New York, New York-- Hostel Takeover

New York makes me tingle. I love the smells (hot bagels, exhaust, expensive perfume, fishy markets, crispy Peking duck, even the moldy pee of the subway, believe it or not). The sights (and sites) from uptown to down; the fantastic people watching; randomly overheard conversations on the train-- all of NYC is a feast for the senses. Her attached price tag, however, doesn't feel so nice, less of a tingle and more like a punch in the nose. In a city where a bottled water is $3-4; a deli sandwich easily $12 and a two-star hotel begins at $150, it's hard, in these strict economic times, to imagine jaunting off to the Big Apple for a quick weekend getaway. But I did just that recently and did it all for under $200.

The first and most important aspect of staying in the city is finding safe, clean and affordable accommodations. Sure you can break the bank and hunker down at a 2 or 3 star semi-skanky Days Inn in China Town or Times Square for under $200 and hope that your matress hasn't been hemmorraged on or that the slightly-human shaped brown stain on the floor is the result of an enormous coffee spill and not some unspeakable drama. But why would you when there's a plethora 0f fantastic hostels dotting the city from Battery Park and the Financial District to Harlem. Unfortunately, I've found that hostels have a short list of negative connotations for the adult traveler, most of them unfounded:

1. Only young'ns go there (or the very old, if its an Elder Hostel)

2. They're underfunded, undercleaned, over-crowded and located in hard-to-access, unsafe locales

3. Dorm-style sleeping is uncomfortable and unpalatable (this one is debateable but I'll get to that in a minute).

Hostels have been the mainstay of travelers backpacking through Europe and Asia forever, and in the past 20 years, they've caught on here in the states, too. Certainly there are horror stories that abound: scary neighborhood locations, loud, creaky bunk-bed sex at 3 am in the room you're sharing with 8 other people you don't know; cold showers, stolen belongings-- the list goes on and on. But the truth of it is, in this modern world where the internet can provide all the information and first-person accounts of a place, there's no reason not to do a little advance research and try a hostel on for size. These days, many are funky, fun and provide all the services of a boutique hotel, like my favorite in NYC, The Broadway Inn and Hostel, located on West 101st St and Broadway near the park in the Upper West Side.

For $18 bucks per night (for a 10 person dorm, the prices go up from there depending on how many are in your room-- check hostels.com for exact rates) you have a small, clean bed in a small, clean room.  There's a modern kitchen, two tv lounge areas, an extremely helpful and hardworking staff and a safe, quiet, interesting neighborhood on the the 1 train that runs the length of the city. It's a no frills abode, certainly, but the city has all the frills a person could want, you only have to leave your dorm to find them. Of course, you'll also have 4-8 roommates but really,  that's the best part. Random interactions are the pulse of any traveling experience and random people make them that much more memorable.  I've met people from all over the world while staying in hostels.  You go from being strangers one minute to walking around with furry teeth and sleepy seeds in your eyes, chatting about life, the next. You only have to remain open-minded and curious to cross the bridge from stranger to part-time friend.

  I know, I know.  Hostel life it isn't for everyone.  If you don't like the idea of sharing a bathroom; if you need terrific privacy all the time; if you can't listen to six smelly German boys snoring in unison after a night spent guzzling beer-- then perhaps you should stick to expensive hotels.  But if you can remain open to the possibility of expanding your boundaries and your mind, you just might learn a few things about tolerance, the world and yourself.

Back to the Homeland

It's been a bit since I posted and for those of you who've been following, I apologize.  I'm back in Maine for the summer and enjoying the delicate beauty of spring in New England.  Look for some Maine travel posts in the near future-- I know where to go, when and how to do it on the cheap.

I'll keep you posted!

The Children of Las Terrenas

The Dominican Republic ranks among the worst in the world for education.  And here in the country, Las Terrenas has the worst public school system.  Most children do not begin public school until they are 7 or 8 and though education is free, they are required to purchase uniforms and books to attend.  That in and of itself creates an insurmountable difficulty-- if parents cannot afford to purchase these things, then kids remain uneducated. For those who can attend, classes often have 45-50 kids and one teacher-- one who usually carries a big stick (literally) and spends her days yelling, hitting and generally overworked and frustrated.  Ingrid, my roommate, recently visited the public schools and what she saw-- violence from the teacher to the kids; student violence against one another; a lack of respect and discipline coupled with varying ability levels and attention spans-- left her sick and deeply, deeply concerned for all involved.  It is something she cannot stop talking about and cannot comprehend.

At la biblioteca, we see kids wearing uniforms too small and ripped, dirty.  Some kids have to wear the same uniform for 5 years, purchased too large to begin with so they can grow into it and held up haphazardly with belts, safety pins and rope.

But these are the lucky ones.  The children I have been connecting with are the street kids-- mostly orphaned boys who work the streets cleaning shoes, or stealing.  These boys are lively, intelligent and very curious.  From my first experience with one who begged me to buy him some juice (he was probably 6, with a black eye and snot running from his nose) to the boys I see regularly near the beach at the gazebo whom I speak with regularly-- they all want to learn.

On Saturday, I had two boys clean my leather sandals, giving them each 50 pesos (nearly 10 times the going rate) and they told me a little about their lives.  These kids are generally abandoned or sent out into the world by parents who cannot afford them when they are very young.  They live together wherever they can-- a sort of gang of roving boys, very Charles Dickens.  They can read, some of them, a bit.  Some have spent some time in school and all want to.  Every time I meet a few of them, I invite them to the biblioteca and this week, they have arrived, finally, in droves.  They come with their shoe cleaning kits, which they hide for fear of them being stolen, and then we sit and read, or play puzzles or draw.  Later, they will play soccer or swing on the playground.  These are hardened little beings who would just as soon steal out of your pocket as smile at you-- but at the library, they are simply children again.  Smiles and curiosity; laughter and affection; helpful natures and frustrating defiance-- all wrapped up into perfect little boy packages. Sure they get angry and they will fight with the other, "educated" kids, but they are still only children.  Nothing in my life has felt as good as seeing them shyly approach the gate each day with a bubbling, excited energy that infuses us all with a special kind of spirit.  The spirit of discovery, I guess.  Or perhaps just the resulting energy of giving pure human love to another person.  I'm so lucky to be able to experience it.

A Fortune in My Face

"Erectile" Vomiting, My Very Own Sanky and Motoconchos in the Rain

Well, it finally happened. I am officially in the Domincan Republic, greeted by the joys of an extreme case of Las Touristas, or the Dominican Bug.  After meeting my adult students,  I felt a sudden stirring deep in my loins (and not my favorite kind, either).  Mind you, I've been suffering from severe stomach distress since Santo Domingo, but I knew at the first rumbling that this was  going to be special.  Within three hours, I was prostrate on my bathroom floor-- a tasty place to be to begin with-- with my face in our moldy, smelly bowl.  For nearly 24 hours, I "erectile vomited", as Ingrid, in her lovely, mistaken English announced while my back end kept up the pace with aplomb.  In between bouts of that, I lay in my bed, clutching my innards, asking myself why I would do such a thing as this to myself-- come to this place and put myself through such emotional, physical and mental torture-- for what?!.  Ostensibly, it was to write my travel st

ory and to inspire myself to mimic Wigeria's adventure so my book might ring more true for Pam and the folks at Viking and all its potential readers.  But when alone, sick and crying, I began to wonder if it was purely insanity that brought me here.  I considered my life closely; love and friendships; past and present; potential future(s) and my dreams.  I decided it was right, I was exactly where I was supposed to be and a well-timed call to my rock (Thor) confirmed this.  I'm sure how long I'll stay here, depending on work and writing productivity, but I should let myself go and enjoy it in its true Dominican essence, to its fullest, while I can.  And last night, I finally did, I think.

The girls, of course, were ready to go out by 9:30 and I decided, since I was feeling much better, quite empty and sick of being alone with my own thoughts, that I would accompany them.  We ended up at a Domincan beach bar, La Dune, where dancing was the only thing on the menu and that's where I met Rudy, the adorable boy in the picture above.  Rudy, a 19-year-old sanky who wouldn't take no for an answer (as I'd heard was how all sanky's were, and he stayed

 true to the rumor) taught me how to Bachatta and in between bouts of stulted dancing on my part, he told me his story.  It starts with the death of his parents at 12 and time spent as a shoe

 boy in the streets of Santo Domingo, then some time in the military at 16 and 17, and ends with him in Las Terrenas ostensibly working as a sanky, but not having much luck.  Rudy is short, maybe 5'5 (note the pics of us dancing) which he says is a problem for most white ladies. He is also, he thinks, too honest.  And he falls in love to easily.  Apparently so, for when I first met him, he was staring at me so intently that he tripped when he got up to come over to us.  The first thing he said to me in Spanish was that he loved me; my hair, my eyes and my beautiful, small lips shaped like bow (Dominican men pour it on thick, ladies.  Heinz 57 thick). He grabbed my hands and started singing.  He wanted to know where I was from, what kind of flowers were my favorite, if I liked to lay in the sun.  So funny.  I blushed and told him I had a boyfriend whom I cared for very much and though my man was open minded, fine with flirting and a professional flirt himself,  falling for a sanky wasn't something he'd appreciate too much so thanks but no thanks.  The girls only laughed at my discomfort and reminded me that here,"tengo un macho novio" means nothing to Dominican men, especially sankies.  With Ingrid's help (she speaks lovely, perfect Spanish), I got the picture across, he dropped the smarmy romanticisms and we just chatted in his broken English I in my choppy Spanish, with Ingrid as interpreter.  And then we danced.  And wow, could he dance.  He was very patient and kind.  He didn't laugh when I stepped on his feet and eventually, I got into the Dominican groove of it.  And what a groove.  Hips and thighs, hands in the air, laughter, smiles, singing.  It was joy, even though we were one of only a few couples moving around the floor.  The girls sat and laughed at me, with me, and Rudy was, I think, very happy.  Very proud. Perhaps a bit star struck, even. At the end of the night, he kissed my hand and thanked me for listening to him, for dancing with him and he said he respected me for being true to my man, as he hadn't found a women yet who had been true to hers here; whether Dominican, American, French, German or Italian.  I got dance lessons and a real view of what a Sanky's life is like and I'm glad I did.  Another part of the adventure fulfilled, I guess.  

Then we went home, via motoconcho, in the rain.  The sky has been pelting us with rain intermittently for the past week and last night it opened up and drenche

d the world.  We were about two miles from the house so we flagged two conchos, climbed on, and went screaming and holding on for dear life as the driver went through

 traffic down a one-way street.  The rain got in our eyes and our ears, our driver laughed as we giggled and we passed by throngs of Dominicans in the streets, dancing with one another in the rain.  They sure know how to live here, and I'm going to

 figure out how to do it to.  

Soy Triste y muy cansada en Las Terrenas

It has only been a pittance of days in Las Terrenas and it feels like a lifetime.  Between battling roosters that live in my back yard and on the roof (yes, the roof) who squack all night, keeping Ingrid and I awake, and the sheer lack of communication with the outside world (sometimes the internet works; sometimes it does not and NO ONE from the states seems to be able to reach me on my Dominican phone)-- I feel as if I have been cast into another dimension; a planet formerly undiscovered.  The language barrier is so great, despite my grasp of Spanish (Dominicans speak a frenzied, mumbled and jumbled kind of Spanish that is hard to interpret, at it's best) that culture shock is beginning to set in and it is crippling.  Part of the day I find myself smiling and energized; the rest of it I am crying secretly and trying desperately to reach loved ones. The one outlet I thought would tether me to my own "real world", teaching, has become, in these first two sessions, practice in self-torture.  The children cannot speak English, I cannot understand their Spanish. They make fun of mine, asking me if I am retarded (I speak too slow, too "estupido", they say).  The state these kids arrive in-- half-starved, some of them, covered in sores and bruises; ciggarrette burns, administered most certainly, by parents or caregivers-- is astonishing. Their eyes are still bright but they have a deeply seeded anger that explodes at the slightest provocation and it is apparent that their innocence itself is teetering on abyss.   Their curiosity, however, is still intact. They touch me all over-- they want to smell my hair, touch my lips ("mas pequenas", they say), the color on my toenails, the moles on my back.  They cannot read, most of them, though they love to hold books and be read to.  They do not know how to swing or use a teeter-totter, two things that were recently installed at Biblioteca.  They are loud and loving and friendly and they make very happy and intensely sad.

But what doesn't make me sad these days? Culture shock is a term I'd heard thrown around by friends who have lived all over, but I never thought I would experience it.  I figured that since I am extensively traveled; I know the culture here, somewhat at least, and have a tenacious grasp of the language-- I would be fine in the face of such enormous change.  Fuck, was I wrong. Let me say, though, that I am not homesick-- I miss my family and friends, certainly, and I long for my idyllic time with Thor in St. John every day (he has become a rock of sorts for me, a place to find solace and a person who knows the exact words to say no matter what my erratic mood; a stable mind to match my crazy heart)-- I am not longing for McDonald's or Walmart or the ability to flush toilet paper (none of that here or HUGE repurcussions await).  I am fine with being crusted in street shit and layers upon layers of bug dope.  I can live with the roosters; the cockroaches, the smelly water and the diarrhea.  I acknowledge the prostitution and turn away from it.  I have learned to deal with the men-- I gird myself every morning against the onslaught, though the men in my neighborhood have recently stopped hissing and now refer to me simply as "La Princessa Rubia" (the hair again). I am ok with these things and more.  What is hard is the lack of communication with the outside and available world.  I am a woman who needs to be able to talk; to say directly how I feel, what I need; my goals and dreams and wishes---I cannot, to anyone except my lovely housemates, girls whom I judged too quickly because of their age but WOMEN who are teaching me what sorority is all about.  Not being able to communicate, in English to those I love (at least not regularly) and not in Spanish, at least confidently, to those I barely know, has rendered me a stranger unto myself.  I am a woman without words and no words es igual de muchos tristes y cansadas para mi. I am sad and tired, almost all day, every day.  Jose and Annette, the couple who run FMG, are saints if they are anything, and they offer hugs and patience; food; dictionaries and kind words.  They tell me to wait and let this world open itself to me.  To try new things, but not too many at once, and to value my own strength above all else.  This, I am trying to do.  But my trying sometimes leaves me yet more sad and yet more tired. This is my biggest challenge in life to date.  And if I know one thing, it is this:  I am a woman capable of anything.  I have faced innumerable difficulties and I always come through yet more strong, more educated; more capable and more understanding than before.  Nothing has ever stopped me and this, I am sure, won't either.  It it what I longed for-- the chance to extend my boundaries beyond anything I thought previously possible; to ask myself to take what I know, and what I don't and synthesize them into some recognizable whole.  I think I'm on my way, but right now the way is dark and confusing. How I wish I could see so much more.  Thank the gods for writing, as it is now (as it ALWAYS has been, my whole life) the only tie to a self and a life I once knew.

Las Terrenas-- first impressions

I have reached my intended final destination and let me tell you-- I'm pretty let down so far. Las Terrenas has been advertised, by Gueros and Domincanos alike, to be paradise.  So far, all I see is shit hemmed in with over-priced, over-advertised first-world consumerism and a beach that I wouldn't sit on for a minute; literally COVERED in trash of all varieties, from dirty diapers, broken glass and plastic cups and bottles to what looks like industrial waste barrels and oil containers.  However, I've only seen a tiny, tiny portion of a town that seems to be surprisingly larger than I had originally anticipated.  

Getting here was a cinch. The trip on the guagua-- a minivan, essentially, that is converted into a bus for public transport in the city that goes all over the countryside-- was fabulous.  I'd heard so many horror stories about being a ingle white female traveling on one and none of them were true.  I paid the same amount everyone else did; I was treated with much respect by the men and women on the bus and I had tons of fun.  People were curious about me, certainly, but we chatted in Spanish about America (lots of questions about Obama, something that is becoming more and more common as I get ballsier and able to chat openly in Spanish with strangers); we bumped the whole way to VERY loud merenge; shared tostones and generally had a blast.  I would suggest it to anyone-- for a 3 hour ride, it cost me $7 bucks.  No better way to mingle with the locals and see the countryside.  

On the way into town, after we passed over the cleft of some very high mountains at a snails pace and I got fantastic views of the Samana Peninsula below, we began to come into Las Terrenas and I saw just how in flux this place is.  There was tons of new construction-- big homes, bigger hotels interspersed with prostitution hovels and little huts propped up with sticks and held together with, yes, duct tape.  In the town itself, there are Ferraris and dirty ATV's; parillada stands and five-star restaurants; a rolex shop and thrift stores whose wares look to be covered in grime and full of holes.  I can see why The Gandhi foundation is here and I can't wait to begin work, on Monday at 10.  

I found Casa Paz easily enough and met my neighbors.  The house was advertised to be in a safe part of town but I would highly disagree.  I had to literally scream and stamp my foot at one man who would simply not leave me alone as I was trying to find the house and he only laughed.  I heard that the man situation was much worse-- there's a type of predator called Sanky-Pankys  that refuse to take no for an answer-- and I think he was one of those.  The level of poverty here makes everything seem a bit sharper-- people need more, therefore they will not be afraid to take more.  I will be super-aware, however.  I'm certainly using my voice and body to project an air of "Go Fuck Yourself-ness" and I think it is working. Back to Casa Paz....

The house itself is lovely.  A nice kitchen, tiled bathroom and bedrooms.  I met two of my roomies, Ingrid, whom I share a bedroom with from Norway and Katie, from London.  Both young (under 21) and like I was at that age, they seem to love to party.  The first thing they asked me was, "Are you rested, because we're throwing a party tonight." Oy. They then told me they only just gotten out of bed, at 2 pm.  That being said, they were both very friendly; Ingrid had laid out bed clothes for me (even though I brought my own sheets) and Katie offered me everything from peanut brittle to clean sheets. I think we'll get along, even though I'm an old lady.  And as a little aside here-- my closest friends know that I generally get along much better with men than women and that every attempt at living in a house full of women has gone terribly, woefully wrong for me in the past.  Well, here I am, essentially living in a sorority house.  Me?!!  Thor and I were discussing some of the things the universe is asking me to learn on this adventure before I left-- patience, faith, the ability to release control of things, etc.  Well, here's another-- get along with girls. And somehow, I think it's all going to work out fine.

I have great access here so  I will try and post each day, if possible.  Wish me luck in what feels like yet another entirely new planet....

Some Pictures of the City

In 24 hours, I have been awed by the friendliness of the people of Santo Domingo; enthralled by flamenco dancers and absolutely scared to death.  I'm too tired and disoriented today to write much more than this, so a few pictures instead.  I leave for Las Terrenas tomorrow to begin the next part of this adventure and will post as soon as I am able.

Santo Domingo

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Don't believe everything you hear about the Dominican Republic.

Sure, it's dirty. That's what you get when the buildings that surround you are older than the man who "discovered" America in 1492; a man whose likeness is represented literally everywhere you look; a man who, in 30 years, single-handedly eliminated the patient and peaceful Taino indians (the Caribbean's first inhabitants) through disease, starvation and human hunting.

Sure, it's unsafe. That's what you get when 1/4 of the population holds 70% of the wealth in the country and people must scrabble for food; education is scarce; and secure jobs even less so- a paradigm established during the iron rule of dictator Trujillo (El Jefe), a man whose self-importance was so inflated that he demanded all art and songs be written in his name, at penalty of death; a man whose rise to power was financed and implemented by our own President Franklin Deleanor Roosevelt.

Sure, women are treated as "others". Prostitution is rampant, with the lowest class of workers selling their wares openly in the barrio and the highest class teetering in too-tall heels and tight dresses alongside fat, wealthy American and European men. Until very recently, women weren't allowed to work outside the home unless they were part of a campesino, or farming community, in the country. That's what you get after 300 years of male-dominated rule and a deeply embedded sense of "machismo", a "self" that defines men as sexual predators, prideful, and honorific with a hidden core of sharp insecurity and a need to show themselves of to their peers.

Sure, the Dominican Republic is full of strife, poverty, grime, and unbalance, but boy, is it incredible.

There is a shared history here that at least matches ours in the States, one replete with slavery, many European influences and severe, tragic bloodletting. There is also, however, a history of the DR way-- one crafted from a deep love of music, food and dancing; friendliness and a sense of adventure. One that expresses itself loudly and vibrantly late into the night and early in the morning. It is a culture that seems to say, "So what if life is hard and the world continues to tear us down, we will continue to live it, fully." They are grinning in the face of a long history of disaster, and it seeps through every pore.

Santo Domingo has shown itself, so far, to be wonderful. I am staying in one of the oldest homes in the city, in the Zona Colonial, in front of the Plaza de Espana and beside Columbus' own home, built shortly after he first arrived here. It is a lovely pensione, owned by John Goulet, a man as interesting and odd as Ernest Hemingway and whose quirky sense of style (an entire wall decorated with wooden parrots across from another with an 13th century original tapestry?) seeps into everything around him. Breakfast this morning consisted of an array of fresh breads, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and cafe, but also cocoa puffs and cold steak. My room is a dark, small room with a vaulted cieling that is filled with antique mirrors and a giant bed with a feather mattress and feather pillows-- it is a room for a monk, or princess in hiding. It is truly lovely. As I'm writing this, in the window overlooking Calle Isabella and the bustling, waking city, I can smell fresh bread in the Panaderia below and cafe being brewed in the bar beside it. People are arguing in an apartment nearby, their voices bellowing out into the morning, and music is blaring from the Plaze behind. There's a feeling here I've only experienced before in Rome-- a tense yet bubbling energy that suggests a hidden agenda and a potential for explosive fun, or danger. But onto last night. . . .

After a tour with my host's 16-year-old-adopted Dominican son Jon Luis (a suggestion John made so I might learn the streets more safely and comfortably AND put the local men on notice-- a smart move considering the attention directed at me in the airport alone) I showered and went out to dinner at Cafe Zaga Freddo, by myself. Let me preface this with a little warning: I was aware that I would be a gringa, a guera-- an extremely white white person in the eyes of the hispanic culture. I am, after all, blonde and blue-eyed; tanned with white-teeth, very "barbie" looking, as Thor once said. But I didn't realize that, except for the few bus tours of white folks I've seen here and there, I would be one of the ONLY white women around. I was sure to dress demurely-- jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, minimal make-up and flat shoes, but it didn't matter. Men and women both stopped to stare at me as I walked by. One older, darker woman (probably Haitian) said, "Tu eres una angel; una angel muy guapa." and reached out to touch my hair as I stopped to look at the fruit she was selling in her basket. Along the way, I learned about "the hiss", as John calls it. "The hiss" is a sound men make at beautiful women, followed shortly thereafter by something that sounds vaguely like a cat in heat, a "eeeeeeyyyyyyyyooooooow!" that makes your hair stand up on your neck. Then they will reach out and try to grab your hand or the back of your shirt. Jon Luis, a budding member of the machismo mentality himself (though a gentleman through and through, at least to me) suggested I stop, turn around and sternly say, "Vas!" (You go!) and point, like you would do to a bad child or a dog. He said, "Dominican men respond well to women who order them around, like their madres." (I think that works with some American men too!). So that's what I did, and it worked wonders. Men would retreat, to be laughed at by their peers upon their return to the corner, and I kept walking. An interesting power dynamic. . . .

At dinner, I was the only white person in Zaga Freddo, a trendy, youthful bar/restaurant on Calle Conde (the long, wide street in the center of the old city that folks stroll upon, sipping frosty Presidente beer and stopping to kiss or watch old men plat chess). I sat outside and listened to the pulsing merengue from within and attempted to enjoy a crisp glass of white wine (about $1.50) and a salad with sweet, juicy tomatoes, fresh local basil and a crumbly local cheese, topped with capers and oil ($3.50) in between bouts of being hit on. It is important to consider the clientele here-- young Dominicans and expats with money to burn; women dressed in finery only matched by Italian women and men in very expensive shoes and tight jeans; light-skinned with Spanish aquiline features--these are not your average Dominican people; they represent the 1/4 of the population with money, the "Primera Clase" or first class folks, as they refer to themselves. But it didn't stop the men from exhibiting the old machismo ways. Six men approached me in two hours! They would saunter up and ask me my name in Spanish, or how my food was, or where I was from. I simply kept repeating, "No, gracias. No gracias." and would return to my book, ignoring them. They would then return to their seats to the laughter of their friends and glare at me. I could only chuckle. All in all, it was a pleasant, though strange experience. I shall keep my wits about me, as they say, and keep a low profile so as not to encourage more than my already fair share of attention. . . .Too bad the city is such a romantic place; I wish I could share it with Thor, stopping to kiss in the middle of Calle Conde and sipping cold rum under a 300 year old tree like the locals. Sigh....

Goodbye, St. John (or, 25 things I've learned so far)

Sohere it is:  my final days on this lovely oddity of an island have arrived.  How do I feel?  Ready to leave.  Wanting to stay.  Open to the new adventures offered by the future. Mired in the past. Scared. Exquisitely happy. Skeptical. Love struck. I'm all over the map.  But the real situation is simple-- like this tree, I keep growing.  Stronger, sturdier and older; rooted to the past, with branches that reach for the promise of the future in the sun and the sky.  In the middle is where I grow fuller with life and love-- you can look inside me and see the rings that experience has left and know just how far I've come and where, in the present, I am: Endless. Ever- changing. And powerful. 

I'll miss St. John and the things I'm leaving behind but I know, deep in my wooden gut, that there is more to come-- in every way. 

25 Things I've Learned So Far:

1. You need a lot less than you think you do. 

2. A little shack in the woods that lets the rain and bugs and lizards in can become a glowing home if you love in it, and laugh in it, and cry in it enough. Houses need humanity to become homes. And some comfy sheets. :-)

3. Natural bug juice DOES NOT work.  Bring on the DEET!

4. People lie. And it hurts. Forgiveness is the balm for this kind of pain but it doesn't heal torn trust. Let the liar repair that.

5. West Indian people are some of the most colorful, friendly people in the world (at least as much as I've seen of it, anyway)

6. You really can eat curry and rice 4 times per week and love it!

7. Toilets and hot showers are overrated.

8. Distance, interspersed with long roads of time spent together is the (albeit slow) path to a sturdy love between fiercely independent people.

9. Compromise is a different animal when you have to live with it, day in and day out, in a tiny shared space.

10. I love to shake my booty to reggae. (But I knew that already, technically.)

11. Water is intrinsic to my happiness.  On it.  In it.  Around it. Surrounded by it. I need it.

12.  St. John is choc-a-bloc with Mainers and is more like Maine than anyone realizes.  And I also re-realized what a Mainer I am in many ways.  And DAMNED proud of it. Ayuh.

13. Secrets can destroy the best things in life. But we all have them.

14. Hitching rides are the best way to meet a variety of people.

15. Rum is a beverage for all reasons, seasons and times of the day.

16. We should all spend a lot of time in the woods.

17. A real friend is someone you can play with, climbing trees like little kids or searching for history on the ground; bicker with so bad that you want to punch each other in the eye and then laugh, laugh, laugh with all night long.

18. Cockroaches will play dead.

19. Iguanas do NOT perform the backstroke.

20. No-see-um bites can give you leper-legs.

21. Taking your shoes off after a red-ant attack and stepping in cactus requires a patient boyfriend and a knife to make it all better.  I don't suggest it though....

22.  I can't handle fried calamari anymore. (That is a truly sad realization).

23.  Yerba Mate is rocket fuel.

24. Writing is a powerful method of dealing with life.  For me at least.

25. Life, and love, take time to experience fully.  I'm glad I've got lots of time.

Goodbye, St. John. Goodbye, Nut Hut; Frustration Station; Love Shack.  Goodbye, Coral Bay and it's motley cast of characters. Goodbye, my Viking. I'll see you all again...?

Time and the Art of the Hitch

This morning while toasting bagels and getting ready for the day, Thor and I were discussing the old adage, "How time flies." We were talking specifically about how my time here has sped on; how each day of his very physical work flies by; how even a day spent trying to get laundry, groceries and lunch done takes, literally, from 8 am until about 5 or 6, depending on where you have to go to get these things done-- you lose a whole day in the blink of an eye.

It's an interesting dichotomy.  The island life is inherently slow and deliberate and yet time slips through your fingers while you're oblivious to the calendar until you're forced to look and realize that you have none of it left. Of course, everything is chore-like on St. John without a car.  There's a public bus that runs, generally, on the hour, every hour.  However, like all other things here, that is ALWAYS negotiable.  

Yesterday, for instance, on my way back from traversing our little part of Coral Bay on foot, I saw the bus pull over by Love City (a semi-skanky local one-stop that has an interesting park across the street where locals perch on rickety beach chairs and hollowed out logs while drinking, carousing and smoking what we lovingly refer to as 'side-salad'), watched as the driver threw it in park, got out, had a pee alongside the thing and then waltzed over to some of his friends beneath a tree, sit down, and have a chat.  I assume the bus was empty.  All I could do was chuckle to myself and wave as I walked past on my way to Josephine's, the only little farm stand I've yet found or heard of on the island. You must learn here, to have deep and abiding patience, if you want to get around.  Or you can hitch.

Now, let me preface what I'm about admit (this is for my family's benefit, really) with this:  I know hitching is muy mal.  I was raised in America on a healthy diet of stranger danger and a fear of unmarked white-vans; suspicious-looking Halloween candy; sullen, unkempt men in dark alleys and people who offer you rides while walking in the street. I get it.  Hitching=Bad. In fact, when I arrived, I told Thor in no uncertain terms that in no way would I ever, ever, ever hitch a ride anywhere without him by my side. Right. Well, like other things I've said to him stubbornly, stamping my foot as I did so, I had to eat those words. And I'm glad I did.

St. John is an enclave unto itself.  There's the Cruz Bay, or Town side (bustling, touristy, and bigger) and our side: little, sleepy Coral Bay.  Where Thor and I live is semi-jokingly referred to as East Appalachia-- a hilly, busted, private little valley nook whose inhabitants are varietal and funky, to put it mildly.  And we fit in rather well, in some ways-- especially when I'm having a stubborn, stamp-my-foot-moment. :-) But despite the differences between areas of the island, one thing is certain: St. Johnians are kind, helpful, open people. From offering info readily, to stopping and asking a red-faced guera if she needs some help as she puffs up a hill with laundry on her back, to cracking bawdy jokes that would make Rodney Dangerfield blush-- the folks in St. John are straight up awesome.  

Hitching rides is part of that culture. Not only is it safe, but it is the mode of transport that allows you to get around fairly quickly and easily.  It makes it possible to achieve two or three goals in one day, on different parts of the island.  And it is incredible fun.  I have made more connections for my story through random conversations with people I've met pointing rides (we don't thumb here, people, we point-- thumbing has nastier connotations). From a family of five in a mini-van to a truck-full of construction workers, me hanging on for dear-life in the back with two West Indian guys, to a ride with Thor in our neighbor Jerry's old Toyota Tercel, going 20 miles per hour while he tells us about his 16-year-old daughter's illegal night at the club and his prize cocks (keep it clean)-- hitching has contributed to making this trip more than interesting.  Of course, I pay attention.  I don't get into cars with single men.  I don't hitch buzzed, or at night, alone.  And I listen to my gut.  I also talk to other women (of whom there are many) who also point rides and ask what to look for, where not to grab rides and just learn, learn, learn. That's what this life is about right?  Taking smart risks and learning....

It's all good.

So back to time.  Hitching makes daily life more readily possible, but it doesn't cease the flow of time.  I leave March 11th for the DR and I'm already feeling a little blue.  I'm excited, through the roof, in fact, to be starting the next part of this adventure but I'll be sad to leave this place.  There are the obvious reasons, of course, but that obvious reason and I have been apart before and time seems to only make us stronger and closer instead of weak and distant. But, St. John has an energy and an effect that I've only experienced in islands in Maine in the summer. I've made a handful of friends; I've just gotten to know my way around and feel like it is, in a sense, a bit of home.  But, all that aside, and as I've said before in other instances in my life, something tells me that this story is only at its very beginning.  I can't wait to keep reading, or in this case, writing it. . . .

I'll keep you posted. . . .

Friends, Food and "8 Tuff Miles"

A picture of me because I realized that there aren't many posted yet and I like this one.


This is Sam, a good friend of Thor's and now a friend of mine.  A pretty incredible guy, ladies, if anyone is interested :-)!  I figured I should show you who he is, since I've mentioned him a few times. . . . And to the right is the huge crab we saw coming back home after a night out.  It was crossing the road and Sam stopped to pick him up so we could get a closer view. . . . He wasn't too impressed (the crab, that is).

So onto the food discussion: anyone who knows me knows how much I loves to eat.  And that's putting it mildly.  Especially when I'm traveling, it is hugely important to me to try any and all local fare.  Now, in St. John, food is very, very expensive.  For instance, the yummy ribs that Thor is sitting next to (Thursday nights at Big Belly Deli in Coral Bay, every week) cost $32.00 for two heaping plates and four sides, not including rum and coconut water (this is a fine drink, BTW).  A burger is $10-$15.  A box of Triscuits at the least expensive store on the island?  $5.95.  Ben and Jerry's (I learned about this accidentally on a late-night buzzed-out purchase) $8.99!! Ouch.  You have to wait to satisfy cravings until they can no longer be ignored and you shop very, very frugally.  Eating out is a treat. That being said, the portions at restaurants tend to be enormous; good for sharing and saving. But we try to eat at home as often as possible; mostly veggie curries and the occasional piece of chicken or fish, lots of rice and plenty of greens.  However, I've taken it upon myself to try some different delicious treats that are indigenous or infamous on the island and I'll detail some of them here.

Kalulla-- an African stew made from Okra, greens, spicy beans and crispy fried fish.  Bought for $6.00 at a street vendor.  Spicy, hot and delicious.

To the right is a box of incredible chicken parillada, or BBQ'd chicken, from Miss Candi's in Cruz Bay.  The women who own it are from the Dominican Republic and serve this crispy, sweet 

with a hot and tangy sauce called "DiComeback" sauce.  I got to practice my spanish with them and then brought back more than half of the meal, which we ate for dinner that night over, you guessed it, more rice!  Note the ubiquitous Presidente beer in the pic.  It is l

ight, easy to drink and cheap, cheap, cheap.  Also from the Dominican Republic. 

This is Miss Lucy's, a fine spot for Jazz Brunch on Sundays.  The view from the tables is insane-- can you believe it?  We went for brunch, met a very cool couple from Boston and lounged for hours at the table and explored the beach nearby.  Pure joy.

Ok. Lastly: on Saturday at 7:15 am sharp, I'm committing suicide. Not by any traditional means, mind you.  Instead, I intend to run/walk the 8 mile road (called "The Centerline") from Cruz Bay to Coral Bay up huge inclines and downgrades with 899 other people, all in the name of journalism. And sustainability.  The race is in its 13th year and draws more people, from all over the world, every year.  Bands play along the way and people line the road to cheer the runners on.  It is a huge event that generates a ton of business, over 40% of which, not including the money that goes to t-shirts, water, etc. for participants, is returned directly back to the St. John community in various ways.  That's real sustainable tourism.

 Though I'm certainly not in shape enough to run the whole thing , I am, as always, up for the challenge.  My goal is to plain old finish the race, standing up.  I'm sure there will be many disturbingly hilarious pictures to post and a grueling adventure to detail.  Can't wait!

Peep the race at www.8tuffmiles.com

Wish me luck!

I'll keep you posted. . . .

A Cold, Windy Day (And more pics of the cabin)

Today is freezing, by Caribbean standards.  My iphone says it is 82 and raining but it's actually closer to 72 and overcast; windy. We've really only had a few days of fine, perfect, Caribbean-y weather and tomorrow advertises itself to be the same as today.  It is still lovely here but I find myself uttering the annoying tourist refrain of-- "Well, where's all this 'nice' weather I've heard so much about?"

I'm not in St. John for much longer so Mother N

ature 

better get on with it. . . .  Though, in Las Terrenas I'm living 350 yds from the beach so there will plenty of time for acquiring  skin cancer while I'm there.  

(Just kidding mum!  I'm using plenty of SPF!)

Now as, promised-- more pics of the cabin.

The view from our porch. The bed and the outside shower.  No shower today-- brrrrr!

That's all for now.  The storm clouds are rolling in and I have to put pants on.  Plus it's Rib Night at Big Belly Deli and that means lots of rum, live music and greasy pig fat for all. Yummers.

I'll keep you posted. . . .

The Eco Cabin

I'll add more pictures to this title as time goes on but here's the basics about what life is like:

1.  We collect rain and use it to shower (refreshingly cold and outside) and we boil it to drink.  It is the best water I've ever tasted.

2. A single hot plate to cook on, though we did liberate a junky old toaster oven and are finding it quite useful.  We can bake a mini-lasagna in it!!

3. We have a queen bed, which takes up most of the room in the cabin itself but it is a lovely one (Thor is kind of a bed-hog but he'll tell you that it's me!) with a mosquito net and caribbean blue sheets (how appropriate).

4.  Our bathroom is the great outdoors, an open, leafy pit on the hillside.  And despite the many, many jokes that could be made here, there is something truly fine about communing with nature in such a. . .  personal way.  Of course, I haven't had to do it in a downpour, yet. . . .

5. We have a hammock that Thor hung in the middle of the room.  You can get your nap on in it like nobody's business.

6.  We have a variety of visiting friends-- from little cockroaches to a rainbow of lizards and geckos that show their disdain for us by performing a few furious pushups and puffing out their neck sacks. I've even named one "Chocolate Lovin'" for his copious mating skills.  (Note-- this is not Chocolate Lovin'.  He's a much studlier lizard, by far.)

7.  We spend a lot of time looking at the mountains that hug our little house, protecting us.  And, at night, they make an excellent frame for a dark, clear sky full of more stars then I'v ever seen before. It is truly lovely. The jungle that blankets these mountains is full of ruins, pieces of 200 year old pottery and hand tools and the most amazing collection of trees and vines.  In the picture below, we captured the light coming through the hollows in a tree at sundown.  See if you can find a face in the light somewhere. . . . 

Here's a picture of an old sugar plantation windmill Thor and Sam found in the woods last year that Thor and have been poking around in and the hermit crabs that populate the place. It rained for three days when I first arrived and between bouts of downpour, we explored the ruins in the woods and found many more.  In fact, we found one little structure that to us, looked like something special, something that needed a little TLC-- a place that perhaps meant something to someone else back in the 1700's when the place was built-- the energy there is romantic and unique.  So we've been cutting down trees to let the sunlight in and encourage the grass to grow with plans for a picnic.

Island Life

    Here in St. John there are two speeds-- relaxed and sleeping. The sun's intensity and the lazy way the wind blows your hammock ever-so-gently certainly have something to do with it, I'm sure. Not to mention the large and easily accessible quantities of rum that are always within a hand's reach and mixed into the kinds of beverages that settle a tumultuous mind with hazy midday dreams. Really, though, it's a certain version of well-being that fills you up with a sense of ease so profound, you find yourself peering in the mirror each morning and asking your own reflection, "Are you there, me? Because I don't recognize you with your white smile against that tanned skin and your eyes shiny with happy and rest." You have to pinch yourself for fear of losing the image before you. The islands do this to you-- relax you enough to send you the sleep of the blessed and restore you to yourself.
    This does not, of course, mean that the old world doesn't creep into your daily life. There are still bills to pay back in the states and family members to talk to and concerns for how things will be once this adventure is over. Life is never, at least in my experience, free of those basic concerns. In the end though, all you can do is ask yourself the same questions we always ask ourselves when life dumps its parts upside down and you're left to scrabble around in the dirt assembling recognizable pieces into some kind of dependable whole. Why worry when the world is as blue and green every day as the whole of Maine's summer? Why rush when there's no place to go but work, perhaps, or the beach (even better)? Really, why ask why at all? Just sit back, breathe deep and live. Worry only makes it worse
    That's what I'm trying to learn on this trip. I've spent a lot of time in my life worrying. This worry comes from a fear of losing control of things. Maybe it was childhood drama that made me this way. Maybe it was an inherent, genetic lack of self-esteem. Maybe there's an answer buried in the depths of my birth chart-- who knows. Whatever the case, I'm over it. 

    Thor keeps talking about being able to be "present"; aware, unconcerned, living fully in the now and embracing life for what it is, while it is, as it is. And though he always has many intuitive things to say; and though I am learning life-lessons from him literally every day as we share our little eco-cabin life together-- letting go of fear and worry; being present, is my most important lesson. So I'm running with it. Why else would a woman give up a regular, safe job to travel half-way down the planet to write while she lives off cobbled together savings in an eco-cabin, then a Dominican Republican Volunteer house, all the while fretting about love and her future? Because if all we get is this one life, I want live it. Presently, I am.

Now, let's get down to business....

Maine Winter, meet The Caribbean

First Post

After such a terrific snow storm last night, I figured there was no better time to begin The Traveling Bee Papers-- a life blog and travelogue dedicated to my 2009 adventure-- one that begins in one month, in the Caribbean.

Last February I turned 30 and made a year's worth of promise to myself that were never completely fulfilled. Somethings were started but never finished. Other things were completed but done half-assed. Mostly, though, there were many more things; huge things, I never even attempted. Those are the hardest to live with. Things like: Finish your novel. Publish a travel feature. Find the love of your life. Travel to the places your heart desires. (Note the constant constant inner dialogue here: Do it now!! While you're still young; before you fall into the endless BLACK PIT OF MIDDLE AGE !!! Even though 30 doesn't feel "middle-ish" to someone who plans to live until 90.) In any case. There are some things left in limbo; issues in need of resolving. In three weeks I turn 31 and have given myself a make-up year to fulfill those promises and live my dream of being a writer. It helps, of course, that Destiny has offered up writing work on a silver platter worthy of the gods and goddesses of Atlantis. 

This is simple practice. Pracice in letting life happen and having enough faith in myself and the world to push my personal and creative boundaries to their conceivable limits, and beyond. This is the year that I become me.

After that? Well, sigue nadando.
That's all I can say.

I'll keep you posted.