Filed under: Writing
After a great meal at Selina’s, we headed over to Kuyaba for dessert. We’d planned to relax, digest a little, and then to ride our second wind up the beach to Alfred’s for the Thursday Night Beach Party.
Does Kuyaba just keep getting nicer, or do I forget every time I visit? You can’t beat the location, a great bar and restaurant just yards from the bay. The ever present salt-kissed breeze whispers through the abundant foliage keeping all conversations private. But it’s the attention to detail, the constant small improvements that I noticed. A decorative stone walkway here, a new lounge section there, a likke splash of design in a newly built stairway, all keep Kuyaba fresh and new every year.
We begged off table seating, who can resist those hanging-hammock-barstool-chair-like thingies Kuyaba is famous for?
I’m glad these chairs haven’t spread all over town. I love the way they get more comfy the more you drink.
Since this was dessert we dared the bartender to surprise us with something unique from his blender. We weren’t heading to Margaritaville that night. These creations were to be glorified milkshakes doused with over-proof rum. I forget what he called them, but they were full of creamy coconut yummy-ness while still packing a punch. After two my sweet tooth was sated, and I switched to Red Stripes. In general my foo-foo drink tolerance is pretty low.
This was Megan and Jason’s last night in town, so I decided to take an evening walk in the surf to give them some time to make googly eyes, and to whisper sweet nothings. The beach was beautiful that night. The faint lights of the beach-side businesses mixed with a three-quarter moon infused the sea with an aquamarine translucence that gave off a soft glow. I’d spent so many nights up in the cliffs these past few years, it felt as if I was discovering it for the first time.
I was lost in the moment, communing with the sea, I didn’t notice a group of five or six Jamaican girls drawing near as I stood ankle deep at the waters edge. I smiled and said hello. I couldn’t help but to notice they were all dressed to kill, though undressed to kill might be more accurate. I think I was staring. I assumed they were headed up to Alfred’s Ocean Place to party.
“You look like you’re having a good time.” A light-skinned girl with the spiky braids said as she came close in the way certain island girls do when flirting unattached older men in flowery shirts.
I didn’t know what she meant by saying that. Was it; ”Hey, you look really drunk, may I take advantage of you?” or; “Wow, you look like and unaffected party animal, and I want to be a part of your world if only for a few fleeting moments.” My problem is, in that moment of boozy bravado I assume she means the latter, and in the morning my empty pockets realize she meant the former.
“I’m Georgina,” she said with a pearly white smile. The other girls kept walking.
“Hi, Georgina, I’m Vinny.” I played along. I knew my virtue was well intact, and I wasn’t going to be swayed by this twenty year old vixen. The devil on my shoulder smiled wickedly, while the angel on the other knew he was still in control.
We made small talk, the usual meeting a Jamaican thing: Where are you from? Is this your first trip to Jamaica? Where are you staying? Do you like Jamaican girls?
She noticed my beer was empty, and she asked if I’d like another one. I said yes, and she waited while I pulled some cash from my pocket. I gave her 1000j, and told her to get something for herself, big spender that Vinny.
Being past the dinner hour a waiter cleared the surf-side table for two Kuyaba usually sets up to entice folks into a romantic sunset dinner. I took a seat. Georgina returned with a beer and a shot glass with some kind of red stuff in it.
I was surprised when she pounced on my lap and poured the shot into my mouth. Trying to act cool, as if this happens everyday, I reached for my beer, her ample Jamaican ampleness just inches from my face. Taking a swig I tried to regain the upper hand.
The devil on my shoulder was reaching for my wallet, while the angel just looked pissed. She poured what I thought was her shot of rum, mixed with some sickly sweet proof hiding agent, down my throat, and asked again if I wanted to party.
I feebly tried to make light of the situation, but her coconut oil lotion, the rum and our precarious position were conspiring against me. Luckily physics bailed me out. Her ninety-five pounds bouncing on my lap was just enough to cause the back legs of our folding chair to loose footing in the wet sand, and forced her to hop off as I rolled sideways onto the sand.
She sat on the opposing chair, and we did another shot. I could feel her reeling me in. My friends were nowhere to be seen, I had a pocket full of money, and Georgina had my full attention. By this time the angel had gone to bed, and devil was bartending.
Stay Tuned…
Vinny 
April 8, 2007
Most people who frequent Negril tend to shun so-called tourist traps like Rick’s Cafe. Thought of as a haven for All-Inclusive types (people not in-the-know), Rick’s Cafe is an island of crass commercialism in what we consider our little bay of authentic Jamaican culture.
Even the guidebooks play along. Lonely Planet’s Guide to Jamaica speaks of the “touristy throngs.” The Rough Guide to Jamaica is downright snippy referring to Rick’s Cafe as: “Negril’s biggest tired cliche,” and “undeservedly popular.” I think it’s just marketing. People who buy a package deal from Sandals don’t need guide books. Self-styled sophisticated travelers like me, do.
Caribbean Travel & Life Magazine rates Rick’s Cafe as one of the “Ten Best Bars in the World,” and Patricia Schultz considers Rick’s one of the 1000 Places to See Before You Die in her smash-hit book. This is high praise for a tourist trap.
So who’s right?
Before my first trip to Negril in 1994, I read several guidebooks, and thus I thought Rick’s was a waste of time, which is funny because I stayed at Hedonism II, the most undeservedly-popular, tired-cliche in the Caribbean.
Several years later, by then an experienced Negril traveler, my date and I spent an afternoon at Rick’s Cafe, but we left before the sunset throng thronged in. I didn’t understand the pro or the con really. It was a nice place, the food wasn’t very good, the beer was nice and cold, and the single diver was fun to watch.
In 2004 I befriended some crazy people who loved to party. Our night at Rick’s Cafe was a blast. This was the first time I got the full Rick’s effect: sunset, bikinis, divers, and dirty bananas. I loved the place, sure it was a more expensive than other places in town, but it also had better infrastructure.
Several months later came Hurricane Ivan. Ol’ Rick’s got its butt kicked, as did most of the West End of town. Soon thereafter I stayed right next door to Rick’s at Banana Shout, and I got a good look at the devastation. The word on the street was that Rick’s had American insurance and would be rebuilt by a major contractor. The locals were pretty salty about it, since they knew it would be many months before it reopened, and many months till it brought all those tourists back to the far end of the West End.
Now I rarely miss a Rick’s Cafe run when I visit Negril. Since Ivan it has been rebuilt twice as big and twice as touristy, but I still like it. The house band rocks, there’s a pool, with all the things pools at bars bring, there’s a second floor dining area with a soul stirring two hundred degree sunset view, and even the food has gotten better, if only by a little.
Peace 
Vinny
March 4, 2007
A few weeks before last trip to Negril, I was doing some spring cleaning, getting the Love Shack ready for Christmas. Yeah, I was spring cleaning in November, make your judgments as you must.
Anyway, I came across a package of battery powered Christmas lights in the back of a closet, and a wonderful idea began to form like in “When the Grinch Who Stole Christmas” when the Grinch’s heart grows two sizes too big.
“I’m going to decorate my patio at The Castle with Christmas lights, just like Calico Jack would have done, all things being equal and stuff. Did I mention I drink when I clean?
Luckily I noticed some discoloration on the package before I stowed the lights in my rolling duffel bag. At first, I thought Rosie “The Cat” peed on the box, somehow punishing me for leaving her with the evil kid down stairs for a week, but, upon closer inspection, the battery pack had corroded, and all the wires and lights were fused together is a sticky tangle of yuck.
“Well, So much for Christmas lights,” I tossed them in the trash, but didn’t take them off my list.
A few days before my departure, I was in Target (pronounced: tar-j-A) picking up the few last things on my packing list, when what to my wondering eyes did appear? A huge bin of bargain basement Christmas lights! I took it as a sign and picked up a twenty foot strand for a dollar and ninety-eight cents.
Finally in my room at The Blue Cave Castle, I dropped my bags and plopped on the big bed. The salty evening breeze billowing the lacey white curtains, throwing gentle blue shadows around my familiar room. I could have called it a night right then, but I had plans. I walked into the bathroom, and was revived under the cool fat-water shower.
“Christmas Lights!” Popped into my mind, and running from the bathroom, I was barely dry before tearing into the small yellow box of colored lights. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any convenient power on the patio, and no way was I going to wait till tomorrow to pick up an extension cord.
So I looked around my place, and I found a socket near the big bay window that faced the Caribbean. Aahh, this was the perfect place to express my Yuletide spirit to passers by.
I ran outside to view my handiwork, and I have to admit the lights looked fantastic. I sat on the Castle wall for a while with a cold Red Stripe luxuriating in my accomplishment. After ten or fifteen minutes I remembered I was expected over at Xtabi to meet up with friends for dinner. We had a date with some five star jerk at 3Dives, so I went inside to put on some good clothes.
“Woooooooo,” someone was shouting from somewhere behind me. I spun around to see a glass bottomed boat about thirty yards out on the sea, silhouetted black on black, I couldn’t make anyone out.
“Merry Christmas!” A woman’s voice shouted. “Love those lights!”
I walked to the patio wall and waved, “AARRGGHHH! Merry Christmas Me Matey’s!”
“Thank You, Happy Christmas Pirate Mon!” replied a smiling Jamaican voice as they rounded the cliff and faded from sight.
Needless to say the lights were a big hit.
Vinny
February 26, 2007
Deep in the hoary depths of Negril Jamaica, lives a mysterious and fabled creature. A creature that has defied definite detection, yet the locals know well the curious scent and the slimy trail of this jumping Jamaican juggernaut.
Yes, it’s the Jamaican “Leaping” Slug.
The first whispered accounts of this mythic creature date back to the earliest Spanish explorers like Columbus, and Juan Valdez. After the Spanish came the Russians, and then the Crusaders, and finally the Brits. They were all so busy raping the land for the Queen and Country that sightings were relegated to either a lack of sex, or of Vitamin C.
The first substantiated sighting came in 1791 when escaped Irish indentured servant Phinneas McBogan became the first white man to see the, and I quote, “Slimy Leaping Bastard.”
McBogan came to Negril fleeing his British oppressors. He befriended a small band of Jamaicans where he shared in their ceremonial mushroom tea. Later that night while wandering along the cliffs he wrote this in his journal:
“I was lying at the base of a fine palm tree. Suddenly the entire jungle began to dance a fecking jig. I had the feeling I was being watched, and then I saw it! From one grand leaf to another I watched this slimy bastard, like a bleedin’ tree frog, leaping with a mighty gusto. Brilliant!”
I came across this amazing account while excavating a humble Irish hovel high in the hills of Donegal, Ireland. You see, McBogan was my Great Great Grandfather’s next door neighbor’s daughter’s schoolmaster’s great great uncle twice removed. I became obsessed.
Many of my colleagues have been searching for more mainstream creatures like The Yeti, Bigfoot and Nessie, but since I was a boy I felt the need to be different. All my friends say I’m quite different, and I relish that clear compliment.
So, after years of careful study, I came to Negril to meet this amazing creature for myself. Limax Negrillius, as it is known to amateur crypto-gastropodologists like me, is not very different from his cousins the Spotted Leopard Slug or the GGGS (Great Grey Garden Slug). The Jamaican “Leaping” Slug is a beautiful grey color and feeds on tiny mites which inhabit banana and pimento leaves. Yes, he is a carnivore!
In my dozen or so trips to Negril, I have seen many beautiful slimy slugs, but the Leaping Slug eludes me. I promise to come back again and again, drink copious amounts of the magical mushroom tea, and I vow not to rest till I find, film and photograph my silent slippery nemesis.
Stay Tuned
Vinny
January 29, 2007
Negril.com is Negril’s Official website, and they will be publishing some of my articles and reviews. The first one is featured on today’s home page, and is a review of The Appleton Estates Rum Tour.
You can find the article here: Negril.com – http://www.negril.com
You can read the full article here: Appleton Estates Rum Tour
Thanks Negril.com!
Vinny
January 26, 2007
When Im in Negril I try to travel light money-wise. I know me, the more I have, the more Ill spend. Filling up also forces me to get off my butt, and to get out of the resort.
This particular money run took place on Wednesday, though it may have been Thursday, after paying for breakfast I was down to four hundred fifty dollars, Jamaican dollars, about six bucks US, so I needed some cash. I hopped into a route taxi and headed into town.
You want me to wait for you. Bring you back? the driver asked.
Sure how much? I knew this would cost me.
500J he came back.
Three hundred, I haggled. Id paid the standard 50J into town, but I didnt mind over paying as long as he knew, that I knew I was overpaying. His nod was all I needed, and we pulled into Sunshine Plaza where my preferred ATM at the NCB, was located.
I hopped out of the taxi as two armored cars aggressively pulled into the parking lot. Their deliberate actions got everyones attention. Everything paused.
The first red and black armored car parked directly in front of the bank, while its counterpart circled menacingly through the lot, the sun bouncing off its dark tinted windows, the name GUARDSMAN emblazoned on its side in tough bold letters. After two laps the second car pulled up to the first, parking nose to nose blocking the egress lane.
The armored cars looked just like they do in the US, but the reaction of the Jamaicans in the parking lot took me by surprise. The lot holds about fifty cars, and it was just more than half full, mostly taxis. You can say a lot about Jamaican taxi drivers, shrinking violets they are not, but they all seemed to pause. No one walked though the imaginary line the trucks made in the lot.
I was half expecting a muscle bound guy in a tight black t-shirt, with studded army boots and a snarling Pit Bull to jump out of the armored car.
Suddenly the passenger doors of both armored cars opened simultaneously, and out of each came a man wearing black trousers, red polo styled golf shirts, Guardsman baseball caps, and extremely large pump-action shotguns. They were holding them not like props, but like they were ready to shoot someone as they scanned the crowd.
I felt like such a white bread tourist geek, as I stood agog at the scene before me. Ive come to Jamaica so many times, I like to think I’ve passed beyond mere tourist. Ive been on the back streets of Montego Bay, and Sav-La-Mar, up in the ganja fields, and even spent a few wild late nights at the now defunct Close Encounters. I thought Id seen the Real Jamaica hustlers are always trying to sell, but I was experiencing something real here.
The shotgun guys must have given a sign to their armored security counterparts, the back doors opened, and a team of three emerged from each car. First was a manager type with a white shirt and tie, and two uniformed guards, their hands on holstered semi-automatic pistols. One team went into the Hi-Lo supermarket, while the other went into the ATM booth. One shotgun guy followed each team stopping to guard the respective doors.
A collective sigh seemed to come over the crowd. The people in the parking lot stayed in the parking lot, and as shoppers came out of the store, they waited, not wanting to cross the line. I was already closer to the ATM than my cab so I walked up and stood near the ATM as if I was the next in line.
The shotgun guy looked me over, Morning, he said his finger still looped within the trigger guard, Just a few more minutes.
Take your time, I said with a nervous smile. Im on vacation, I have all day. I immediately thought I was talking too much.
Minutes went by. I looked over to my taxi. The driver was looking impatient sitting on the hood of the car. I shrugged in a Hey what can I do? gesture knowing me his tip was increasing with each passing minute. I turned back to the guy with the big gun and saw I was now second in line.
In front of me was a fidgety white guy, dressed in all-inclusive chic, starched Hawaiian shirt, khaki slacks, dock-siders and a Yankees cap.
Hey Pal, the line forms behind me, I said as un-aggressively as I could.
What the hell is going on here? I need to get some cash! He almost shouted to me and the large man with the large gun.
Just a few more minutes sir, the guard said firmly.
Yeah Skippy, right after Im done, I said getting annoyed, buoyed by the idea the guy with the shotgun was now my buddy.
This is bullshit! What, do you people think you can just waste my time! Bullshit! This guy was nuts, here he was, ranting at an armed no nonsense guy, not to mention pissing me off.
Worst of all he was a fellow American, from his accent I figured Connecticut or Upstate New York, I wish he would have stayed there. Im proud to be an American, but this ugly American looked so very ugly from this vantage point. I looked at the faces of the Jamaicans across the way, they seemed amused. I wondered if they differentiate between him and me.
For a moment I wondered what the shotgun guy would do if I slapped the shit out of Skippy, you know, for America, but before I could find out Skippy stormed off.
Fucking Americans, I muttered eliciting a smile from the big guy with the gun.
A couple of minutes later a knock came from inside the ATM booth and the big guy with the gun moved about ten feet closer to the armored car.
The Manager Guy came out flanked by the other two guards, one holding his pistol and the other carrying bags of what I assumed was money.
“Go right a head sir,” the Manager Guy said to me while holding the door open. “Would you like us to wait for you to finish?”
“No, I’m fine.” I responded wondering if he thought I was the yelling asshole ugly American Guy.
I made eye contact with the big guy with the gun, “Thanks,” I said. He nodded in reply.
I went in and withdrew 15,000J, it sounds like a lot more than it is, and by the time I got out the armored cars were starting their motors.
I headed back to The Blue Cave Castle to meet up with my friends for lunch. I paid the driver his 500J.
Vinny
January 12, 2007
Wednesday morning drifted lazily into early afternoon, now solidly on Jamaica time, sunbathing and book reading broken up by short dips in the sea. Sometime after noon Petrona told us Famous Vincent was on his way.
“I can’t wait to see the sharks,” I said excitedly.
“Sharks?” Dee said dryly, ”Don’t mess with me,” clearly implied.
“I’m teasing, there are no sharks till you get out past the reef,” I said knowledgeably, though I was talking out of my ass. I’d never heard about shark attacks in Negril, but then again, you rarely ever hear of bad things happening in Negril. I often promise myself to do more research, but I’m not ready to shatter my, probably naive, view of a shark-less island paradise.
I didn’t know what to expect, all these trips to Jamaica and this was my first snorkeling adventure. Dee is a strong swimmer and couldn’t wait to get out to the reef, though the idea of those pointy little fish still had her concerned.
We made our way down the cliff to the water’s edge and Famous Vincent was there waiting for us. His 20-25 ft. boat was old but sturdy, the seating area had flat wooden roof, and the sea bed was clearly visible thru thick plexiglass panes in the floor.
“You must be Vincent!” I shouted as the smiling Famous Vincent helped us board his boat.
“Yes, yes! Welcome.” We shook hands.
“My name is Vincent too, everyone calls me Vinny.” I don’t know if he heard me, or maybe meeting a fellow Vincent wasn’t a big deal to him, being famous and all.
“I’m Dee, I call him Vince,” Dee said separating her self from “everybody” and shaking his hand as we settled in.
As we pulled away from the cliff face we heard someone yelling “Wait!” We looked up to see Scott and Deb, our castle-mates, waving us down. Famous Vincent steered the boat to the swimming platform as Scott and Deb made their way down the steps. Soon we were underway, chatting loudly over a gunning engine, and the splash of bow cutting through clear blue sea.
Famous Vincent gave us a rundown of what we were getting for $20US a head: a trip across the bay to a section of reef out near Booby Quay; thirty to forty minutes in the water; then back to the Castle. The views were invigorating from the little boat, the sky was clear the water calm, I felt confident my Gilligan’s Island fears were for naught, anyway this was only a one hour tour.
“What a view, huh,” I said to no one in specific, eloquence lost on the blue sky with perfect puffy happy clouds like an Windows screensaver.
“Are there any sharks?” Dee asked Famous Vincent.
“Not around here, farther out maybe, and some Nurse Sharks out by the Lighthouse.” Famous Vincent answered pointing to the tiny lighthouse several miles to the south.
Satisfied by his answer Dee went into her story of the long skinny fish that she felt had assaulted her the day before. I was getting a little tired of the story, but she told it well, and she had us all laughing.
“I’m sorry, we have spoiled our fishes here in Negril, they were looking for a little lunch, we feed the fish here, and they’re not afraid of us.” Famous Vincent explained, “We’ll feed them on the reef, you’ll see.” Terror turned to excitement at the thought of hand feeding the fishes. I just hoped they were small toothless fishes.
We were about even with Rutland Point when the water became noticeably shallow. The water was swimming pool clear, and I couldn’t wait to get in. As we slowed you could see how the low tide exposed pieces of the reef like dark rocks in the dessert. Famous Vincent dropped anchor and began to hand out the gear.
Scott and Deb had their own equipment, Dee and I donned flippers, mask and snorkel. I put on a life jacket since I am not so comfortable in open water. I looked pretty stupid, but felt safe as I jumped off the boat. Famous Vincent gave us a few snorkel pointers, and soon we were headed towards the reef.
Focused on breathing through the snorkel, and trying to keep up with the better swimmers, I had to suppress a gasp when I looked down to see the reef spread out before me, Wow. Small schools of colorful little fish just below me, bigger ones below them, and spiny urchins filled nooks and crannies.
“Awesome!” I hear Dee’s voice above water, I look over to see Famous Vincent in the midst of a hundred yellow fish with bright blue stripes, but before I got there Dee and Famous Vincent were back under water. I drew closer to see Famous Vincent stuffing something into Dee’s hand, as she extended her arm she was swarmed by the same hungry fish, she was actually laughing under water.
We swam a few yards towards a larger reef structure when Famous Vincent came close to me and stuffed some bread he had in a zip-lock bag into my hand. Within a few seconds little fishes we everywhere, totally obscuring my vision, soft little mouths nipping toothlessly at my fingers. What a rush! When the bread was gone I spun around, fish everywhere, I was like a kid at a petting zoo.
“Woo Hoo! That was sooo cool!” I shouted surfacing. Dee was beaming, the water sparkling in her eyes, the ear to ear grin, totally unguarded.
A second later we dove back under water following Famous Vincent through a maze of coral mountains. The reef tops were so close to the surface that we had to swim around, and through them. We were in the reef more intimately than I’d imagined. Nearer to the bottom darker colored fish poked their heads out from under ridges to check us out.
I started thinking Moray Eel as hours of Discovery Channel warnings streamed through my brain: Don’t touch the coral; Watch out for Jellyfish; Don’t eat yellow snow!”
We must have looped around the reef. I looked up to see Famous Vincent’s boat about fifty feet ahead. Deb was already on the boat, and she helped me out of the water. Famous Vincent helped Scott and Dee aboard.
My life vest may have looked stupid, but it made for an awesome trip. I never had to worry about swimming I just kicked my feet and kept my head under water, who cares if I looked like a spastic whale trying to surface. There were a few times I wanted to dive deeper to see things on the sea floor, and maybe I’ll be more sure of myself on my next trip through the Octopus’s Garden.
Back in the boat, we were all, “Did you see that?” “Did you get pictures?” “Lobsters look scary!” It was a great time. Such a great time, in fact, we didn’t want it to end. So, when we dropped Scott and Deb back at the Castle, I haggled with Famous Vincent for a nice slow cliffs cruise up to Rick’s Café.
I say this every trip, yeah it’s a tourist trap, an all-inclusivers one trip off the resort, their noses pressed up against mini-bus’ windows, maybe they’ll see some real Jamaicans. But I still like it. Famous Vincent, Dee and I took a slow trip hugging the cliffs past numerous resorts.
Samsara looked great from the sea, I wonder if those pillar cottages are as cool as they look. Next, we passed Xtabi where we had a great meal a few days previous. I was glad to see the ocean view of the Coral Seas Cliffs Resort, their cliffs were untouched, non-developed, no water access, maybe that’s why they are so inexpensive.
Tensing Pen, wow! It took my breath away. The new post-Ivan villas peek out from the jungle-like setting, yeah the joint is expensive, but what a primo spot. We also passed Sea Grape Villas, another sexy high end place, but still cheaper than a week at a cage like Beaches.
Soon we were approaching Rick’s Cafe, and for a late afternoon Wednesday the place was happening. The divers were doing their thing, and from the lower perches little kids we working the crowd diving for tips. Famous Vincent pulled into the little cove and dropped us off near a ladder, telling us he’d be back in an hour and to look for him.
We climbed the limestone stairs to the restaurant level, they really did a big job expanding the place, and we bellied up to the bar and started a tab. We ordered Coronas with lime, and a few shots of tequila. The bartender looked at us thinking we were a few hundred miles east of Mexico. We claimed an umbrella table in the middle of all the action, and toasted Jah as the band went into a soulful rendition of No Woman, No Cry.
Divers to the left, a rowdy bar to the right, and the house band in front of us. We ordered more shots when the waitress came with Corona refills, and our appetizer sampler. I felt like such a tourist, drinking Corona, eating Buffalo wings from the appetizer sampler, all while wearing a very loud Hawaiian shirt. I guess I was in a Jimmy Buffet mood, I’ve always thought his Margaritaville was an attempt to capture the feel of Rick’s Cafe anyway.
I was pretty wobbly as we tried to dance to the house band’s version of Johnny Nash’s I Can See Clearly Now, but I soon found my groove, and truth be told, I dance best when wobbly. From the dance floor, dance patio anyway, we saw that Famous Vincent had returned. At first we pretended not to see him because we were having such a good time, but we soon hit that reorder or don’t reorder point of no return. So, we paid our tab and stumbled down to the boat dock.
Famous Vincent was there waiting for us, and we managed to make it on board without any embarrassing miss-steps. Famous Vincent was laughing at us as we laughed and carried on, it was then we noticed an older couple sitting at the bow looking at us like we were crazy people.
Tom and Pat were from Indianapolis. They were staying at The Rockhouse, and were eager to make it back to their veranda for sunset. They asked us to join them, but Dee didn’t like the way hubby was ogling. I’d like to say wifey was ogling me, but alas, she wasn’t.
“Almost sunset, do you want to stay on the water?” Famous Vincent asked.
“Yes, please that would be awesome,” Dee replied.
I leaned back at the bow of the boat as Famous Vincent slowly motored out into the bay. Dee came over and leaned against me. Moments before the sun kissed the horizon Famous Vincent cut the motor. It was so peaceful out there as we rocked ever so gently on the placid Caribbean. We had the best sunset spot in Negril that night.
Approaching the night lit Blue Cave Castle we were impressed by its majesty sitting there on the cliff all alone.
“This is really the best place,” Dee said. “The other places may be fancier, but they don’t stand out like The Castle does; Everyone remembers this place when they go by.”
Peace
Vinny
October 10, 2006
This isn’t a review of the sporadically funny show on F/X. Has anyone seen it?
Saturday was a sunny day in Philadelphia. I’d been doing a lot of writing on Philly lately, and I felt like I needed a spark, and I could think of nothing sparky-er than a day in Philly with Dolores.
We met up around noon, and went to Jon’s at 3rd and South for lunch. You gotta love a place that makes a quality Reuben. The decor is based around Larry Fine from the Three Stooges, legend has it that he was actually born on that site, though there is no Historical Marker.
Throughout the beautiful afternoon as we were perused the little shops on South Street, we kept noticing these girls dressed in pink frilly dresses, but with goth hair, makeup and those platform lace-up boots. Was this a new goth style? I took to calling them the Goldilocks Goths, and I would have been impressed, non-conformists actually not conforming, but there were three of them, so that idea was shot to hell.
We ended up at Fat Tuesday’s for beers and a few shots, time to add some spice to the afternoon. I tried to get Dolores to win some beads, but we hadn’t done that many shots, though she did have one alarming idea. She announced she was going to get her bellybutton pierced. I was very encouraging, thinking it would make an interesting story.
But, before any piercing was to be done we needed to feed the parking meter, so we headed the four blocks back to Headhouse Square.
Right in Headhouse Square we found a new place called Kildare’s, a good place for an afternoon drink. It was very comfortable, had a big oak bar, and there was even an old drunken guy mumbling at the end of the bar. Most importantly they had Guinness on tap, and it was Brilliant!
Our shot of the day was something called a Washington Apple, I think it was Crown Royal and Apple Schnapps. It was sweet and a little sour, and had a serious kick, we had many. We asked the bartender and a waitress where we could find a good belly piercer, there were plenty places all around, but since they were both fairly well pierced and tattooed, we thought they might have an in.
We hit the street, stopped to drop a few more quarters in the meter, and headed to South 4th Street the home of several body modification shops. We were buzzed but not drunk as we entered No Ka Oi Tiki Tattoo and Body Piercing. We picked this particular place because it looked clean and there were a lot of people inside (the other shops were empty). Our piercer was friendly and professional, not to mention extremely modified and just a little scary. You have to be a bit leery of someone who sticks needles into people for fun and profit.
Unfortunately for me, though fortunately for the pierced among us, no one is allowed in the room while the procedure takes place. I was hoping to photograph the event for posterity, and also to tease and annoy Dolores as he jammed the giant needle in her belly button.
I was impressed, Dolores was one tough cookie! She didn’t scream or yell at all! I’m sure I would have fainted and caused a scene, but I don’t think there’s much of a chance I’ll ever be getting belly pierced.
To celebrate her newly perforated torso we hit Manny Brown’s a great little dive-ey bar around 5th and South, but we didn’t stay long. The piercing gave Dolores a burst of energy; I hope she doesn’t turn into one of those addicted to piercing people.
Later we browsed a few of these new Porno-Chic shops that seem to be popping up all over South Street. There have always been edgy shops going back to places like Zipperhead, where leather bondage-type apparel had been available for years, but it was more of a tourist thing, a place for teenage skater-boys to look and giggle like Beavis & Butthead.
Now the concept has gone mainstream, we went into several places, and any porn stigma was obviously gone. There were no old men in trench-coats here, only perky teens paying cash as not to alarm complacent parentals.
Next it was to the Wasabi House for a healthful sushi dinner, and then to Bridget Foy’s for drinks (yeah more drinks). Bridget Foy’s was excellent; I put it on my “dinner next time” list.
Overall it was a very good dining and drinking day, oh piercing too, and by the time I got home on Sunday, just before the Eagles game, my head was full of fresh ideas, time to get to work
Vinny
September 10, 2006
Last Sunday morning I found myself alone at a railroad siding waiting to hop the train into Philly. I was a good ten minutes early, so I sat near the tracks, leaned back and closed my eyes.
When I was a kid Peter O’Malley and I would make day long explorations to the frontier of our world. We would ride our bikes back behind the Tingley Rubber factory, the hilarity of the name lost on our twelve year old experience, for us this was the height of reckless adventure, though actually, we were only a few miles from home.
Cutting a swath a few hundred feet wide through the woods were high tension wires that seemed to go on forever, maybe even as far as Route 1, I don’t think we ever went far enough to find out, we usually stopped near some train tracks.
We’d sit at the road-less crossroads looking up and down the tracks and we’d argue as to where the tracks led. Peter, always a bit more grounded in reality than I, would say, “Up there (North) is Iselin and down there (South) is Trenton.†Me, on the other hand, would conjure up names like Tuxedo, New York or Bel-Aire, Maryland, claiming I knew better since my Grandfather worked these rails “before the War.†I probably didn’t know what “before the War†really meant, and maybe not even sure what war I was even referring to.
It might have been my enduring fascination with maps. As a kid I’d lay out a map on the living room floor and look for distant magical destinations, like Nashua, New Hampshire, or Gettysburg, Pennsylvania (I only had a Northeast US map). Then I’d figure a route, calculate mileage, and read about the places of interest on the back of the map, or I’d look them up in the Funk & Wagnalls kept in the hallway bookcase.
Sometimes we’d put pennies on the track, urban legend had it that the train would stretch and flatten them into oval copper discs. Try as we might, the train never showed up, or if it did, it was so long we lacked the patience to wait for the caboose, so we never found out if the stories were true.
Shaken back to the present by a distant ambulance siren, I reached into my pocket to search for pennies; I had six.
Looking all around like an unpracticed criminal, I carefully placed the six pennies end to end in the center of the rail, making sure to alternate between heads and tails. Moments later the train came into view, and for some reason I stepped away from the pennies as if to disassociate myself with them.
Late that afternoon I made my way back from Philly, and I’d forgotten all about the pennies until the conductor shouted, “Crestmont Next Stop!â€
I stepped from the train and nonchalantly walked away from the platform, just in case the railroad police put out an All Points Bulletin: Be on the lookout for a stealthy criminal penny layer, chances likely perpetrator will return to the crime scene.
I waited till the train was out of sight, and when the coast was clear I turned around to search for my pennies in the rail bed. They weren’t where I left them, but about eight to ten feet away I saw something shiny, and one by one I found all six flattened copper oval discs, almost featureless with faint penny markings.
I felt like a little kid again, and all the way home I turned the coins every which way with an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment.
All this week I’ve carried the former coins in my pocket and I discovered I wasn’t the only one who thought they were cool. Every guy I showed them to was impressed; it was a universal male reaction. Older guys, younger guys, black guys, white guys, Spanish guys, skinny guys, fat guys, even Phil, a drunk guy; everyone got it! They would ask to hold one and look at it in wonder as I told my story.Â
I also showed them to several women, they didn’t get it. They just looked at me with a blank expressions and asked, “Why the hell would you do that?â€
I guess women are just more complicated.Â
Peace
Vinny
Â
September 8, 2006
I apologize to my friends who come to this space looking for new and spunky renditions of my strange life and travels. I promise more of the same, but lately I’ve been otherwise focused. For the past coupla months I’ve been getting serious about being published, ink on paper, clippings for my writing resume.
It’s an interesting world to break into, but I’m gaining momentum. My queries and submissions are beginning to rate rejection letters which are a big step up from being completely ignored. My first thought was to post these rejections here so all my friends could heap scorn uponst my detractors, but on second glance I thought it wouldn’t make the best business sense.Â
Of course, I will post links to my successes here, and I expect everyone reading this to subscribe to any and all publications with the good sense to print my work.
Thanks for your patience, Springtime in Negril Part 3, 4 and maybe 5 will be posted soon…
Vinny
September 4, 2006
I planned to spend the day in Philly, hang out, do some people watching, but I missed the damned train. Undeterred, I figured I’d grab the bus, and I was only steps from the stop when the southbound 55 bus roared passed me.
I was about to give up and hit the diner for a late breakfast when a northbound 55 crested the hill. Seeing it I thought, “Maybe I’ll go to the mall and buy a book,” and a minute later I was dropping my token.
The 55 bus runs from Olney Station in North Philly to the Willow Grove Park Mall (about a mile from my house), and once every hour or so, it continues 12 miles north to Doylestown, PA. I’d always heard Doylestown was a nice place with a cozy historic district, and since it was a bright sunny day, I decided to take a trip.
I de-bussed at State & Main. State & Main, how middle-America-ville can you get. The historic downtown was clean and well peopled at 11 o’clock on Saturday morning. Quaint shops and cafe style eateries lined the narrow streets. Historic houses remodeled into B&B’s sprouted shi-shi restaurants at street level. Well dressed suburbanites were window shopping, their kids eating ice cream on the warm summer day. Enough to make you puke, huh?
Doylestown was founded by the Doyle family in 1692 after receiving a land grant from Willy Penn himself. I felt an immediate kinship with the Irish founders until I read they were actually French, moving to Ireland during the Inquisition. I guess that was a pretty good move, the Inquisition never sounded like much fun.
It’s not all high-end boutiques, I browsed Siren Used Records (yes records) a wonderfully dusty place. Speaking of dust, on the next block was Bucks County Used & Old Books, a no-pressure place to wander about and loose yourself for an hour. There were also strategically placed coffee shops if you’re jones’in for the bean: Bucks County Coffee, Coffee & Cream, and Cafe America to name a few.
Over on East State Street is an art-house cinema; The County Theater. I’m not a big fan of that kind of stuff, but the art deco facade was striking. Around the corner sits Pane e Vino a laid-back Italian joint with outdoor seating, and on Printers Alley a place called Puck, located in the basement of some stuffy bank building. Puck is a funky little place, its sign is a arrow pointing to the basement steps, offering live music and good food.
Across from The County Theater is the Masonic Lodge. Built in 1840 the lodge is perfectly restored, well kept and oozing with evil (I read the DaVinci Code). Back on Main Street I stopped in The Other Side for a pint of Guinness. This was my kind of place, a comfortable neighborhood bar with Irish flavor, and this one had a white tablecloth bistro attached.
I can’t wait to try some of these restaurants. Paganini has a outdoor cafe fenced in with some kind of vine obscuring the patrons from the sidewalk. Slate Bleu is a date destination; a warm atmosphere with exposed brick and timbers, in a revamped circa 1864 building.
In the late 60′s and early 70′s the explosion of malls found Woolworth’s and the other American Main Street mainstays loosing-out to one-stop convenience. Lucky for the people of Bucks County, in the 90′s a few business and community leaders bought up those dying buildings, restored them, and saved them from the wrecking ball.
The cafe I wrote this in is the former William Doyl’s Tavern built in 1745, and was the original name for the area. Of course it’s now a Starbucks, really, it is. I’m reserving judgment though. Fifteen years ago there were plans to turn The Fountain House, as it was then known, it into a municipal parking lot, but now it stands proudly as a glittering jewel of post-millennial Americanism.
At three-thirty I hopped on the 55 bus back to Philly. Maybe next weekend I’ll hop on another bus and see where I end up.
Vinny
August 13, 2006
“Where can I get a nice Bikini?†Dee asked Mr. Brown Around Town.
“A really small one,†I chimed in hopefully.
“Yes, Yes, I know a place for you,†of course he did, taxi drivers in Jamaica can get you anything you want, and a few minutes later we pulled into the craft market just past the airport.
I’d never been there before. The place seemed cleaner and sturdier than the bigger craft market near town. The older women working the booths didn’t look very aggressive, and it being a holiday, I was hoping for some bargains. I immediately did what I always do when I go to one of these places. I bought a Red Stripe, and tried to look aloof. I also bought one for Mr. Brown, and a bottle of water for Dee.
The first couple booths didn’t have any bikinis, but the third one did. A chubby Jamaican woman showed Dee several hand woven, very small bikinis. She picked a white one with a purple design on it, and asked to try it on. They both looked at me like, “Well, go outside while we do this!†I was a bit hurt. I grabbed a crocheted Rasta-Dread hat for my nephew and skulked out the door.
“She’s trying on bikinis.†I said to Mr. Brown as I perused the other stalls. I wasn’t in a shopping mood, so I used my well-worn “I’m not buying souvenirs till right before I leave†line. It worked pretty well, but I think the other women wanted some action since Dee was obviously buying from the other woman.
“Viiiinnnnnyyyy†Dee calls in her best alluring voice, “Come tell me what you thiii-iinnnk!â€
There are worse things in life than being the bikini approver. Dee was self-conscious about her weight, but her standards were overly high. At 115#’s she’s a hard-body, now at 122 she feels fat. She looked fantastic.
“You look fantastic!†I marveled.
“I love it!†she said spinning around, and headed for a wall of colorful sarongs.
The shopkeeper just smiled knowing she could name her price. I was happy Dee found something she liked, but her enthusiasm severely limited my haggling opportunities. So after overpaying by a good twenty-five percent, we were back on the road, and decided to stop for a snack.
“Who do you think has the best Jerk Chicken in Negril?†I asked Mr. Brown. “Do you mind stopping somewhere? Your choice…â€
“Ozzie the best,†Mr. Brown said matter-of-factly and pulled in front of the small store. I’d heard of Ozzie’s, and many Negrilheads swear by it. I was open-minded.
Ozzie’s was clean, and a cross-wind kept the small dining area cool. I ordered Tings and Jerk Chicken for the three of us, but they only had one order of chicken left, so it was Jerk Pork for Mr. Brown and me.
Every trip to Negril I award one place my “Best Jerk†award. Ozzie’s had quick service and the food was excellent (especially the pork), but I wasn’t awarding anyone till I gave last trip’s reigning champ “Best of the West†a shot.
By five o’clock we were home at the Castle. I went inside to take a cool shower, while Dee made herself a cocktail and hit the deck chair to soak up the late afternoon sun in her new bikini. I must have dozed in the cool breeze, but was awakened by voices outside. I looked outside to see Dee napping where I’d left her.
The Castle must have been close to full occupancy, several couples had commandeered the yard chairs and lounges, and the people in the penthouse were having a sunset party. I walked over to Dee, stopping to say hello to our castle-mates. I sat on the edge of Dee’s chair staring to the horizon.
“I’d forgotten how beautiful it was…†Dee said solemnly not seeming to notice the twenty people sharing the view. I pulled her foot onto my lap and massaged it absentmindedly.
“Listen,†I said as the sun floated near the horizon’s edge. A few moments pass, “SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, did you hear it?â€
“I must have missed it,†Dee giggled. “It’s so beautiful here.â€
“You fit right in.†I stated smoothly. “How do you feel about a romantic seaside dinner, champagne and lobster?â€
“Mmmm, sounds nice, is it close?†Dee cooed.
“Just a few doors down. Just past that point,†I said, pointing down the coastline. “Go get dolled up.â€
“I have something in mind. I need to take a shower first.†Dee said.
“Need help?â€
“You just took a shower.â€
“I‘m suddenly feeling dirty.â€
Dee rolled her eyes, and ran off to our cool stone room. I looked around and noticed the sunset watchers were mostly gone as was the sun, but the cloud dusted sky was still alive in pinks, corals and blues. It is really beautiful here.
I was shaken back to earth by the faint sound of our shower, I dashed inside.
Dinner at Xtabi
About an hour later Dee and I pulled up to Xtabi. A wonderful place, hundreds of small white Christmas lights draped all about, juxtaposed with leafy tropical plants. The rhythmic beat of the sea joined gentle island music playing on cheap scratchy speakers adding to the charm. Xtabi is a testament to rustic Caribbean elegance.
We walked to the bar and ordered two very dry martinis—it was a martini kind of place. The bartender was well practiced, chilling the glasses, stirring vigorously and pouring properly. Unfortunately for Dee they had no olives, so she settled for a lime twist. Dee was beautiful, her loosely wrapped flower print dress defied gravity as she sipped her drink.
I asked the hostess for a table on the cliff’s edge. She said it would be half and hour, but there were other tables ready. We decided to wait. The bar room was nearly full, though we were the alone at the bar. The staff was mellow here. The bartender didn’t put on a show like many of his Negril colleagues, even the guests spoke in hushed tones.
Once at the table we ordered a bottle of champagne, grilled lobster and grilled red snapper. In no time our waiter returned with the bubbly, and popped the cork lavishly off the cliff into the abyss beyond. Dee couldn’t understand why they didn’t light up the cliff-side and the ocean below.
“This is nice, but it would be so beautiful to see it lit up,†she said.
“I never thought of it, I’m sure there’s a good reason. Jamaicans don’t seem too shy about making a buck.†I replied
“The fish don’t like light in the night-time,†the waiter said, responding to Dee’s question. She still thought it bad marketing.
The food was very good. The natural, earthy taste of the impossibly fresh seafood called for slow eating, savoring every bite, cutting small pieces and chewing a bit longer. The side dishes of buttery callaloo and plantain added texture to complete the meal. Dee even wrapped up a few pieces of lobster to take with us.
“You’re breakfast,†Dee smiled as she handed her plate to the waiter.
“Woo Hoo!†I responded, currently stuffed but looking forward to cold morning lobster chunks.
We must have been the last dinner seating. We noticed the other diners sipping after dinner drinks, enjoying the starry night, so we ordered fruity frozen frou-frou drinks, and joined them. One of the guys a few tables away was playing astronomer, pointing out the various constellations. I have no idea how those ancient astronomers looked at the stars and saw crabs, warriors, bulls and virgins.
“See that…†I said to Dee pointing to a range of stars, “That’s the Bob Marley constellation. And over there, a Gianticus Splifficus…â€
Mr. Astronomer guy wasn’t amused and thought I was busting his balls.
“Asshole…†was all I heard but there was more said. Dee put her hand to her mouth as if she was laughing in church
I laughed, “Dude I’m just playing, relax.†I asked the waiter to fill their drinks, but the guy grabbed his date and stormed off.
“Fucking Americans!†he grumbled as he passed us.
Now I don’t usually like to be “The Ugly Americanâ€, but in this case I was proud of the distiction.
Lazy Tuesday
I woke Tuesday morning with a big head. I stumbled for a bottle of wata and a packet of Excedrin. On my extensive packing list, hangover medicine is a high priority. I went outside and the sun was already up, taunting me. “How’s your head? Go get a cup of coffee. Go now, I haven’t heated the sidewalks yet.â€
I headed across the foot-burning concrete. “Liar†I grumbled as I retreated onto the grass. I didn’t see Petrona sitting with some guests.
“Hi Vinny, what did you say?†Petrona asked.
“ha Ha, um, oh nothing. Just muttering, how are you today?†I said.
“Oh I’m fine, how are you and your friend enjoying your stay?†Petrona asked, ever the hostess.
“We love it! Having a great time! Hey Petrona do any restaurants deliver?†I asked.
“Yes, Brown Sugar, do you need the number?†She replied.
I filled two coffee mugs as Petrona went to get me the number. Then I headed back to the room, to deliver Dee’s morning coffee. She was already in the shower, so I ordered breakfast.
Dee emerged from the room wearing only her new sarong. She drank her coffee and some OJ we’d bought for screwdrivers. In a few minutes a girl with bags of food arrived. I was pleasantly surprised how quickly it came, and by how inexpensive it was, only 600J for two meals with fresh squeezed mango/orange juice. I tipped well, hoping to make an impression.
We had one American Breakfast, (bacon, eggs, and toast) plus an order of Callaloo and Saltfish with Johnny Cakes. It was good, a little salty, and Dee wasn’t expecting bones in breakfast, but we polished it all off in record time. So quickly in fact that when the owner’s dogs came by we had nothing for them, but Dee had an idea.
“Are you guys hungry?†Dee asked while playing with the dogs, and before I could do anything she was feeding them my lobster chunks from last night!
“Hey! They were mine!†I objected. The dogs were laughing as they walked away.
Dee walked over to refill her coffee, fighting to keep her sarong from falling off most of the trip.
I saw a man talking to Petrona, asking about Vinny. I looked over and made eye contact as he waved.
“Hey Vinny!†He said as he came over. “Vinny from Philly?â€
“That’s me,†I said.
“I’m Cliff, Cardboard Box from the Negril.com board.†He held out his hand.
“Hey Cardboard Box!†I said shaking his hand, just then Dee came back.
“You must be Dee,†he stated, as he shook her hand. She was still fighting with her sarong.
We chatted awhile, taking about who was in town and where people were staying. Cardboard Box Cliff was a long time Negril visitor also from Pennsylvania, but he lives out in horse and buggy country.
“I see you’re having trouble with your top, I’ll sit this way.†Cliff said gentlemanly as he sat on the half wall enclosing our patio, now facing away from Dee.
“Thank You.†Dee said letting the sarong fall, “You turn around too,†She said to me, getting back to her breakfast. I joined Cliff looking out to sea.
Cardboard Box Cliff soon headed on down the road, saying something about lunch at Jackie’s on the Reef. I made a mental note, but I didn’t really feel like doing much that day especially after finding a place that delivered.
Dee had gone inside to oil herself up for morning tanning, and I sat on our porch to read my book. A few minutes passed and she was out on her deck chair, falling into a morning routine. Suddenly my rented cell phone rang, the number didn’t seem familiar, but I answered it.
“Hi Vinny?†the voice said.
“Yes, who’s this?†I asked.
“Sara Champlin, the masseuse, we emailed last week…†She said.
“Oh Hi Sara, how are you? I forgot we made a tentative for Tuesday, are we still on?†I answered, I’d forgotten all about booking her.
“Yes, we were set for Noon.â€
“What time is it now?â€
“Ten-thirtyâ€
“Damn, can we reschedule for 2PM?†I asked.
“Sure see you then!†She was very professional.
“Great! We’ll see you at 2PM.†This lazy day was taking shape.
I walked over to Dee to tell her the news, and I was surprised to see her tanning sans top. I mean I wasn’t objecting, I just wasn’t expecting them, err… I mean it.
“Hey sexy, want a massage?†I asked in my smooth voice.
“Not by you!†She blurted out. She must have seen my face drop because she started laughing, “I didn’t mean it that way.â€
“You’d better not. I have a masseuse scheduled for 2PM†I said.
“Man or Woman?†She asked skeptically.
“A Jamaican guy with a foot long penis,†I said matter-of-factly.
“Greaaaat! OK, do me a favor then, go buy some bigger condoms. Your extra smalls won’t fit him.â€Â She thought she was just hilarious.
“Bitch,†I said over her snorting laughter. “Her name is Sara, and she comes highly recommended. I made the appointment last week.â€
“Awesome! Is there any ice water dear?†She asked, regaining her composure.
“Yes, I’ll be right back, my queen,†I replied dryly.
“Yeeessssss, you’re coming along nicely,†she said in her best Dr. Evil voice, raising a pinky to the corner of her mouth and all.
I retuned with her water and asked, “Am I just a pervert, or is every woman in this place topless right now?â€
“I know! Those girls from upstairs are down by the water,†Dee whispered.
I looked. “I’m going for a dip!†I said, maybe a bit too loudly.
“Shhhhh,†she giggled. “Did you notice all the men are sitting out too?â€
“You love the attention.†I scoffed.
“No I don’t,†she lied.
“Aah, let them look, even I’m having a hard time looking you in the eyes.â€
“You’re not doing a very good job… and, yes, you are a pervert!†She said giggling and covering up.
I looked up and noticed the Jamaican guy around the corner from us reading a book at his table, and the penthouse occupant was looking down shamelessly enjoying the view. I waved, he waved back. “I’m getting the penthouse next time,†I greenly thought to myself.
“I’m going to hit the ATM and the store, are you sure you’re ok?†I asked.
“Yeah, go now, how long will you be?†She asked putting her top back on.
“Half hour max,†I replied
“OK, hurry.â€
I really wasn’t very motivated to leave. Some family and friends asked why I took so few pictures on this trip, I don’t know how I answered exactly, but nothing would spoil the scene than a guy with a camera. I wasn’t going to be “that†guy.
I walked over to Fuzzy who was manning the main gate and asked him where the closest ATM was. He told me the bodega across the way would change dollars or traveler’s checks, but I’d get the best exchange rate from the ATM in town. I’d thought so, but how technology was spreading in Negril, I figured I’d ask. Fuzzy flagged me down a “good†taxi, and in a few minutes I was at Scotia Bank. I got some US, some J, and then walked over to the Hi-Lo to get some goodies.
Dee wanted some pretzels or chips, but Jamaicans have a different view of junk food. I purchased my very first Doritos in Jamaica, some Jackass Crackers, some sweet buns, beer, juices, a fifth of Absolut, and a $14.00 bottle of French champagne as a surprise. Big spender, dat Vinny!
Dee took a cool shower a few minutes before her massage. Sara arrived five minutes before 2PM, setting up as Dee toweled off. Sara was very professional, but there was a warmth, a spiritual energy around her that Dee keyed in on right way. They talked for a few minutes before deciding to do the massage on our patio. There was a cool breeze off the sea, and complete shade at that time of day.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted a massage, but when I met Sara I decided to go for it. I took a shower, then a nap while Dee received her rubdown. I was in a very relaxed state as I climbed onto the table. I recommend Sara to anyone, not only did she manipulate well my sore muscles, she channeled my energy, and revived my spirit. It felt like meditating with another person steering. It was one of the deepest massages I ever recieved, amazing.
After saying good-bye to Sara, I plopped on the deck chair next to Dee. We laid there for a while, when I realized I was probably getting burned I went inside and napped till almost Sunset.
“Where did this come from?†Dee asked, finding the champagne in the fridge.
“Surprise,†I said waking. “What are we doing for Dinner?â€
“Let’s stay in,†she said finding the fresh bottle of Absolut in the freezer.
“Fine with me, I’ll order from that place,†I said meaning Brown Sugar.
There was an awful lot of haze on the horizon that evening. Still, everyone was out to watch the sunset. I rolled a spliff, and Dee popped the champagne. We sat on our deck chairs to enjoy the show, but soon found ourselves mingling with fellow guests. Here-to-fore we had only shared smiles and waves. It was nice to hang and talk with people, maybe all the bare flesh earlier that day brought us all closer together. I can’t think of a better way for it to happen.
Our food arrived just as the sun set. We retired to our patio for a nice dinner of Jerk Chicken and Curried Goat. We added fruit juice to the champagne to extend it, but it still didn’t last very long. So I switched to beer and ganja, and Dee got into the Vodka.
We moved the deck chairs to give us a dance floor close to the cliff. Dee cranked up the specially burned CD she’d made for the trip. The CD weas a compilation of hits from the 80’s, and they were pretty horrible. The kind of horrible you find yourself dancing to at weddings. Journey, Styx and REO Speedwagon, not to mention one hit wonders like Maniac from Flashdance, and What a Feeling from Fame. Luckily there was no Michael Jackson.
As people came back from dinner or wherever, they’d stop by and hang with us a bit before heading back to thier rooms. We had fun late into the night, until we realized all the lights were out, and our music was much too loud, so we finally crashed.
Wednesday – Finding Nemo
I was up before dawn and went straight for the coffee, but I let myself fall back to sleep when the hangover hit. Dee all but fell out of bed, stumbling to get cold water from the fridge, she looked to see where the sun was.
“Want some Excedrin? It’s good shit.†I offered as I pulled myself onto my feet.
“No, I’m fine. I’m missing sun, this is my last day.†She said absently.
“Cool, I’ll find out about that boat ride,†recalling a foggy memory of a snorkeling conversation with that couple from Cleveland.
“Awesome! Let’s take a dip.†She was already moving toward the door.
“Deal,†I said pulling on swim trunks.
The morning sun was bright, but not yet hot. We climbed down the stairs from the castle’s base to the platform near the water. Without fanfare we both jumped in, well she jumped in without fanfare, I was a bit more tentative. Tuesday, Dee had been accosted by several pointy little fish who seemed hungry to her. I got a pretty good look at them, so I was charged with lookout duties, but the little creatures didn’t show.
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I climbed out of the water after a few minutes and began to videotape Dee swimming. It wasn’t long before a family of teenage girls came down to snorkel along the cliff-face. One of the girls noticed a Puffer Fish in a little dent near the cave entrance. Everyone got excited, except the fish who stayed un-puffed.
“Look a Puffer Fish!†One of the girls called to her sisters. They all leaned over for a look.
Dee looked a little concerned, “Um… Are they nice?â€
“Yeah, it’s only a Puffer Fish,†she said, the “duh†was implied.
“Oh, like in Finding Nemo,†Dee said.
“Yeah!†several girls replied.
“I loved that movie!†Dee laughed, “Lenny is my favorite.â€
Everyone laughed and the girls snorkeled away like they were fish themselves.
The water had brought us back to life, I went for coffee and Dee took a shower. I ran into Petrona and asked her if she knew a glass bottom boat and snorkeling guy. She made a call and put me on the phone with Famous Vincent. I told him we were looking to go somewhere between two and three that afternoon. He answered, predictably, with “No Problem Mon.â€
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I returned to find Dee sitting at our table smoking a spliff from last night. I handed her a steaming coffee mug.
“Snorkeling between two and three,†I told her, “then we can do sunset at Rick’s.â€
“Cool, Sounds good,†She said, “that will be fun.â€
“He said you can sunbathe on the deck,†I added, “but if his boat is as small as the ones we’ve been seeing, I don’t know where you’re going to do it.â€
“It’s ok I’m gonna lay out all morning,†She said sipping her coffee. “Eww, this is too sweet.â€
“I’m sorry, I’ll get you another,†I offered.
“No, I’ll do it, enjoy your book,†She popped up and walked across the mildly peopled yard wearing only bikini bottoms. I guess she figured everyone had already seen her, but still I was impressed with her liberation. I’m a big fan of the woman’s movement, especially when I’m walking behind it.
She was almost back to the porch when the people from the penthouse met up with her. They came into our portico and we made our introductions. Scott and Deb were heading out to lunch and invited us along, but we told them we had planned to chill this morning.
Sitting down Dee was all giggles. “When I was laying out yesterday, that lady, Deb was lying out and said, ‘I guess it’s ok to go topless down here.’ With that she took her top off, and her boobs were gi-normous! I didn’t know where to look!†Dee blushed as she told the story. “I felt like a little girl next to her, I was, like, ‘I’ll be going inside now…’â€
“Wow too bad I missed it, I mean, them…†I laughed. “Maybe she was hitting on you?â€
“She’s here with her husband, duh†Dee scoffed with a little smirk.
“Maybe they’re swingers?†I replied, “She totally wants you.â€
“In your dreams…†She sipped her coffee.
“I didn’t bring it up.†I added, “Must be in your dreams.â€
“You’re such a jerk.†She pretended to storm off to her deck chair looking back with an impish smile.
- To be Continued
VinnyÂ
August 4, 2006
I know I’m supposed to be Vinny from Philly, but my job often causes me to worm my way into the Big Apple. Today is supposed to be the hottest day in NYC in 100 years, and somehow I ended up in the middle of the swelter-y-ing-ness-ism.
I’m in a Starbucks at 8th Ave betwixt 43rd and 44th Streets, it’s cool temperature-wise, relatively uncool as NYC coffee shops go. A pedesrian coffee shop one might say, not one I would normally get the urge to blog from, but any port in the proverbial storm.
I usually walk the 0.7 miles from my office to the Hoboken Train Station, it’s usually a nice walk, Hoboken is some kind of magnet for beautiful women, most of whom take the PATH train into NYC, but today I flagged down a cab, it was just too damned hot.
Once at the World Trade Center, I hopped on the wonderfully air-conditioned E Train which took me up to mid-town. The air in the NYC underground is stifling. Jeez! Luckily the place I was going to was about ten steps from the Subway entrance. I dropped off some parts to a colleague and walked half a block to perch here for a while.
My next move is to hop back on the E Train to 34th Street, (No–I’m not walking) and then hop a Yellow Train to Prince Street (Soho). I will then walk several steamy blocks to the Aroma Cafe to fix thier fingerprint software. I have fingerprint software fixing skills.
Part 2
I survived; barely. It is still really freakin’ hot! The “Real Feel” tempature at 3:30PM was 116 degrees.
I took a different track to my appointment. I saw signs for the Yellow Line right at 44th Street, which is all a part of the 42nd Street Concourse. I didn’t realize how far I had to walk to get to the Yellow Line. From 44th and 8th to about 41st and 7th, but it was better than walking in the sun. Still I was in full body free sweat by the time I got on my train.
I took the Yellow R Train to Prince Street, and the train’s A/C was working well. I was still soaked when I got to Aroma Cafe at Greene and Houston (pronounced HOW-stun). They were busy so I locked my stinky sweaty self in the well cooled office for a couple hours. By the time I hit the street again, I felt pretty cool. I dropped down into the Subway at Broadway & Lafayette, another cool train to Penn Station, and right onto a departing PATH train back to Hoboken. I wasn’t too bad after all, but now I’m heading back to Philly!
Keep Cool
Vinny
August 2, 2006
I have this idea about Negril, partly spawned in the aftermath of Dee and my Sandals Negril trip in 2002. We came to Negril, we had a blast, but I spent a fortune. All-Inclusives are nice, and they have their place, but their expense would make trips to Negril one in three or four year events. That wasn’t good enough for me, so a little over a year later I came back, off season, and I had the time of my life; mingling with Jamaicans, walking around Negril and partying with fellow travelers. Since that trip I’ve sworn off all-inclusives, my frequent trips have come to be about the place, the people, and the sea. Of course, like many things I really connect with, I’ve become a somewhat obsessed (link to ode here).
From my first suggestions to Dee about spending a few days in Negril with me, I told her all about my Negril ideas, my ideas on the place, my idea of a rustic vacation, the whole ex-pat for a week thing. I thought she was listening, she seemed thrilled, but I should have known better. I am the rare guy who can find conflict with a beautiful woman in while in paradise. Is it a gift? I think there’s another word for it, possibly there’s a diagnosis for it. But I digress.
Finally at the Castle and after settling a while, it was time to stock the fridge. Our earlier drunkenness was quickly becoming sluggishness, and the ganja was lubricating things just enough for me to think walking to the store would be a good idea. Boy was I wrong!
“Put on some comfortable shoes, and let’s go explore,” I said, rousing both of us for a small shopping adventure. I watched as she put these platform sandal things on.
” They’re comfortable? Don’t you have flip flops?” I said amazed.
“No these are all I brought.” She was immediately defensive, probably because of my shocked look of total disbelief and annoyance with her answer.
“AAAAALLLLLLRIHTY Then! Let’s just go.” I had no idea what she was thinking, as if that was surprising.
We hit the gate and were pon the narrow street in a few seconds. Until that moment I didn’t realize how buzzed I still was, my disorientation was noticed in seconds by the neighborhood locals mulling close by.
I was worrying about Dee, I was trying to find my bearings, and well, I started walking north, away from the little bodega only a hundred yards south. By the time we were across the street, Dee was complaining about the road and how unsafe it was and the locals were pointing the other way and trying to sell us a taxi ride and”¦ and”¦ My head was spinning, but being the stubborn Irish ass I can sometimes become, I pressed on north with Dee in tow, who was way more buzzed than I, and completely confused as to what we were doing.
“Where is this place? We need a taxi? Are we gonna walk everywhere?” Dee went on and on, all I heard was the Charlie Brown teacher (wahgh waaw waaa).
“We walk in Negril, the place is close, relax!” My “relax” wasn’t very relaxing.
“This is ridiculous!” She was pissed, “We’re gonna die out here!”
I laughed scornfully, “Don’t be so dramatic, try to be a little open to things, this isn’t all about you!”
Things were getting nasty. If this was on camera maybe we could laugh about it later, but before things got out of hand, I gave in. Partially because I realized I was walking the wrong way, and I also realized, some may call it a moment of Zen, that any chance of a few nice days with Dee would be evaporated by the time we got to Sue’s Easy Rock. So, I gave the next taxi a wave, he stopped, and sped us in a thick silence to Sunshine Village Shopping Center.
Everything was closed save a few small eateries, time to eat some crow Mr. Negril.
“Hungry?” I asked in a conciliatory way.
“Starved” She answered, ready to pounce.
It was about 4PM Easter Sunday, downtown Negril was more of a ghost town as I’d ever seen it. We walked up to Sunrise Pizza on the second floor of the center. We ordered a shrimp pizza and a few Red Stripe Lights. From the small cafe table the Easter quiet Negril spread out before us. With a gentle turn of the head you could see far up the beach one way and the beginnings of the west end the other. We sat in silence and enjoyed the cold beer and the cool breeze.
The cute teenage waitress sensed the steely vibe beneath our polite smiles as she delivered the pizza and a few fresh beers, retreating quickly.
“This is weird, but good” Dee offered, through a mouthful of pizza.
“It is. The cheese is good but different. It has a little tang to it.” I replied. Small talk is good.
“I don’t want to fight.” Dee said. I wasn’t sure how she meant it. Was it an “I give in?” Was it a, “Let’s do things your way and I’ll trust you to keep me safe, for you are the Negril guru and I surrender may fate to you my honorable friend and master?”
Um”¦ not likely, it was more a, “You better straighten your ass out right away or I’ll make this the most miserable four days, a lonely blue-balled paradise lost.”
“I have an idea!” I said cheerfully with new-found enthusiasm, mixed with the wisdom of “Yes Dear”.
“Shoot”
“No more walking, I like taxis, taxis are good!” Trying to make my capitulation less humiliating, but what were my choices really? In that moment my plan to share my “ex-pat for a week” idea of Negril with my friend evaporated into the reality of four days of touristy fun and frolic.
“Taxis are good, I don’t want to be a jerk, but I didn’t think we’d be walking around on these roads like that.” She was meeting me in the middle.
“Yeah, I just thought since we walked all over last time, it wouldn’t be a big deal.”
“The road on the beach is like twice as wide.” She was right, I hadn’t thought of that. I’d forgotten she’d been here a few times herself. Am I an asshole? Naaaa, couldn’t be.
There were a few cabbies in the lot when we got downstairs, I saw a familiar face and we hopped in his clean white Toyota. I handed him $20US and asked for a little tour before taking us back to the Castle. He obliged and took us out towards Sheffield on the road to Savannah-La-Mar, past the Police station and Tedd’s Shroom Boom, then somehow coming to the far end of West End Road way down along the southern shoreline. I zoned out for much of the ride, burned out by travel and by the realization my vacation was turning out much different than planned, but I was ok with it. In Negril you go with the flow. It would actually take effort to have a bad time.
All told it was a good forty minutes before we were greeted by the Castle gates. It must have been obvious we had made-up; Robert was all smiles giving me a “you’re doing better now” wink.
We had managed to get some Red Stripe and some bottled water while on our tour, so I loaded the fridge and filled the ice trays. Dee stretched out on the bed. I went about un-packing and rolling a big sunset spliff. I attempted to wake her, but she slept through our first Negril sunset.
I found a quiet spot down near the water with pen and journal; stealing a precious moment as the sun slid into the sea.
Come Monday, It’ll be alright
Sunrise: so beautiful from Blue Cave Castle. I sat on a cliff-side wall thirty feet above the Caribbean, it was still dark as the lighter purples of morning start to glow like a crown around the Negril Hills, though from where I was sitting I couldn’t see the hills.
A workman, a maintenance guy or something, stopped by, he seemed surprised to see me. Island people are funny, they feel the need to stop and sit with you for a second, as if it would be rude to pass you by with a simple wave or hello.
No Fishermen yet, but the coffee was ready. The morning coffee ritual at the Castle is a key feature of Blue Cave accommodations. Every morning before sunrise there is a big urn hot and ready to go, its green ready light can be seen from all over the property. I silently padded across the yard fill my cup with the rich Blue Mountain brew.
The morning grew lighter, but the sun still hadn’t broken thru the morning’s purple haze. Suddenly to my left (beach & town) a fisherman gunned his 15ft red wooden boat, a second follows moving a bit faster. The racing engines cracked the egg of silence and all the other morning sounds oozed from it. The rooster, earlier just an echo, made his morning call with just a bit more gusto. Cars on the road, winds thru the trees and someone clanking around the coffee hut, Negril was coming to life.
The fishing boats were in front of me, the slower stopped far from shore, I could see the fisherman moving around but couldn’t tell what he was doing. The other boat was only a few hundred feet from my cliff-side perch, I waved as he passed. He waved back from his glass bottom boat. He was fishing for early morning anglers from the cliff resorts, in that moment I wished fishing wasn’t so damned boring.
Looking across the bay there were many fishermen working the reef. These people don’t live by clocks. Do you want to know what time it is? It’s dawn. It breaks through your window, the rooster crows, you get up, wash up, eat a likke something, and then it’s off to work. If you’re a fisherman that means out on the bay to eek out a living in this tough place. I wonder how free these guys are to work as they please. Do they need a government stamp or license? Is there a Negril mob boss you have to pay tribute to? Have I been in Philly too long?
Sitting with coffee in one hand and a big spliff in the other, the caffeine and ganja mix nicely. The ganja moved in like an old friend, I drop my pen for the moment and try to connect with this, my favorite place.
Dee woke up, said good morning and proceeded on her single-minded quest for a good deep tan. She barely stopped for coffee and a little taste of spliff.
The view was good, sitting at my shaded table the grayish-white limestone walls all around this place turn blazing white in the mid-morning sun. Dee’s beautiful form laying on her deck chair while just beyond her the sea erupted in a sparkle-fest of dancing colors. A few miles north clouds were threatening, but looked to be moving out to sea, leaving just enough residue to add promise to the sunset.
It was late morning when we decided to head to the beach. I wasn’t too thrilled about dealing with sand and sellers, but Dee wanted an au-natural bathing area, and who was I to deprive her. I was hungry and she wanted a snack, so we hit Selina’s for a late breakfast.
It was nice to see Selina; always a warm welcome, a spicy Bloody Mary, and those kids just keep getting bigger. We hit the place too late for breakfast, but we ordered it anyway making Selina have to send someone out for more fruit. Selina introduced us to Mr. Brown around town, a driver, an older gentleman who gave us a deal on a trip to Half Moon Bay, a private beach and bar about nine miles north of Negril in Orange Bay. Selina gave the place big props as a beautiful and more secluded beach. Mr. Brown drove cautiously, and we felt safe with him.
Half Moon Bay was a great find. I’d seen the sign before, a man-sized yellow sheet-metal fork, knife and spoon, but I never gave it a second thought. The driveway rolls into a grove of trees, a building fronted with a bar with the small bay just beyond. We walked around a bit trying to soak the whole place in. Mr. Brown said he’d be back in a few hours to get us and then took off. We went to the bar for bottled water and Red Stripe, I asked the bartender if they rent beach towels.
“We don’t rent them,” she said. She was a pretty Jamaican girl in her late teens or early twenties wearing the light blue smock with the navy blue knee-length skirt that was the Jamaican hospitality industry standard uniform. It’s very plain but she made it look good.
“OK, can I buy a two?” I asked. This made her laugh, I was a little confused.
“I’ll give you a couple, just bring them back when you’re done.”
“Cool!” I turned to Dee, “Free towels!”
We got our towels and hit the beach. It wasn’t crowded at all, Easter Monday is a holiday in Jamaica, so we found a few beach chairs and chilled. I dragged my chair to the shade leaving Dee a few feet away in the sun, it worked out well. The bay itself was like a travel poster, a small cove a hundred yards wide with a small island covered in mangrove trees about a quarter mile out. The island plugged the bay keeping the Caribbean at bay, so to speak.
Dee was disappointed that no one was sunning nude, and not wanting to be the first she went for a swim in the shallow coral bottomed bay. About a beer later I noticed she was swimming in the midst of some local kids splashing all around her, and I expected her to rejoin me on the beach at any minute.
I got distracted watching a dog fishing. One of the owner’s dogs was actually fishing for minnows in the shallows. I didn’t know dogs ate fish, and I really didn’t know they would fish for them. It made me laugh when I realized these were Jamaican dogs, and so noted another “only in Jamaica” moment.
I looked for Dee, and I spotted her playing swim coach. She organized the half dozen kids into a game of keep away. They were all yelling and screaming, causing a ruckus and having a great time, everyone on the beach was watching the action wearing big smiles. I was happy to see Dee letting loose and coming to terms with Jamaica.
After about an hour she came out of the water breathless with a childlike grin, I was whelmed over with affection. Even I, rarely get to see the totally unguarded Dee, seeing her beam like this was a treat, and reminded me of why I wanted to be with her in this place.
We returned our towels and were about to get a little snack at the bar when Mr. Brown arrived to take us back to Negril. I paid the very low tab, tipped the hotty bartender lavishly, and piled into Mr. Brown Around Town’s taxi. Leaving Half Moon Bay, I felt like we’d discovered a secret place, great beach, nice bar, no higglers, peace and quiet. I’ll be back!
More to come - Peace
Vinny
July 28, 2006
The Ride
“You’re a lucky man Vinny!†Clive’s big voice boomed from the wrong side driver’s seat.
“No Man! You get to live here, you’re the lucky one my friend!†I replied in kind.
“Yes, OK, Yes, sometimes you right, but not all de time†he turned a bit serious. “You travel wit de beautiful girl, Vinny, that’s what I mean.†Dee was all smiles at Clive’s compliment.
“Yes, OK, Yes, sometimes you right, but not all de time!†I came right back in my best Clive impersonation, making him roar with laughter. Dee wasn’t amused.
We raced through Montego Bay. My memories of the place are always blurry. Some stores, a Pizza Hut and a KFC, brightly painted signs announcing, no, proclaiming the next big music act or dancehall event in town. And in what seemed like moments we were climbing the chalky road out of town, the high rise hotels against the azure sea looked like a travel magazine cover out the back windows.
My head stopped spinning long enough to crack open a couple frosty Red Stripes that Clive pulled from a stash somewhere in the cockpit of his spotless van. As I handed Dee her beer I watched her looking all around, taking in the sights with her brown eyes sparkling beneath her stylish sunglasses. Her blondish hair was blowing in the wind; her smile was the answer, wide and unapologetic.
Clive was right, I am a lucky man.
Our relationship? Well, we’re close friends, and years of tribulation have kept us close. She’s the one girl friend (girlfriend?) in my life that I can totally let loose around, completely chill the hell out and just be myself. For her, I’m the guy who doesn’t care what she looks like, to me she’s just Dee, and that’s all she needs to be.
That’s where it starts, beyond that we fight like reality show contestants. Usually with the best of intentions, and you know what they say about best intentions. We both think we know what’s best for the other based on our pre-conceptions, misunderstandings, divergent world views, and love.
The cold beer felt great on my throat, though it was not nearly my first of the day, Dee and I had a pretty strong buzz going, and it was still before 1PM.
“We’re headed to Negril BABY!! Woo Hoo!!†I shout out to Dee, Clive and the world in general, raising my hand in the international high-five request gesture.
“This is AWESOME!!†Dee slapped my hand, recognizing the gesture, and then did a sexy kind of seat dance trying her best to groove to Clive’s mellow “Roots†Reggae.
“Clive! Put on some REAL music!!†Dee shouted raising her beer to Clive in a drunken salute to party music.
“I don’t think he’s got any Ozzy…†I replied snootily, my Jamaican sensibilities bruised. I was annoyed she would disrespect the gods of reggae so blatantly in a Rastaman’s coach. She gave me the “what-eva†look, while Clive responded without missing a beat.
“De giarrrlll wants some gooooood music to jiggle to?†Clive feigned a jiggle, somehow retaining his coolness in the process, “Yeah Giaarrrllll I got the good stuff far ya!†Damn, Jamaican guys are smooth.
Dee replied by raising her hands over her head and, well, jiggling in response to Clive’s selection of a Beanie Man CD. Soon we were all grooving to the upbeat riddims.
“Where’s that jay?†Dee asked loudly as the traffic started moving.
“Don’t you worry daaahhhling, I’ve got that for you.†Clive responded, “Just let us get down the road a bit, I’ll roll a big one for ya! Do you like big ones sweetheart?†He gave me a “Vinny is a BIG man†wink.
Somewhere past Sandy Bay near Mosquito Cove Clive pulled his van over, and pulled a glass cigar tube from somewhere. Neither of us paid much attention, we were busy watching a Jamaican family frolic in the sea. The small turn off in the road became their makeshift beach. It was nice to watch, simple pleasures on Easter Sunday.  Then we smelled that sweetness!
“MMMM, That smells great!†I said, while Dee nodded affirmatively, the sweet ganja aroma beginning to waft through the cabin.
“Only the best from Orange Hill for Vinny and his friend, Respect Mon.†Clive said seriously, working the “make Vinny sound like he’s got ‘people’ in Jamaica†angle.
“Respect†I responded solemnly, bumping his fist in the weird Jamaican/American male solidarity quazi-handshake.
I love how Jamaicans roll a spliff. I wish I could do it. They take the appropriate amount of ganja into the palm of their hand, and they break it up in a twisting motion while keeping it fairly coarse. Then they pull out a Rizla, though any paper will do. I’ve seen them roll with a piece of a paper bag and once even with a page of the Jamaica News Gleaner!
Next they put the ganja into the paper and roll it like a cone. Gravity helps to evening out the smoke. And when the cone is tight and full, they twist the top like a Hershey’s Kiss, and this all takes only a few seconds, truly amazing to watch.
Clive, ever the gentleman, passed the big spliff to Dee, but she gave it to me saying, “You light it. You should do the first one,†which I thought was sweet. I took the beautiful piece of rasta art and lit the very tip, let it burn for a second and hit that bad boy hard and deep. Unfortunately all I got was paper and I coughed like a freshman. I handed it to Dee with the obligatory, “’Ere.â€
She toked like a pro taking several big hits, her pretty face was ringed with ganja smoke as she handed it back to me. This time I was ready and took several deep cleansing tokes. The euphoria was instantaneous and simultaneous, and when I looked over to Dee her eyes had already began to swell up in ganjafied wonderfulness.
“OK, now we’re finally on Vacation!†I proclaimed wrapping my arm around Dee, pulling her close.
“Ya Mon, You deserve it Vinny†Clive stated rather seriously from the front, and as I turned back to Dee she was exhaling a huge cloud of purple tinted smoke.
“I’m having such a good time!†Dee’s smile was total, she seemed to glow. The sky and sparse landscape framed her through the big window. I took her picture, one that she will probably hate, but it captured the moment. We’d barely smoked a third of the spliff and were already fully involved.
The time flew by and in what felt like minutes we were driving through the town of Lucea and on around the southbound drop into Negril. We stopped at the roadside place with the big stairway behind it. We got a few snacks, more beer and enjoyed the view. On our last trip we had lunch here on the way back to the airport. It was our last hurrah, and now on this trip it was our first real mingling with locals and other tourists.
“Welcome to Negril,†the big sign shouts. Then “Welcome to Negril†again, then another one, and another. By the time you actually reach Westmoreland Parish you are fully welcomed.
I started playing tour guide as we ran past the beach properties, “That’s the new RIU, remember they were building it last time we were here. That’s Couples, it looks nice. Sandals is over there…†I’m sure I was being overbearing, bordering on obnoxious, but Dee put up with me.
The Castle
We whipped past the beach properties, around the roundabout to West End Road. We made our way up the narrow road dodging pedestrians and taxis when all of the sudden there it was, Blue Cave Castle.
“That’s the place†I said pointing to the magnificent structure.
“Shut up! Really? That’s where we’re staying?†She was impressed.
“Only the best baby†I schmoozed. She never took her eyes off the place.
Clive beeped and the big gates opened. The entranceway was impressive, bright and clean. A good looking Jamaican man stood smiling to greet us as we climbed from the van.
“Good Afternoon, you are Vinny, correct? Welcome! I am Robert.†Robert greeted us formally, shaking my hand.
“Thank you Robert, this is my friend Dee.†I said as we drew closer.
“This is a beautiful place,†Dee said, spinning her head around trying to soak it all in.
“Thank you, thank you,†replied Robert. He and Clive unpacked our bags. “Let me show you to your room.â€
We both went to pick up bags, but Robert would have none of it. He called to an older gentleman sitting under an awning to help. Fuzzy was tall and wiry fellow with a grey beard. I remembered him from my last trip, but couldn’t remember his name.
We had a great room, I think they call it Deluxe 1, but I’m not sure. It was situated at the front of the actual Castle, on the ground floor about twenty feet from the cliff face, the view was perfect. The porch had a thick wooden table and a small sitting area both enclosed by a stone portico. Beyond that there was a large area for sunbathing that seemed to be all ours, it was a great spot.
Inside the room was nice too, roomy and nicely furnished. The outside wall faced the ocean and had big windows with hurricane shutters letting in plenty of light, while the two-foot thick stone walls kept everything cool.
Robert dropped our bags and gave me the key. “Petrona will be by to settle up tomorrow, she’s off today.â€
“Cool, great,†I left Dee to explore our place, and I went to settle up with Clive. I arranged for him to pick us up some quality Jamaican refreshment and deliver it later in the afternoon.
I returned to our room to see Dee leaning over the wall laughing and talking to someone, I walked up next to her to have a look. Down near the water’s edge was a completely naked muscular black man who covered up as soon as he saw me.
I waved. He waved back and made his way up the steps.
Dee was all giggles, “Did you see that?â€
“I saw him but I didn’t see ‘THAT.’ I see you did, you’re blushing!†I teased.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m not a perv like you!†She said. Then she punched me.
Just then our new friend bolted into his room around the corner from ours. I waved again. She turned to see who I was waving to, but he was gone. “Nice to see you making friends so soon,†I said with one eyebrow raised. She punched me again.
We went into our room and unpacked a little, cranked up the fridge and got some music going. It was a hot day but the room was cool. We sat on our porch and finished the spliff Clive rolled for us.
“Why don’t you order up a bottle of champagne?†Dee asked.
“Champagne? We drink Red Stripe in Jamaica!†I said defiantly.
“I can’t drink beer all day.†Dee plainly stated.
“This is going to be a different kind of trip,†I thought, but didn’t say. I had such preconceived notions about a Negril trip, I really hadn’t thought of Dee’s impact. That was about to bite me in the ass!
-More to come
Peace
Vinny
June 2, 2006
I like trains. I take them often. They give me the time and the solitude to read and/or write. So, on Monday I figured the train would be a superior choice over negotiating traffic after the Great Nor’easter of 2006.
After a full days work I walked the half mile to the Hoboken Train Station, I usually ride the subway-esque path train from small Hoboken Station to big Newark Station for points south, Trenton, Philly, home.
This Monday genius boy decided to try the cushy, well heated NJ Transit train out of Hoboken at 6:01, change at Secaucus Transfer Station and pick up the 6:21 Northeast Corridor to Trenton with a connection to Philly.
NJ Transit said they had computer problems and due to the twenty inches of snow, they had to re-route trains all over the state, I think there was a conspiracy to trick a small group of weary travelers.
A big red sign lit up at Track B in the Secaucus Transfer Station, each train line has a corresponding color, the Trenton line is red. The sign read “Northeast Corridor 6:21PM Track B.” An announcer parrots these words and in a few seconds a huge friggin’ train pulls in with the word “TRENTON” festooned all over it in big bright lime colored LED letters.
So, being trusting, I stepped aboard, the doors closed and the computer generated car announcement said “Train to Trenton, next stop Newark Penn Station.” I sat back in the comfortable maroon faux leather seat, and felt good about my decision to go this route. I had a window seat just one stop ahead of the hoards that come aboard at Newark making it a standing room only trip.
“What was that?!?” my brain screamed!
He repeated, “THIS IS THE SUMMIT EXPRESS, PLEASE DISREGARD THE CAR ANNOUNCEMENT, I REPEAT, THIS IS THE SUMMIT EXPRESS, THIS TRAIN IS GOING TO SUMMIT.”
I freaked! I felt like a trapped animal! I scurried to and fro scratching on the windows as the station disappeard into the night, trying to get my mind around what just happened.
Standing in the aisle, I could see through several cars to an older conductor speaking to a petite Asian woman with flailing arms, and a really exasperated looking Indian guy. As I approached the situation I realized the kindly older conductor was a burned out government employed jack-ass with the empathy and slack-jawed cluelessness of a newt (please feel free to substitute the slimy invertebrate of your choice).
After she was done and got no satisfaction, I chimed in, but soon realized I was wasting my time talking to a brick wall. I don’t mean to disparage brick walls, at least they stand firm while you talk to them, he just held up his employee ID.
I didn’t get mad, ballistic asshole man did not make an appearance. A fellow traveler told me the head conductor is up front and that I should go talk to the boss. So I walked through half a dozen cars and found the boss.
I told him our situation, somehow becoming the spokesman for our little group. I guess union seniority trumps middle management, since he never addressed the dolt six cars back, but he did raise some hell and called a few people and seemed like he was on our side. It was kind of like the McDonald’s manager that seems personally angry that your Filet-O-Fish came to you sans tartar sauce.
The long and short of it was we had to get off at Summit, walk over to the middle track and take the very next train to New York, get off at Secaucus Transfer Station and try again to get to Trenton. The instructions came along with a most sincere apology.
There were about ten affected travelers on the middle platform in Summit when the very next train arrived, and like lemmings we boarded.
In less than three minutes aboard the train to make right the evenings wrongs, I saw an attractive woman in a red coat sitting across the aisle with a most flabbergasted look on her face. She was speaking to a conductor, “What do you mean this train isn’t stopping at Secaucus!!” she said in calm, shocked disbelief.
And with that same, I live at the teat of the New Jersey taxpayer attitude, deadpan but appreciably less smarmy delivery, “Nope, but you can get off at Newark Broad Street, then catch a bus or taxi to Newark Penn Station, or you can go back to New York.”
I spoke up, but she just listened and replied in the exact same words, though at least her implied “F**k You” gave her just a tinge of personality.
The Lady in the red coat and I went back and forth a few times trying to figure a way just to get on any train headed south.
“It would be funny if it wasn’t happening to me,” she joked.
We decided to split a cab and get to Newark Penn Station as soon as we could, but as we got off the train and to the street, the bus was just pulling up. The only good timing NJ Transit showed all night!
I was actually getting excited, I had a good chance of getting the 7:30 train to Trenton, then the 8:40 to Philly and maybe be home by ten.
I dashed off the bus and all but ran through the station, leaving my new friends behind. I arrived on Track 4 at 7:33, looked up to the board and saw the 7:30 Trenton was running five minutes late, woo hoo! finally a break!
Looking around the crowded platform, I realized my train had several trains ahead of it. I stood there out of breath and confused trying to digest what was going on.
Then came the garbled announcement, ” The 7:28 Long Branch Local will be arriving on Track 4 in ten to fifteen minutes, the 7:30 Trenton will be five minutes behind that, Long Branch first, Trenton Second on Track 4.”
It didn’t take too long to figure the math, I’d miss the connection at Trenton and wouldn’t be home till almost midnight.
I gave in and laughed aloud. Its funny the looks one gets when one bursts into laughter in a public place full of dreary commuters.
I looked up to see the petite Asian girl, the Indian guy, the Lady in the red coat and a few others from the misdirected Summit crew, we’d kind of bonded. They were the only others laughing.
Peace
Vinny
AKA-Disgruntled Traveler
February 16, 2006
I don’t think I’ll be splitting my vacations between the beach and the cliffs anymore, but it begs the question, which is better? For me it’s the cliffs.
I love the how the ocean becomes a peaceful void as soon as the sunset lightshow is over. The total blackness spreads out infinitely before you. All sounds fade, save the breeze playing wind chimes in a distant tree.
As you drift off, the gentle lapping of wavelets on the cliffs rock you to sleep and keep your dreams irie. An hour before sunrise they mix with your dreams to launch astral adventures as you rise through the waves into morning consciousness.
The breakfast at White Sands was excellent, if a bit expensive, but there’s always a premium at a resort. I headed down to the Surf & Talk Café, about half an hour’s stroll down the beach road with my laptop over my shoulder. My plan was to blog daily from Negril and by Tuesday, five days in, I’d only posted twice.
After some communicating with the outside world I headed across the street to Selina’s for a cup of coffee and a visit. I got all caught up with what’s going on in Negril, what fellow boardies were in town, and how the school they’re building with the help of Venezuelan soldiers was going.
Later that afternoon I decided to walk north on the beach road to check out that scene. My destination was Margaritaville, I was hoping for some bikini clad co-eds, but after a half a dozen beers and another splendid sunset, I found myself on the fringes of a discussion about US trade policy vis-Ã -vis the Caribbean shipping industry. Ok maybe we did a few shots too.
Heading south on a darkened Norman Manley Boulevard, I dodged taxis till my grumbling belly made me cross the road to visit “Best of the West – Boston Beach Style Jerk Chicken Stand.†I ordered a beer and a large jerk chicken platter while striking up a slightly slurred conversation with a young Jamaican woman selling a side of loving to go with my dinner. I declined her offer and headed back to White Sands for dinner and a movie in my air conditioned room.
I took a quick shower, popped a movie into my laptop’s DVD player, cracked open a fresh Red Stripe and dug into the best Jerk Chicken in Negril. It’s all in the packaging. The way they use one piece of tin foil and manage to keep the rice and peas and chicken separate, all topped with that big hunk of bread infused with the essence of the whole meal in semi-gooey wonderment. Aww Yeah!
I was lost in my meal, I had a serious buzz on, I was sitting in my boxers, and I was eating with my fingers. Probably not a pretty sight, but I tell you, I was in culinary heaven! I finished the meal, belched loudly (an Irish compliment to the chef), lit a Cuban Montecristo, and enjoyed “Shrek 2†for the third time as my night faded to black.
Wednesday
The morning found me a bit fuzzy, but full of energy since I’d slept well. Today I was supposed to meet up with a lady friend of mine, but I’d received an email a day ago telling me she decided to nix her trip at the last minute. Part of me was disappointed, part of me was relieved, and yet another part of me had been prepared to woo her with my good looks and boyish Philly charm. What can I say? Women just melt when I say “Yo!†It’s a gift.
Actually when we first started corresponding I thought she was a he, she’d responded to a few of my early story posts with an androgynous handle. Somehow that got straightened out and in the next few months she encouraged me to write and we became email buddies.
It was cool, but at the same time it kinda freaked me out. She came to know me through my writing, through my unguarded openness on the page. As opposed to my general lack of smoothness around women I don’t know. It was as if she was getting to know me from the inside out.
When I write I throw off the baggage I carry in my off page life, I delve into the feelings and emotions behind everyday experience. My spirituality is bared for all to see, how would she reconcile both Vinnys from Philly? Hell, sometimes even I have a hard time with it, but now she wasn’t coming so all my angst was moot.
I headed to the internet place to post a few pics on the blog and tried to say nice things about White Sands. It rained like crazy while I was there, so I hung out for a while and made faces into the Webcam.
I continued my walk into town, past Selina’s, the Merrills’s, Kuyaba and Coral Seas, the heat was stirring up the humidity and suddenly town looked really far away.
I decided to stop in at the Yoga Center to say hello and see if the girls I’d met on the bus into town were around. I had a nice visit with the Yoga folks, but the girls weren’t there, so I left a message and headed on down the road.
It’s amazing how fast a torrential thunderstorm can dry up in the August Jamaican sun. It had been less than an hour and downtown Negril already looked as dry as Mogadishu. The people in town seem different in slow season, the sellers are a bit more earnest, the panhandlers more aggressive, the shop keepers seemed curt, and smiles didn’t come as easy. Maybe it was the heat, but I felt stress in the air, it seemed out of place here.
I hit the ATM for ten thousand Jamaican dollars and felt a pang of guilt. Getting a glimpse of just how close these people are to real hardship and just how far I am from it. So much of the money made here leaves here. It’s a shame really, though at the same time the relative cheapness of the place is a factor in my choosing to come here time and time again.
As I crossed the bridge over the South Negril River a car with the security guy from the Yoga Center hanging out the window approached me. “Philly Mon! Philly Mon!!†he shouted as the car came closer, and there in the back of the car was Vivian, her friend and the little girl. Vivian seemed quite animated.
Vinny
January 13, 2006
Next it was off to the beach, more sexy Europeans and more male butt floss. There should be standards of weight and body hair that must be met before being sent a Speedo catalog.
Continue January 5, 2006
I had on a decent beer buzz walking in through the castle gates. It was still raining so the security guy took me right up to my room.
I couldn’t help feeling disorientated as I was hustled through lopsided porticos and winding stairways of this grand castle by the sea. I tried to get a sense of the place but only caught it in glimpses.
I stumbled though my doorway bags in tow, and I startled Claudia the housekeeper who was busy sweeping water out of my mildly flooded room. She must have opened all the windows to air out the room and was caught off guard by the severity today’s storm. I guess the place was built primarily to look cool, and it seems some tenets of proper architecture were overlooked.
I plopped on the big comfy bed and told Claudia not to worry about the floor. “I’m not one of those guests.” I said with eyes closed.
She smiled in that Jamaican way, lighting up the room as she pulled the incongruent doors closed. Jamaican women are so beautiful.
I don’t know how long I slept, but it was still daylight, and from the seaward window I calculated about two hours to sunset. The floor was still a bit damp, but the clouds were gone and the sun had baked everything dry.
The nap did the trick though, my energy level was back and I cranked up IRIE FM. I danced around like a white boy as I unpacked, then I took a cool shower to wash off the residual travel goop.
Showered and cool, I dressed, and headed outside to check out the Blue Cave Castle. The bright sunlight on the white castle, highlighted in blues and yellows made me to spin around to get it all in. The place was so damn cool, like a majestic fortress from a distance, but close up it’s more like a Dr. Seuss book or a Disney exhibit.
I headed out through the gates and took a walk to a little market maybe a quarter mile towards town. The road was hot and dusty, my inherent laziness almost had me hop a cab, but I pressed on, chatting with locals and merchants along the way.
I enjoy this aspect of travel to my little paradise. I read trip reports of people who just don’t get it, a mix of gullibility and probably something worse. It’s almost like it gives them a sense of satisfaction to join the small but vocal chorus of people who perpetuate negative Negril rumors.
I picked up water, beer and some other goodies, bananas, mangos and the like. I had to settle for a pack of ginger snaps, they didn’t have Jackass crackers, damn! On the way back I whimped out and hopped a cab for a mildly overpriced $100J trip to the castle.
I must have guzzled half a gallon of water in the few seconds after I got back to my room, you could never keep hydrated in the August heat by drinking only beer and Ting.
I fired up my spliff and marveled how cool the eighteen inch stone walls kept my little round room, in a few minutes I was marveling how cool everything seemed in my little round head.
The sun was in its last fifteen minutes, as it dropped towards the horizon I walked out to the yard. I met Petrona the hotel manager, we chatted for a while when she asked me if I was “Vinny from Philly.†I was taken aback! No one ever referred to me as that in person. She thought it was pretty funny.
I’d given myself the moniker for the Negril.com message board a few years back, and I guess I upped the ante when I started my website and began posting my stories and editorials. I’m not sure if I liked it though, is my anonymity forever compromised? Does it matter, or am I being over-dramatic? Over-dramatic? Me?
Leaning at the garden wall staring out at the cloudy sunset, I couldn’t help but fantasize I was Black Beard himself. That’s the magic of this place, it may sound strange, even childish, but any guy who’s stood at this place and didn’t picture himself in a long double breasted jacked with gold brocades and a tri-cornered hat (parrot optional), well he really missed a great opportunity.
I was just pissed Petrona had wandered off and no one was there to ask me a question so I could answer, “Aye Matie!â€
Argh! And a mighty fine sunset, it was! I say, I say.
Peace,
Vinny
November 28, 2005
Van Gogh is gone. I’m on another train. I love the rhythmic rolling of the springs on uneven rail. As a kid I’d lay on the tracks, their parallels touching, an infinite smoothness before me. So smooth, why do trains rock so? It soothes me, though there’s a part of me that doesn’t understand it.
Such a curious conveyance, a rush hour crowd of seasoned straphangers mime away the trip, some stand, some sit, by two, by three. Shiny shoes, expensive suits and extended accounts. I lean like a scolioid serpent giving my neighbor room without leaning too far into the aisle space.
A girl across from me, bobbed blonde hair a sweet seriousness on her furrowed brow, notices an older man standing. She offers her seat seeming embarrassed to be sitting. She’d gotten there early enough to have a seat, her long dangly jade earrings jangle at the collar of her irregular striped shirt of limes and greens. I look over nonchalantly, she’s writing too.
The older man did not take her seat. She was beautiful in her selflessness. To no one in particular he asked, “Do I look that old?”
Everyone within earshot laughed; to me he didn’t look very old at all. My first thought had been that she was being excessive.
“I’m sixty-nine years old†he stated meaning only.
Damn, he did look good for his age, bravo old standing guy!
NJ Transit trains have such warmth about them. The faux leather seats and the faux oak paneling made sense to someone once. They rile up sweet memories of holiday parade trips with my sisters and the Nolans just old enough to travel un-chaperoned. We struck out timidly fearless with the wild imagination of adolescence into a pre-Rudy New York City. Next it was Grateful Dead shows and CBGB’s adventures blurring years between.
My best memories of NYC train trips are with Kristine when she was six or seven, watching her eyes widen and her mind open, grasping the bigness of the world. There’s a great picture of her on my brother Michael’s shoulders standing under the Broadway street sign at Times Square her arms outstretched and yelling, “I’ll be backâ€.
She’s working on it.
November 4, 2005
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