know my body could produce.

We contemplated yelling for help so that Doug, Chris and Kate would have to travel back down the trail to help us, just to make them walk up the rest of the trail again. We then got up and carried on the grueling trail.

And then, there it was. The Wandering Jew.

HALLELUJIA! It was like the Gods (Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Taino, all of them, who cares!) were smiling down upon us. The Wandering Jew was a beacon of light. We had reached the point where I knew I could make it out of this alive.

Still, the end was a lot longer than we all expected, but when we saw those stairs, the three of us lit up and felt absolutely relieved. I was crossing the street to get to the car, when all of a sudden, like a bat out of hell, a truck flew by on the left side of the road (which is still foreign to me) and pretty much almost killed me. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do to get you to the other side of the road. That would have been a big letdown after such a big accomplishment.
The six of us, beat red from being just shy of a heart attack after our trek, were a sorry sight. But we decided to go to the bar.

The bartender laughed when we all ordered water, but I think after all six of us shooting him a look that could kill, he obliged. After calming our heart rates and replenishing fluids, I looked and saw the most amazing view of St. John and the surrounding islands. And hey, wouldn’t you know, the bar was named Viewpoint. I wonder why…

Then we decided to go to “a pretty beach,” in Kate’s words. We ended up at Cinnamon Bay, which I knew Kenny sang about. As we walked out onto the pristine white sand and saw the sparkling, still cerulean water rolling in, Doug pulled me over.

“Hey, Ryann. You know what’s over there?” He pointed to the left. I shrugged, not thinking of anything. “Kenny’s house.”

This was a time when I was not enclosed in a vehicle with one too many passengers, where I could raise my arms up in celebration and scream and shout in excitement like an obsessed fan would. I was just too exhausted. The only words I could say were, “Best. Day. Ever.”

I am now one step closer to marry Kenny Chesney, everyone. Either that, or one step closer to a restraining order.

We didn’t stay at Cinnamon Beach long, but I was sold. This was by far the most beautiful beach I have ever been to in my life. My brother even asked, “Better than Seven Mile Beach in Grand Cayman?” It didn’t matter that there was a run-down shack or lockers situated oddly between the trees and the beach. It didn’t matter that there were only two other people there. It didn’t matter that the beach really wasn’t that big.

It was that cerulean blue gradient in the water. It was the pristine, fine sand on the floor that carried up onto the beach. It was the palm trees on the corner, just in the perfect spot for a scenic picture including the islands fading away at the horizon. And I did not notice one single fish! It was like a wave pool in Walt Disney World, only better!

We decided to move on and headed down to Mongoose Junction to grab a beer while waiting for a taxi. I, however, noticed there was wine on the menu and immediately ordered a Chardonnay. Here I was, in the middle of a bar in St. John after a five-point-whoever-the-hell-really-knows mile hike uphill in my Victoria’s Secret rhinestoned skull-and-crossbones bikini, black gym shorts and a Banana Republic tank worthy of winning a wet t-shirt contest, ordering a glass of Chardonnay. Dammit, I deserved it.

I realized that this isn’t an extended vacation; it’s a learning experience. Or, like I’ve said before: it’s the study abroad without the actual studying from a book. What I’ve been studying is the people, the culture and the lifestyle. Wikipedia states that method acting is “an acting technique in which actors try to replicate real life emotional conditions under which the character operates, in an effort to create a life-like, realistic performance.” Fashion designers create a concept and intimately study it by dressing in a certain manner, eating certain foods, listening to certain music, and enveloping themselves in their next storyboard so their next collection has a sense of truth. Not all research is in books, just like not all treasure is gold.

We all made our way back onto the car barge and then back to Red Hook. The car ride back was quiet, as we were all famished, exhausted and elated. And now, I will be headed to bed before midnight for the first time since arriving on island.

Let my heart take me where it wants to go; that’s the soul of a sailor.
XOXO
-Island Girl

P.S. – I had to take down some pictures because they weren’t working properly. I want to figure out how to load pictures so you all can see them, so if anyone has any better suggestions than photobucket.com, please let me know! c.r.schwartz3@comcast.net

A Country Girl in Paris Dreaming of Nashville In The Rain...

I feel that I have come to know so many contradictions within the island lifestyle, even just being here just shy of two weeks. This rock is just full of paradoxes (as am I), and I am just starting to realize the parallels between myself and this mass of land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. These oddities, I am sure, are all relative; however, the culture shock itself is eye-opening, no matter how much I have tried to prepare myself by reading and research.

The main problem I have encountered is the very verbal need to monitor power and fresh water usage. This, I have come to discover, is not about the creation of pollution or the consumption of a fairly scarce resource. How can I decipher this, you ask? Because while residents usually complain about the air pollution and want to try to keep the water clean and have enough in case of a drought or another emergency, I have found no evidence of anything resembling a recycling bin. Apparently, recycling is not a philosophy in which these islanders believe in. They do, however, believe in conserving water and their power not for the risk of pollution, but for fear of a rather large power and water bill.

Quite honestly, I am appalled by the lack of recycling considering how many plastic bottles are used today. I feel guilty everytime I put an empty water bottle into the trash, and have found myself buying bigger bottles and jugs in efforts to waste less plastic. Yet I believe a shower can do wonders to the human mind and spirit, and I’m sure my parents (and my landlords) see that in the water bill. I am trying my best to conserve down here – turning the water off to soap up, attempting shorter showers, etc.; but sometimes, you just need a nice, long, hot shower. Even if it’s half outside.

This one gets me: the US Virgin Islands were bought from the Danes in 1917. This it seems, would give plenty of time for a minor switch in the side of the road to drive on to correspond with the mainland. (For those that aren’t aware, we drive on the left side of the road here). However, the government has passed up this opportunity – yet decided that cars used on the island should be American-style, with the driver’s side on the left. Um, HELLO?! Was anyone thinking? This is so confusing, even today, that the government has had to post bright yellow KEEP LEFT signs all along the roads to remind drivers 81 years later to stay on the left side of the road.

On another note, iguanas seem to rule the island here. And they are vindictive little creatures. You know why? Because they can be. These reptiles seems to be quite plentiful around the island. I can walk from my front door to the parking lot and spot three of these leaf-eating things on the grounds. But they are on the brink of endangerment or something along those lines, so the government has decided to protect them.

However, I have had a few unfavorable iguana encounters, with at least one worthy of at least an America’s Funniest Home Videos award. As I was walking through Coral World, the aquarium-type park 5 minutes away, one jumped out from what seemed like nowhere right in front of me and effectively scared the bejesus out of me. I swear it snickered at me. Why are these animals protected? So that people like me won’t swing them around by their tails and toss them back into the forest after playing potentially heart-attack-inducing tricks on them. And you know, I would do that if it weren’t for the fact that the fines are upwards of $3,000… and iguanas are kind of scary looking.

This last contradiction, however, I think is really important. I find it so unbelievable that these three islands contribute to the United States economy, have US citizenship, and can have a House Representative; HOWEVER, the House Representative is non-voting (what’s the point?!), and the island citizens cannot vote in the presidential election. They can vote in the primaries, but not the actual election. They are the people who would not pass up the opportunity to vote if given one, unlike some people on the mainland who don’t think their vote matters.

I never used to be a political person until I started earning money, paying taxes and spending money. I almost didn’t vote in the last presidential election because I’ve always thought politics was a bunch of bullshit. (By the way, I did vote in the 2004 election, but unfortunately my vote was extremely unsuccessful.) Now I see how political these people are, as if it is instilled in them. It reminds me a bit of Philadelphia in the sense that it is about that brotherly love, and their beliefs seem to be transformed into art on the sides of buildings and along walkways for all to see. And these citizens are so politically active and receptive of change needed.

The economic downfall has just seemed to take effect down here, little by little, as evidenced by the escalating grocery prices, power and water costs and lack of tourists on the beach. These people care about what happens to them and to us, but they just literally cannot do anything about it. It’s probably the Republicans’ way of preventing more Democratic voting, since everyone down here is essentially a hippie at heart. Sense the liberal bitterness in my tone.

There are endless contradictions I have come across. For instance, with one of my faucets, cold water seems to come from the hot water faucet and vice versa. My so-called high-speed internet seems to be on island time, as well as the rooster that crows everyday at 4 PM, not 5:30 AM. You have to say “good night” to say hello in the evening. There are what I consider to be outdoor chairs in my living area of the apartment. Islanders verbally complain that it is “hot out,” as if this is a major surprise. And that song Kenny Chesney wrote, “Everything Gets Hotter When The Sun Goes Down,” is surprisingly right on.

(Completely unrelated: Someone please tell Sarah Palin that the word is pronounced "NU-CLEE-AHR," not "NU-CYU-LAR." Nucular is not a real word.)

And on that note…

Don’t worry about a thing. Every little thing is gonna be alright.
XOXO
-Island Girl

Take a Picture; It Will Last Longer

In High Seas or in Low Seas...

Some of the best stories start with one of two scenarios: either someone mysteriously disappears or a stranger comes to town. I am undoubtedly the “newbie” on the island, and am sure to have plenty of stories myself, as well as produce certain oddities for others to share in their own narratives. It’s been a few days since my last post, and quite a bit has happened. Let’s quickly recap from the last few days to get you up to speed.

Sunday night ended with me struggling with one of the four locks outside for approximately 20 minutes. (This, my friends, is evidence that foreshadowing happens in real life, not just in carefully scripted movies and novels.) Monday morning, I awoke to the rain on the roof yet again. I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to organize and put away the rest of my things, as well as make my apartment a little homier. This not only took a few hours, but ended up consuming my day. You don’t realize how much 100 pounds of stuff is until you have to find a place for it.

So after putting some new sheets on the bed, attempting to put on a king-sized duvet cover, finding a place for the remainder of my clothes that could not be hung (since I have no drawers, oddly enough), and other oddities, I noticed the rain had briefly subsided. This was my opportunity to step out and breathe some fresh air! I stepped out onto the patio, and sighed of weather-related relief. As I got to the patio door, however, I found myself yet again struggling. I was pretty sure I was just locking the door even more, if that was possible.

Fifteen minutes of battling with the padlock in a frenzy, and the rain started again. Another fifteen minutes passed, as I was determined to get the door open, but no avail. As I reached the forty-five minute mark, I waved an imaginary white flag in anger at the lock, and decided to call the owner.

Imagine having to call the owner of a residence you are renting to explain you have been locked IN the apartment. I imagine this does not happen often. The owner, Marc, was very understanding (after the expected chuckle, of course) and sent Bill the maintenance man right over to fix the lock.

Now, I am usually get into predicaments that are not much of a predicament at all. Like that time the steering wheel in my car locked, and I thought I was completely out of gas and had my dad drive to come get me (even after he said, “Check to see if your steering wheel is locked.” I feared that this was the case, and that Bill would be making the trip in the rain to rescue me from the condo with one fell swoop.

Not so. I was lucky in that sense. It happened to be a legitimate problem that required a crowbar, a hammer and some other tools. Apparently, whoever installed the lock did it quite improperly, and it was crooked inside. I was able to get some pizza delivery (still no food – I did my food shopping on Tuesday), and Bill replaced the lock correctly and promptly.

Jumping ahead to Tuesday night, since I already covered Monday…

Tuesday night started with a fabulous homemade dinner by Kate (her mac ‘n cheese is to die for!). Near the very end of dinner, the power shut off – for the third time since my arrival on island. What does that mean? Look through the window to see the lights are on in Red Hook - It’s time to go to the bar!

After we got to the bar, the power eventually returned; the illumination of the lights was followed by the cheering of bar patrons. An hour or two passed, when all of a sudden, Chris, Kate, Capitol Doug, Dave, and Brian decided this was the perfect opportunity to brush up on our Four Square skills. Yep, Four Square. The game we used to play at recess in fifth grade, we were now playing it with a beer (or cocktail) in hand in the middle of an outdoor bar. I don’t remember being that good at Four Square, but I thought I was pretty good that night. I also don’t remember being hung over the day after playing Four Square during recess. Interesting…

While Wednesday was pretty uneventful, I spent today exploring and decided to go into town and do some historical stuff. I took the $2 open-air safari taxi, which is a ride in itself. I stumbled upon Camille Pissarro’s house, which is open to the public as an art gallery that does not display any of his works. Apparently you have to go to a different art gallery to see Pissarro’s actual works. That’s the islands for you.

I also came across the Emancipation Gardens, which commemorates the 1848 emancipation of slaves. As I crossed the street, I noticed what seemed to be the Liberty Bell statue. “This can’t be right,” I thought to myself. The replica is much smaller than the real thing; I guess it’s a bit like Lady Liberty in Paris and the Statue of Liberty in the States. I did some more exploring and ended up taking the safari taxi back.

Anyways, I’m back here now and about to go make some dinner. I’ll be uploading some pictures of my travels later. Ugly Betty/Grey’s Anatomy tonight!

Until next time,
XOXO
Island Girl