No, I didn’t actually order a Pint of Guinness upon arrival. It being 5:45AM local time I felt it a wee bit early and opted for airport coffee, and then we went searching for our bus to Dublin.

Yes a BUS to Dublin! We arrived at JFK about 3:00PM for a 5:40PM flight and Aer Lingus would not let us check-in. 3:30, then 4 o’clock, and still we could not check in. The line began to grow longer and angrier as time wore on. Luckily, we were near the front of the line so we were among the first processed when the line started moving.

The check-in kid seemed stressed as I gave him my paperwork, and in almost a whisper he said, “Sir, I’m afraid your flight has been cancelled.” Yes, CANCELLED! But before I could get too pissed, he quickly offered us seats on a 6:20PM flight to Shannon with connecting bus service to Dublin.

Yeah its a pain in the ass, not to mention adding almost four hours to our trip, but at least we could leave that night. Many people in the long line did not get that option. Nice job Aer Lingus! (note: Irony)

We boarded and had a nice flight to Shannon, and the morning drive to Dublin Airport afforded us a pretty ride through the Irish countryside. From Dublin Airport it was a quick run to Dublin City Centre and to our hotel The Arlington O’Connell Bridge.

It was about 9:30AM by that time so we stored our bags at the hotel and staggered out into the Dublin morning to fine some food and some coffee, and to then get into what Dublin had to offer.

More to come . . .

Vinny

Three more sleeps! Book, Pack and GO!

I want to know if you belong — or feel abandoned;
If you know despair
Or can see it in others.

I want to know
If you are prepared to live in the world
With its harsh need to change you;
If you can look back with firm eyes
Saying “this is where I stand.”

I want to know if you know how to melt
Into that fierce heat of living
Falling toward the center of your longing.

I want to know if you are willing
To live day by day
With the consequence of love
And the bitter unwanted passion
Of your sure defeat.

I have been told
In that fierce embrace
Even the gods
Speak of God.

by David Whyte

If I don’t get some AC, I’m-a-gonna melt away . . .

Woo Hoo, 104º in Manhattan today, the RealFeel® temperature is 115º. I’m sitting in relative comfort in a Starbucks at 51st & Broadway watching people stumble by. If there is a good day to be in the tourist-choked Theater District, 116º day is the day.

It’s funny to me how the media is freaking out about a little heat. Hey guys! It’s summer! But they report it as if it has never happened before when actually it happened about, I don’t know, eleven to thirteen months ago. Do we really need the Daily News to have sweaty people plastered on the front page? At least The Times put the story below the fold.

In a few months we will be all bitching about the cold. I’m heading back in the pool!

Vinny

A 5:40AM Flight puts me in Montego Bay before 9AM, and at The Castle well before noon. It’s like getting an extra day in paradise!

I look forward to seeing all my Negril friends and fellow travelers.

Soon Come!!

Peace,
Vinny

I booked my favorite room at The Castle for the week and I can’t wait to see all my peeps!

Negril here I come! Woo Hoo!

Vinny

I’m a big fan and I just had to grab a few of these mini masterpieces before they were all sold out.

This one caught my eye first.

Loved this one.

Victoria has a series of NYC Water Tower paintings that have always intrigued me.

Thank you Victoria, and good luck fighting “The Man”! We’re behind you all the way!

Vinny

Best Documentary: Feature

Restrepo - I haven’t seen this one, but I still think it should win. I don’t care if you’re pro-war, or anti-war. Get over yourself. The men fighting at fire base Restrepo didn’t have the luxury of your bougie opinions.

Best Music: Original Score

Hans Zimmer should win for Inception but the Nine-Inch Nails dude will win for The Social Network however undeserved.

Best Achievement in Costume Design

Who really cares, really?

Best Art Direction

The King’s Speech – I don’t know much about art design, but I know what I like, and The King’s Speech is beautiful in every detail.

Best Achievement in Cinematography

Another subject where I’m in the dark technically, but I liked True Grit. I loved the wide-rangey range shots. I’m a sucker for the wide-open west from my travels as a kid. Inception looked great too but it was too techy for awards.

Best Adapted Screenplay

The Social Network will win. The book, which I liked, read thin and linear like a screenplay, but since Sorkin is everyone’s favorite quazi-political screenwriter it’s all him.

Best Original Screenplay

The King’s Speech – See a pattern yet? I loved the story of how a little West End play can make it through the gauntlet to become a major motion picture. It reminded me of the little train that c-co-could.

Best Director

Aronofsky should win for Black Swan, but Fincher will win for The Social Network. I didn’t get a vote, but everyone is on Facebook and for some reason that seems to matter.

Best Supporting Actress

No idea on this one. I think Amy Adams could win, she’s kind of hot, and she’s a good solid actor, but I’m afraid the kid, Hailee Steinfeld from True Grit is the sentimental Jody Foster, Tatum O’Neil favorite. By the way, if Hailee does win someone needs to keep poor Dakota Fanning from slitting her damn wrists!

Best Supporting Actor

Everyone is saying this is between Christian Bale and Geoffrey Rush for The Fighter and The King’s Speech respectively, but my pick is Jeremy Renner from The Town. The guy was terrifying as the menacing best pal of Afleck’s lead.

Best Actress

Natalie Portman – But watch-out for Michelle Williams, everyone knows she got screwed not winning for Brokeback Mountain. Rachel Weisz really? I say no.

Best Actor

Colin Firth – He was great in The King’s Speech. I’d like to say it’s rare that I tear up in a movie, but I got misty watching Free Willy. Colin Firth’s performance was heartbreaking, subtle and powerful all at once. This is a must-see.

Best Picture

The winner is … wait for it … The King’s Speech!

I may have tipped my hand earlier, but I loved this movie on every movie loving level. It looked great, it was well shot, well paced, and had really special performances all around. Of course the leads were great, but the drunken-fat-pirate-dude from The Pirates of the Caribbean franchise was an excellent Churchill. A deadly serious role but he somehow lightened every scene he was in. It was nice to see Helena Bonham Carter in a movie without a screwy get-up or any CGI appliances.

The simple story of a guy learning to move forward in life by dealing with that one thing that had held him back. This was no superhero story, nothing miraculous happens, he simply presses on. It was a beautiful story even if he was regular guy with regular problems, but the fact he was British royalty thrust into the limelight during the opening moves of World War II makes it a magnificent story.

Peace,

Vinny

http://realcityny.com/

As if on cue Kristine bangs on the door, “Are you decent?” “Yeah sure,” I replied. “Good, I need some money, the Orange Juice Lady gave me this.” she said as she walked in holding an overproof rum bottle filled with Millie’s Orange Mango Juice, “It’s really friggin’ good.” she added between swigs. I have no idea what Millie actually charges, but I usually give her 500J and she seems happy with that.

It’s one of the joys of life at The Castle, I’ve mentioned before all the cool neighbors and neighboring restaurants, but it’s more than that. Millie seems to arrive at the perfect moment every time. I don’t think I ever had a “I wonder if Millie is gonna stop by today” thought that I can remember. She just appears when you can really use some fresh squeezed juice or just some fresh fruit. I’d chalk it up to coincidence, but it happens over and over again trip after trip. Let’s face it, she’s an OJ psychic.

It must have been a mixture of Millie’s juice, the cool shower and the Excedrin, but by the time I made my way out into the bright morning yard for the day’s first cuppa I felt totally revived and ready to conquer the day. Our little crew had commandeered about half of the big picnic table under a canopy of braided palm fronds that serves as the social center at The Castle.

This had been Meg and Jay’s fourth or fifth trip to Negril and the second that year. They had gone to The Grand Lido the previous January to attend “Rat Dog Daze,” several days of Deadhead fun in the sun with Bob Weir and friends. After someone has been to Negril several times, especially in a relatively short span of time, it seems that the decompression comes faster and the slide into Jamaica time happens much more quickly.

“We were thinking about Half-Moon Beach for today.” Meg offered. Half Moon Beach is about Meg’s favorite place in the world, and it seemed as good a day as any to venture up there. When The Kid came down to join us Meg filled her in on the wonderfulness that is Half Moon Beach and the collective decision was made. I added that a nice brunch at Selina’s would be the perfect preparatory detour landing us fat and happy on the little crescent beach spot right about noon. It was agreed and we went to our respective rooms to get our beach stuff.

Now I love Negril’s Seven Mile Beach, I have even gotten to know and love Bloody Bay Beach, but for a classic tropical beach experience in the general Negril area, for me it’s Half Moon Beach. About four years earlier I had been in Negril with a girlfriend who wanted to tan her boobies somewhere quiet and uncrowded. It happened to be Easter Sunday and we were having brunch at Selina’s, and it was Selina who suggested Half Moon Beach. That first trip was special. Being Easter Sunday there were several Jamaican families picnicking on the beach. The boob tanning idea went out the window, so she and I spent most of the day in the crystal clear water playing with the local kids. Later that year I was in Negril with Meg and Jay and shared with them my new find. On subsequent trips it’s a spot I rarely miss.

Selina’s is always great. I’ve been going there for years, and on Sundays brunch is tradition. I normally don’t do Big Roy’s Banana Pancakes but I was fearing the onslaught of a mighty hangover merely postponed by juice and analgesics, so I indulged. Jay had the same and I think both ladies ordered the American Breakfast. The food was great; fresh, hot and plentiful, and as always the Bloody Marys lived up to their “Best In Negril” reputation.

The Sunday Brunch Band had gone on break soon after our arrival and came back as we were finishing. Normally coffee and Bloody Marys lead to Red Stripes and an hour or so of lingering and mingling, but Half-Moon was waiting as was our driver. So we said our good-byes and headed north along the beach road.

The only time you ever see Half-Moon Beach crowded is during the twice-weekly Wild Thing anchorage, and I’m sure it gets busy during the season. This time there was a smattering of fellow travelers, and a few more arrived later in the afternoon, but twenty people does not a crowd make. We were lucky enough to take possession of the area near the big Seagrape tree at the water’s edge and proceeded in our revelry.

Sun, sand, ganja and Red Stripe, by mid-afternoon we had retreated to the bar for some snacky food, and another round of beers. Our driver was long gone, but a guy named Sonny had dropped off his fare and was lingering hoping not to deadhead it back to Negril so we cut a deal.

On the was back I talked everyone into a quick stop by Ossie’s Jerk Centre to sample the famous Jerk Pork. Unfortunately there were only two portions left, but really that was enough. We needed beer refills and the couple succulent chunks of porky yummy-ness did a nice job of holding us over till dinner.

Kristine negotiated a great deal for a Black River trip with Sonny our driver for Monday or Tuesday, so good a deal in fact that I expected not to see him again. He said he’s stop by in the morning to see what we wanted to do. Keeping plans loose was one of my goals for this trip, I didn’t want to feel as if we were working off a checklist all week.

Back at The Castle, we joined the rest of the big picnic table crew and became acquainted with Jim Zeppa and his friend and ex-daughter-in-law Nancy. Jimmy was a character to say the least, an older gentleman from Canada who’s spent his life in the music business. An old-school raconteur who held court every afternoon during our stay. He and Kristine hit it off. His name-dropping of talent large and small alternated as entertainment and background patter, but however received he just kept on going, all the while adding a sweet sentimentality to our week in paradise.

Vinny

Over the next month or so the project began to take shape, but the date was pushed forward with almost every contact with the client. Finally in mid-January we nailed down a February 2nd start date, I wasn’t too confident that the place would be ready in time, but the guy said to be there, and if they weren’t ready it was on him. Who am I to argue? Okay, I argue with clients all the time, but I have a rule to never argue with clients that send me to The Caribbean in February.

January in New York City was the snowiest ever. Really, ever! Though I was hoping for a crippling snowstorm the day of my return, I was getting worried that a snow storm would keep me from leaving on time. In the days before my trip, an ice storm brewing in the mid-west was set to hit on the day I was scheduled to leave. Waking up on Tuesday the 1st, I was happy to see wet rather than snowy sidewalks as climbed into my taxi.

I got to the airport on time, through security, and into the waiting area with over an hour to spare. Waiting to board, my fellow passengers and I were glued to CNN in the gate area as they breathlessly covered the huge storm coming at us from the west. Once on the plane it was obvious that the rain had turned icy.

“Attention Passengers, This is your Captain speaking. We are delayed on take-off due to the weather…” The voice boomed through the American Airlines Boeing 757. Okay here is comes I thought. He didn’t give us much info, and said we’d know more in “a few minutes.” The next thing we heard was that the 9AM take-off was delayed because we needed to get in line for de-icing, which was fairly terrifying, and that our scheduled departure time was now 10:30AM. Upon hearing that and seeing the ice pellets bouncing off the wing outside my window, I feared that plane was not getting off the ground.

As it happened, a de-icing truck actually came out to us, and moved us way up in the conga line. After watching the de-icing procedure, we were informed that our take-off would be at 9:20. Cheers erupted from the hundred or so souls praying to get to the islands, and out of the Big Apple deep freeze.

The flight was uneventful and even with the delay we arrived at Cyrus King Airport in St. Thomas about twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

It was a bit of a process getting from the airport on St Thomas, over to St. John. I would have enjoyed it more if I was on vacation and not traveling for work, but I was very focused on seeing what shape my work site was in. The airport was tiny and my bag took only about a beer to show up on the carousel, in minutes I was in a taxi driven by K9 Joe, a retired police officer who was very proud of his service, and who regaled me with his stories even going as far as handing me a portfolio of photos and press clippings.

We went around a corner and up a hill and boom there was harbor. The view was stunning, no less than six magnificent cruise ships docked about bay, they looked less like a collection of ships than like a city in a future where they build skyscrapers on their sides. There were hundreds of smaller craft filing the spaces between, some massive in their own right, but dwarfed by these leviathans of all-inclusive luxury.

K9-Joe looked with contempt at the scene that had me agog in the passenger seat explaining the traffic would be horrible if we took the coastal route, so we headed up into the hills. He promised he would get me to the Red Hook Ferry Dock in time for the 3PM. Until then I didn’t know there was a 3PM to St. John, but I felt confident K-9 Joe would have me there on time to catch it.

After a whirlwind drive along the spine of St. Thomas, I paid Joe and bought my ferry ticket as the 3PM to St. John beginning to board. It was a sturdy craft, but it lacked any kind of island charm, if it was in Jamaica it would be green, yellow and black with Bob Marley classics blasting throughout.

Still in partial work mode, I made a few calls back home to check on my guys to make sure things were going smoothly, they weren’t but I was sixteen hundred miles away, and I could only give moral support. I tried to relax and take in the delightful island views.

Arriving at St. John I found a taxi to take me to my hotel. The driver said it was “Just up the hill,” and he wasn’t kidding because it was only about a quarter mile up the road. I had been worried because I didn’t know where the work site was, or how far it was from my hotel, or if any of the cell numbers I had would work. Luckily, my fears were allayed as we cleared the boat dock area, The Crab was just around the first curve about halfway between my hotel and the beach dock.

Entering “The Inn At Tamarind Court” one walks into the restaurant area and the actual hotel is to the left. I went to the office and attractive brunette behind the desk smiled and said, “You must be VIncent!” “Yes I am, but please call me Vinny.” I replied in my charming way. She handed me the key, and in minutes I was exploring my room. Now the rooms at The Tamarind are basic, and well, they’re basic, but I’m not too picky as long as they are clean which my room was. It kind of reminded me of my first minutes at The Negril Yoga Center back in 2004, which I was reminiscing about as I unpacked.

I didn’t waste much time, I threw on a pair of shorts, brushed my teeth, stepped into my flip-flops and off I went. I hit the open-air bar and met Amy the Bartender who sold me a $3 Red Stripe, and gave me the lay of the land in Cruz Bay, St. John, USVI.

After a couple or three, I was wobbly enough to take a walk about the neighborhood. I went down to The Crab to find a construction site, which at first scared the hell out of me until I ran into the Chef whom I’d known from their places in New York, and he said they were still on schedule. His confidence caused me to take a second look and I saw that under a layer of construction dust, saw horses, scattered tools, the place wasn’t really too far away.

At this point in a restaurant opening the will and focus of the owner to kick a little butt and hold fast to the schedule makes all the difference. Nothing will force the various contractors to get the job done in the dwindling time allotted than the promise of serving guests i9n three days. The two young brothers who own and act as the operations team for this successful little chain fit the bill, and the next morning the pace of everything seemed to quicken.

From my site visit I walked down towards the boat docks where there seemed to be a lot of bars and shops and the like. Along the water I sat at The Beach Bar for another Red Stripe, but didn’t stay. It was too nice, I was looking for some more interesting places.

I found myself across the street at Larry’s Landing which seemed like a townie bar, and not surprisingly I met several locals. Being a part of the US (sort of) the Virgin Islands attract people that don’t fit so neatly into normal society, and then there are the twenty-somethings not ready to take on the pressures of real life after college. One girl explained it like this: “Well after college, the economy went to shit, so everybody was like, stay in school and get your masters, but I don’t know what I want to do, right? So I was like, stay in Michigan and wait tables or wait tables in paradise? No brainer, duh?” I couldn’t argue.

I went back to The Tamarind for dinner sometime after dark, and there about a dozen people in the open-air bar and restaurant. Amy introduced me around to the mix of locals and fellow guests. By the time I was done with dinner I was clinking beer bottles and buying rounds for the convivial group of misfits. I felt right at home.

At that point it kind of hit me, drunkenly heading up to my room with fresh Red Stripe in my hand, I looked back at the motley crew which I had just been a part of, yeah I wasn’t too thrilled with my room at The Tamarind, pretty old, needing remodel, but I REALLY like the kind of people these places attract. For me vacations are as much about people along the way than about the scenery of the location.

It was a Negril moment. Not fancy, but people who demand fancy can annoy the shit out of me in a dozen different ways. I like this place.

Vinny

I walked to the ledge and saw no one. My eyes were no longer sharp enough to see if the urn light was green, so I made my way down the cool stone stairway, across the prickly tropical grass, and over to the coffee hut. Though in full percolating glory, the coffee wasn’t quite ready to go, so I padded back upstairs for my binoculars to spy on the fishermen who, by then, were dotting the horizon.

Well into my third cup I heard Kris stir back inside the room. By the time I went inside to ask if she wanted a coffee the stirring had stopped. A blessing and a curse, Kristine inherited the “sleep of the dead” from me. We can sleep though anything, I once fell asleep during a Van Halen concert. True story.

We had our breakfast at Teddy’s Hideaway, actually back in the restaurant, which was a lot nicer than last trip. Teddy’s has really found an audience in Negril. When Petrona and Susan first added a food at The Castle I thought, “Cool, this is so convenient.” and the first time I only had a few breakfasts. It was nice not needing to forage for every meal, but wow, the Lobster Thermidor is something special. On the previous trip with Mom and Dad our best meal was served by Teddy out in the yard at sunset. It was a great time.

Early afternoon brought Meg and Jay in from Montego Bay with Kenny. I’d known these two Deadheads for six or seven years by that time, and it was the first time they were meeting “The Kid.” I hadn’t realized how often I refer to my beloved daughter Kristine as “The Kid,” so much so that when I asked, “Do I really?” they all started laughing. Jay said, “Dude I knew you for like five years before Meg finally asked you her actual name.” It’s funny when a mirror is held up like that. I’d truly never gave it a second thought. When I returned from Jamaica I began asking friends about this and every one told me the same thing. Sorry Kid

The four of us walked over to Choices for pre-sunset dinner that night. Choices is always a good choice. A key feature to staying at The Castle is the number of excellent restaurants and bars within walking (or stumbling) distance. The food is always good at Choices, though for the life of me I can’t remember what I had.

Back at The Castle, we watched the final moments of sunset and relaxed in the yard with some fellow travelers. It was still fairly early though Kristine and Meg were showing signs of fatigue while Jay and I were raring to go. Saturday night is The One Love Reggae Show at The Seastar Inn! We were encouraged when I logged on to theRealNegril.com Webcast to find the party already swinging. I entered the chat room to say hi, and Rob offered to send the Seastar taxi to pick us up. How cool is that?

The girls encouraged us to go and have fun. They were both tired and decided to stay in and do their nails, or their hair, or whatever it is that girls do. We did make an attempt at changing their minds, but it soon proved to be without fruit.

The taxi they sent was huge and very well air conditioned. Within minutes Jay and I entered the brightly lit oasis that is Seastar. We sought out the Webcast Crew and made our introductions with the folks hanging in the general webcast area. It was great to see Rob & Lisa, but I was taken back when they asked, “Where’s The Kid?”

The Seastar Drummers were just taking the stage as we settled in. What a magical experience, I am always moved by the total way produce their music. I didn’t realize I was in a drum induced trance till someone yelled, “Vinny!” I may have been that I was a bit drunken too. Jay had started an unhealthy shot roller-coaster. He bought a huge round of shots for the group, so it became my responsibility to handle the next round, then another guy felt similarly obligated, and so on. I’m not sure how far it went. I have a convenient rule about the number of shots I will do in one night, I don’t count them.

I have a fuzzy recollection of leaving, and then piling out of a smaller taxi into yet another bar, or was it two other bars? I missed sunrise Sunday Morning.

Vinny

I’m sitting here at Has Beans Coffee Shop in sunny Brooklyn doing research on St. John US Virgin Islands. One of our clients is opening a restaurant there in a few weeks, so I have to go to configure their system and train their staff.

Yeah, you like that? I “have” to go. Life’s tough

The people in my office that do things like book trips waited till last week to book my room and it looked like St. John was going to be full. The situation wasn’t unexpected, early February is the busiest time in the Caribbean. So the plan was to book whatever we could on St. Thomas, and then I’d have to ferry over to St. John every day. All things considered, not the worst commute.

To their defense we are always waiting till the last minute to schedule things. In the restaurant opening business the actual opening date is a moving target dependent on city, county and state inspections, and often on a general contractors misplaced optimism. We usually work locally, so we can afford to install one week, train the next and wait around to “Go Live” until they’re ready, but when the job is far away we try to knock it all out in a five day span.

Last week I walk into the office and my scheduling coordinator looks at me like she’s expecting me to become “Ballistic Asshole Man” at any minute.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I found a place for you on St. John,” she said as if she wasn’t finished.
“Cool, so why the face?” I say waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“The place is kind of a hole, but it looks “pretty” clean . . . I sent you the link.”

So I went to my desk and pulled up the website expecting to see “Black Beard’s Rusty Crotch Inn,” but the “Inn at Tamarind Court” didn’t seem foreign to me. It’s a small place with only around twenty rooms half of which are sleeping rooms with a shared bathroom. I was booked in a Standard Room with a queen-size bed and my own bathroom. The place has a little bar and a restaurant, and is kind of shoved between the road and a mountain. My kind of place, my first thought was that it’s almost Negrilian.

When I went to TripAdvisor.com the place didn’t look as good as on the hotel’s website, but with TripAdvisor you need to read between the lines. Still the place looked fine for a week.

But, just for dramatic effect I stormed across the office to the scheduling coordinator’s desk and told her I was very upset with her.

“You really don’t read my blog do you!”

Vinny

SO, where were we? Yes, we were heading out of Montego Bay with Kenny on the road to Negril.

Our airport beer supply lasted only till around Hopewell where we stopped to grab refills. I sat back relaxing as Kenny gave Kristine the Grand Tour. It really never gets old, this was my lucky thirteenth trip to Negril, and I wanted Kris to relax and enjoy without feeling as if we were on a schedule. This was her first time here in five years and she had a few things she wanted to do too. So when Kenny started asking about day trips and the like I deflected. I wanted to maybe do a Black River trip, but wasn’t ready to commit. We had friends coming, and who knows who might be staying at The Castle, that so often changes everything. I did book Kenny for the return airport trip.

We hit a lot of traffic moving thru Lucea, but a slight detour stopped us in front of Lucea’s famous clock. It seems so out of place and its probably apocryphal history just adds to the wonder. Like my Mom, Kristine loved seeing all the kids in their neat school uniforms making their way to and from school.

We picked up speed as we ran the stretch south from Lucea to Green Island, so much so the first “Welcome to Negril” sign seemed to sneak up on us. Seeing that sign always elicits a cheer and a toast though its actually closer to Orange Bay. Kenny explained that the early signs are for the All-Inclusive crowd to think they are actually in Negril when in reality the most of the big AIs are in Hanover Parish. Westmoreland Parish where the town of Negril actually is starts maybe three-quarters of a mile south of Sandals.

Kristine’s nose was pressed against the glass as we ran along the strip. Passing Selina’s, she asked about the kids, then over to Kuyaba, where she stayed on her last trip saying, “Let’s have dinner at Kuyaba tonight,” as she searched for familiarities in the faces that went by.

A chip off the ‘ol block, she spent most of her week, five years ago to the day, bopping around the Kuyaba neighborhood mingling with the Jamaicans. Through our many conversations prior to her trip she felt right at home soon after arriving, much to the concern of her boyfriend who seemed to feel the need to “protect” her. That didn’t last too long.

We pulled up to the Blue Cave Castle and the gates opened as if by magic and we rolled onto the property. “Holy Shit! This is sooooo cool!” Kristine emoted as she climbed out of the van spinning around in an attempt to take it all in. I took care of Kenny, we thanked him and said we’ll see him tomorrow when he dropped off Megan and Jay.

Through the archway and into the main part of The Castle, there were a few people in the covered patio area, and a others milling around. We said our hello’s and went up to the second floor to Deluxe 3. When her roommate bailed we decided to share a room. At first I didn’t love the room. I’d been in the room before, not to stay, to party and only for a few minutes. What threw me was the lack of the big window opening to the patio I’m used to in “Deluxe 1″ and “Deluxe 4,” but as we unpacked taking dibs on the various dressers and the like, Kristine opened the back door onto the patio and my entire view of the room changed.

“Deluxe 3″ is this very large room but then its opened to this huge patio area, part of it shared with the lower tower room and part of it private. Over our week there I fell in love with the room, it was cool and breezy, private and wide open. The patio became the centerpiece, and over the next seven days three different groups of people would inhabit the adjacent room slightly changing the the patio flavor with each shift.

After a castle tour, it was time to head over to L&M Grocery to stock the fridge. When we left The Castle the street was quiet, but by the time we crossed and got to the No Limit Bar a few familiar faces popped up. Always staying at the same place adds the dimension of getting to know people in the neighborhood. Of course faces come and go, but there is a core that remains trip to trip. The jerk chicken guy who is always grilling at the foot of the Willow Gate with the red bandanna was there and I introduced him to Kris as the neighborhood’s foremost chicken jerker. He is also a good man to know for a few other things. We ended up having a beer at No Limit Bar, we needed a beer, it’s what, thirty yards from The Castle gate to L&M. A thirsty 30.

We eventually made it to L&M and the lady at the counter perked up when I came in with my daughter. Eight months prior I’d taken my Mom into L&M who asked a lot of questions about the different products you can’t get in The States but that she’d seen in Ireland. I don’t know her name, but she knows me and gives me a good deal when changing those first US Dollars. We loaded up on Red Stripe, some Guinness, mangoes, water, bananas, vodka, Ting, various fruit juices, and spice bun. All life’s essentials.

We turned the fridge on high and loaded it up. Kris was puzzled to see me stuff even the fruit into the fridge until I told her about the tiny but voracious Jamaica ants. “It’s like National Geographic in here.” Please don’t take this to mean I’m saying The Castle is buggy, on the contrary the place is spotless, but as Jeff Goldblum said in Jurassic Park, “Life finds a way.”

Don’t get me off on a rant about morons from Crooked Musket, Kentucky who on their first trip out of Sisters Pretty County, whine on TripAdvisor about the lack of Five Star accommodations for $75 bucks a night in Negril. “Ya know Earl, when Tallulah and Clevis got hitched, well after Pa done brought the scatter-gun to bear, they paid $75 bucks at the E-Cono Lodge in PokeCuzin and they ain’t never complained about no dang lizards!”

These days any idiot can put their opinions on the internet

Anyway, we ate an early dinner in the yard by Chef Teddy just before sunset, and The Kid didn’t last much longer than that. I sat up a while that first night staring up into the clear night sky counting my blessings. Kristine had gotten through film school, and had moved to Brooklyn only blocks away. It was the first time since her Mom and I split coming up on twenty years ago that we were in the same zip code. We were spending more time together than we had since she was in middle school. I’d been in Brooklyn for almost three years, had a sane roommate, and found a wonderful spiritual community at the Zen Center of New York City, and though my writing career hadn’t taken off yet, work hadn’t sucked so bad in the previous few months. All in all, Life was good. Praise Jah.

Vinny

Finally the morning came and I arrived at Kristine’s place at about 4:05AM. I was relieved to see the lights burning in her second floor apartment, and a wave through the gloaming as she heard her phone ring. In minutes we were whizzing down the Belt Parkway making JFK Terminal C in about half an hour. Checked in and drinking coffee at the gate a few minutes after 5AM, we were finally on our way.

True to form Kristine was getting to know all the people sitting near us on the plane. We managed to cheat a little realizing our seats were A and C, so when B came we just moved to two unoccupied seats behind us. I was half-expecting a hassle from the flight attendant, but this was Air Jamaica. No problem.

The flight into Kingston was uneventful, the Kid slept most of the way. My browbeating not to oversleep was handled as only one in their early twenties can. She stayed up. I relaxed and read my book. I tried to watch the “Irie Vibes” or whatever they call the in flight programming, but that didn’t last too long. I may be a ball of anxiety pre-trip, but once on the way all that stress really slips away.

My expectation of flying into Kingston was that all the Port of Entry passport crap would happen there during the layover, so once in Montego Bay just grab the bags, hop into Kenny’s Taxi, Red Stripe, spliff, and the road to Negril. But as often happens with expectations, they were dashed as we sat starving in the terminal area where the only open food outlet was Burger King.

Now I’ve spent a dozen vacations in Negril without having it my way, but we were tired and got, well, I don’t remember what we got. I do remember it hitting the spot, and about fifteen minutes before we boarded our Mobay flight Kristine wheedled a few cocktails out of the lady setting up the terminal bar. It was after all, a little past 9AM, and it was Kristine’s Birthday.

The flight to Montego Bay was breathtaking on several levels. The vast Jamaican mountains with their smoky blues and exuberant greens brought on oohs and ahhs from we on the starboard side, while the crisp Caribbean Sea captivated those on port. Punctuating the splendor, the morning sunshine heating the moist mountain air formed dramatic updrafts which offered us a staccato rhythm that bounced that huge Airbus A-320 all the way to Mobay much like the rocky Jamaican roads would do in decades past.

Upon safe arrival in Mobay (there was applause), we walked briskly to immigration and cruised right through. The same thing with customs. Nice. Right outside the door a some kid had a sign saying “Vinny” and when we walked over he handed me a cellphone. It was Kenny! “I’m stuck in a little traffic my brother, run a tab the beers are on me!” Even nicer. It was definitely time for an icy cold Red Stripe, so we made out way to the bar and ordered up four beers. Four? Yeah, we knew the first two would be empty by the time the transaction was completed. Judge as you might.

I love to people watch at the airport bar in Mobay. The hustlers sizing up their prey, people from Iowa attempting to sort through some local drama, I just take it all in. Kristine is beginning to decompress too. I just smile as she takes a long pull from the brown squat bottle. There is something magical about how those first beads of outdoor Jamaican sweat are quenched by that first Red Stripe on the back of your throat. It sneaks up on me every time.

An older guy offers us a ride but we decline. We buy him a beer, and he tells us about the depressed business climate on the North Shore. “Hey man, all the cool kids go to Negril.” I say as Kenny’s bounds into the area, “VINNNNNYYYYY!!!” I introduce him to Kris, and at once we are in his warm embrace both literally and figuratively.

We learn that Megan and Jason had booked Kenny for their ride in the following afternoon. I love to drum up business for Kenny, he has never screwed me. Ever! He’s on time, he gives a fair price, he tells a good story and, most of all, my Mom really likes him.

Kris and I feel a second wind come on as we cruise though Montego Bay proper, and on along the coast. The party had just begun!

Vinny

This last Negril trip was one I’d been hoping to do for years. Taking the Kid to The Castle. She is always so busy getting her adult life off the ground, but on Christmas 2009 I suggested a birthday trip the following May. She was in.

The original plan was for her to bring her roommate along, I’d pay for the room and Kristine’s airfare, and all her roomy would have to handle was her flight. I spoke to Petrona at The Blue Cave Castle and tentatively booked two rooms that shared a patio. The lower tower for me and Deluxe 3 for Kris and her friend.

So many times I’d traveled to Negril alone. Everyone thought I was weird, but you’re never really alone in Negril unless you want to be. My family being amazing, loving and always willing to look past my weirdnesses, encouraged my frequent trips, and finally in 2007 I talked Dad into spending a few days in sunny Negril. I am proud to say that Dad “got it,” and through his story-telling the family maybe “got it” a little too.

For several months upon returning, Dad’s affirmative response to any question was “Ya Mon,” yeah, the apple doesn’t fall to far from the tree. But all those Ya Mon’s must have made an impression because when Dad and I began discussing a return trip in we were able to talk Mom into coming too.

I’d been to Negril many times. I’ve gone solo five times, with friends or girlfriends five times, twice with my parents, and now finally a trip with Kristine. This would be her second Negril trip. I’d sent her and a boyfriend (grrr) back in ’05 for her nineteenth birthday. Some people were a bit scandalized at the time, but I knew Negril was a friendly safe place as long as your not an asshole.

When there is a Negril trip in the offing I check airfares almost daily, I read airfare and airline related news, and I keep an eye on the Negril.com Message Board all to predict the airfare climate on or about my planned trip date. I love to get an amazing deal on airfare, though lately it hasn’t been so easy.

This trip I wanted to book in early March, but couldn’t get a solid commitment from the Kid’s roommate, so I held off. It was killing me. It was a great rate, like $289 R/T from JFK (Yeah, I know! Killing me!). A few weeks later the Kid told me her roommate had lost her job and couldn’t do the trip. I feigned disappointment and booked the next day at a decent rate of $315 each. I was glad to have Kris all to myself for the week. It would be the longest time we had ever spent together since she was a very little kid (insert ominous minor-key organ chord here).

Around this time, my friends Megan and Jay said they were planning a get away too. It all happened pretty fast, but after a few emails plans were aligned. Book, Pack and GO! The stage was set!

Vinny

Wheels up at 6AM tomorrow from JFK, a short layover in Kingston Jamaica before heading over to Montego Bay. At first I was bummed about the layover and the non-direct flight, but since we will deal with immigration while we’re waiting in Kingston, we will be able to bolt to Negril as soon as we land in MoBay.

A few tweaks to my packing list and then I’m going to try to get a few hours sleep…

Vinny

Clothing
2 pairs of Swim Trunks
3 pairs Cargo Shorts
1 pair Gym Shorts
10 T-shirts
4 Hawaiian-type Shirts
1 pair of Jeans
2 pairs of Socks
10 pairs of Boxers
Flips flops
Sneakers
Baseball Cap
Plastic bag for dirty clothes

Toiletries
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
Mouthwash
Deodorant
Disposable Razor
Shaving Cream
Shampoo
Towel
Washcloths

Health & First Aid
Simple First-Aid Kit
Benadryl Itch Stick
Benadryl Tablets
Aloe Vera Lotion
Sunblock Spray 30SPF
Sunblock Lotion or Stick 30SPF
Chapstick
40% Deet Insect Repellent
Pepto Bismol
Extra Strength Excedrin
Hand Sanitizer
Wet-Ones
Diabetes Testing Works
Medication

Mind & Body
My Jamaica Journal
My Regular Journal
Meditation Supplies
2 Books
Reading Glasses

Travel Supplies and Documentation
Passport
Jamaican Money from last trip (10K)
Cash
ID, ATM Card, Metro Card
Travel Wallet
Plane Ticket Printout
Hotel Reservation Printout
Lonely Planet Jamaica Guide Book
Jamaica Road Map

Other Stuff
Splenda
Diet Drink Mix
Breath Freshening Gum
Camera
Ipod
Netbook
AAA Batteries
Flash Drive
Flashlight
Disposable Lighters
Blackberry
Sync Cable
Sunglasses
Baggie for Negril Sand
Screens
Pens

Wow, to see it all listed out one wouldn’t think that I lopped of at least a dozen items. Did I miss anything?

Her name was Michelle, an attractive yet somewhat disheveled twenty-something brunette. A few years ago I would have thought the she was hitting on me, but a subtle blend of maturity and reality keeps that from being my first conclusion these days. She was here to meet-up with a group of people to read and comment on each other’s writing. This was her first “Meet-Up” and she didn’t know who may be in her group.

“I’m forty-five minutes early,” she admitted, and went on about how she felt like she was on a blind date and seemed dubious about her compatriot’s motives. My motives were clear. I planned to sit here and bask in the glory of talking with a beautiful woman half my age for as long as she’d have me.

“Don’t you have name tags or a secret handshake?” I queried mustering my charm while trying not to seem too lecherous.

“This is my first time, so maybe they’ll show me!” She giggled, and then she effortlessly floored me with, “So what do you write for?”

Wow, two poignant questions in five minutes. I know she was expecting the name of a magazine or website, but the way she phrased the question, for me, was much more broad. In response I talked in platitudes about the love of writing, and the need for artistic expression. She seemed satisfied with that, and so the conversation continued until her group grew to become obvious. We exchanged email addresses to share our work, but as she joined her group, I was stuck with her question, “Am I a real writer?”

I knew I was not satisfied with the tepid answers I gave my new friend. I’d been working under the idea of “Audacity:” if one has the audacity to step up and tell the world he is a writer, then dammit, he is. It sounds good, there is even some truth to it, but it’s only a first step. Temerity gets you moving, but now what?

I don’t have an answer right now. There are a lot of “should do’s” and even quite a few “am doing’s,” but it’s time for the next step.

Any suggestions?

Vinny

It is customary for the student to offer a small gift of appreciation to the teacher at this time, but what do you give to the man who has everything? It had to be something personal, something with history, something with a story.

Starting in the 90′s I began spending my vacations is a little town on the western tip of Jamaica. I often stay in the same small hotel, and I have become friendly with the families, restaurateurs, and shopkeepers in the little neighborhood close to the hotel. In these years I also began to explore eastern philosophy and to practice various forms of meditation. Mornings in Negril became synonymous with deep introspection peppered with ganja and robust coffee while gazing into the void of the great Caribbean Sea.

Several months after beginning to study with Daido Roshi I found myself back in Negril, this time with my Dad. On the first day, my friend Elvis called me over to his stand just outside the hotel’s gate. The first thing he asked was, “How are the brothers doing?” as if they were old friends who’d emigrated to the States a few years earlier. Actually “The Brothers” were a pair of crescent moons carved from planks of pimento wood with beautiful expressive Jamaican faces he’d made for me as a birthday gift for my daughter. Elvis is a gifted artist with the ability to get right to the heart of the matter.

He held up a block of wood, ironwood he told me, and as he held it he began to ask in a mystical sort of way, “What can I show you in this block? What do you see?” Along with being a wonderful carver Elvis was no slouch as a salesman, but I was in a hurry to get back to my Dad so I blurted out, “Have you ever carved a Buddha?” This got him. He looked at me puzzling images through his mind until a light went on, “The fat one, wit ‘im big belly?” “Not exactly,” I replied and began to speak of the type of Buddha I was referring to. He listened with rapt attention and finally replied, “I’ll look on the internet and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

The next evening Dad and I returned from a day of sightseeing and I stopped by to see Elvis who showed me a catalog of some kind containing several Buddha images. As we looked at them he said, ” ‘im like Rasta men in the mountain praying on Jah Rastafari.” He turned the rough-hewn block in his work worn hands, placed the it on the workbench, and crouching down he began to describe the finished sculpture which he could clearly see. I didn’t interfere, he got it, he got it in a way that filled the whole room. I thanked him, and said I’d see him in a few days.

Dad had left for the states, but I still had a few more days in town, and I hadn’t seen Elvis in a week. The next morning I went out to forage the fruit stand for breakfast when I saw Elvis’ smiling face waving me over. The statue was wrapped in some kind of oiled cloth and Elvis was rubbing it furiously as if to whet my appetite. When he unveiled it, I was blown away. The statue was so much cooler than I could have ever imagined. Imagination tethered to experience simply limits possibilities, but in this statue Elvis’ world met mine. I paid the first price he mentioned without a haggle.

I knew that one day I’d donate this treasure to Zen Mountain Monastery, and when the subject of a gift on becoming a student came up, I knew exactly what to do. I was so happy to let go of this unique piece of art that held such strong meaning for me, but with Daidoshi’s illness seeming to be taking hold at the time I went through this process, I never had an opportunity to share what this item actually was.

My next trip to Jamaica was in the Spring of ’08 and I hoped Elvis and I could collaborate on another unique carving, but several months earlier he’d stepped on a nail and was having serious health issues. Routine health care isn’t routine in a country as poor as Jamaica. Later that year I became a formal Zen student and I gave the Rastaman Buddha to my teacher.

I didn’t return to Jamaica again till September ’09 where I found Elvis’ carving stand abandoned. I asked around and was heartbroken to hear that my friend had passed away in the same month I offered his work as a gift. He’d lost his foot to the nail, and weakened by tetanus he succumbed to “flu”, probably pneumonia, a month or so later.

I spent a little time sitting in the dilapidated old stand sharing beers with Elvis’ brother who was working to sell off what carvings he could. Sadly in their weathered state they were not appealing to the passing tourists who would never have the honor to know the sweet man I knew as “Elvis The Carver.”

Vinny

I planned this trip back around last Christmas. Sitting before my laptop and Google Calendar blocking out the major events of the year. At first it was a spring trip, but finally it had to be pushed to September. I like hurricane season in Negril, maybe I secretly want to be stranded for an extra week some day. OK, so that’s not a secret to anyone, except maybe my boss.

It was July 4th weekend 2009. I was eating my outdoor grilled bratwurst at my parents place in Jersey when the subject of my next Negril trip came up. “I have the second week of September penciled in, you guys should come…” I offered spontaneously. They’re retired, financially stable, so what the hell? Of course it was my Dad who responded about a nano-second after the words were out of my mouth, “OK.”

Now my Mom was a tougher nut to crack. She hemmed and hawed as she rolled their Fall 2009 social calendar around in her head, “We can’t go to Jamaica so soon, maybe next spring.” But it only took a few minutes of me and Dad’s cajoling before she was in. The last piece of the puzzle was seeing if my daughter Kris could make it.

Things moved pretty quickly from there. I went online to find Air Jamaica was running a $289.00 round trip special from JFK to MoBay if we purchased the tickets right away, so we jumped on it. Booked three tickets that weekend, and then sent an email to Petrona and Susan at The Blue Cave Castle to book two rooms. We got one of the fancy rooms “Superior Ten” for Mom & Dad, and my favorite room “Deluxe One” for me, and if Kris was able to break off a week to come along she could room with her old man.

Almost immediately Dad was back to “Ya Mon” as the affirmative answer to almost any question, and Mom was excited too, and was soon very concerned with what to pack. My answer of, “Just bring a bunch of t-shirts” wasn’t too helpful.

There was a lot of joking about the sagacity of flying on 9/11 amongst our family, not to mention some stern warnings from my sisters, “You better bring them back in one piece!” The sisters are planning the big 50th anniversary shindig next spring, so I had to promise not to let Mom do any cliff-diving.

About a week out I emailed Petrona at The Castle to confirm and to let her know about when we would arrive which I estimated at “just before sunset,” to which Petrona replied, “Fuzzy and I will hold the sunset until you get here.” I just loved the visual that put in my head.

Getting to JFK for me is a pretty easy run. I can do a taxi, bus, train or subway, but Mom and Dad had to get there from Jersey. Luckily my brother offered to take them, but since traffic is so unpredictable they left really early. With the “Luck of the Irish”, of course they hit zero traffic and we checked in, through security, and at the gate by 9AM for a 12:45 flight. I left early for me, and met up with them at the gate around 10:30.

Time flew by and although it was a bit rainy we took off on time, hit no delays, and had a nice uneventful flight. We arrived at Sangster a little early, about 3:15 Jamaica time, and sailed through immigration, baggage and customs in record time. We were just outside the sliding doors into the driver’s area after successfully side-stepping the deal makers and Red Cap guys, to see a guy holding up a sign with Vinny on it.

The driver looked familiar, but it wasn’t Kenny who I’d contracted for the drive into Negril. He introduced himself as Rocky and apologized that he wasn’t Kenny, which I thought was funny. Hey Man, we can’t all be Kenny.” He explained he works with Kenny who was double-booked that day. We didn’t really care, his van was in good condition and the AC was working, though I must admit to missing the ice cold Red Stripes Kenny would have had ready to go, a situation we remedied at the first beer shack we ran across on the other side of Montego Bay. There’s just something wonderful about that first Red Stripe.

I told Rocky we were hoping to get to Negril before sunset, and I thought it shouldn’t be a problem, but we hit a whole lot of Friday afternoon traffic. Making the turn just past Lucea we were able to fly down the western coast all the way into Negril. Mom was so impressed with all of the school children in their uniforms. I was intrigued how Mom, who grew up in Ireland, felt at home almost immediately. She kept relating names, places and word usages to the old sod. For me it was really cool, I’d been worried if she’d like Jamaica, thinking she’d get used to it in a few days, but she seemed to get it immediately.

Soon we were among the myriad “Welcome to Negril” signs, rolling past the all-inclusive joints, through town and up into the cliffs. I love the feeling when those big white gates open and we pull through to see Santa’s big smile and warm smile. “Greeting mi friend!” he says as I introduce him to Mom, he remembered Dad.

We settled in our rooms for a while. I think this is my fourth time staying in “Deluxe One,” it was like seeing an old friend, though the furniture had been moved around some.

The sun was getting low, but we still had about half an hour till sunset so I went to get the Parents and to give Mom a tour of The Castle property, and then we went across the street to L&M Grocery to stock our respective refrigerators. The neighborhood was coming to life as we walked back, but the various sellers and deal makers kept their distance out of what I would like to think was respect for two older tourists making their way back to The Castle.

Sunset was nice, The Castle’s view is as good or better than anywhere else in Negril, and it was fun to watch Mom and Dad take it all in. Mom kept saying how she understood why I keep coming back.

More to come…

Vinny

Hi Vinny!

I can’t tell you how much I have, and am currently, enjoying reading your Negril exploits! Too funny, way insightful and very informative. Thanks for all the vivid descriptions of a lot of the places I’ve been reading about for the last year in anticipation of our trip to Negril.

I’m writing to tell you that my wife and I are flying into MoBay on November 20th for a 10 day trip to Negril for our 3rd wedding anniversary. It is the first time in Jamaica for both of us, and after reading most of your articles I am thrilled that we picked Negril for the whole trip. We have a car rented through EFAY car rental that we will pick up at the airport and then we will hit the “Road to Negril.” We are staying at the Charela Inn the entire time. Do you know anything about the Charela Inn and did we make a good choice? We will have a Junior Sea View Suite on the second floor.

The only thing we really have planned is our anniversary dinner on 11/24 at Rockhouse and a Wild Thing Cruise/Snorkel/Horse ride trip. We definitely plan on eating at Selina’s, 3 Dives, Kuyaba and Best in the West. We also want to eat at Xtabi and check out the snorkeling from their cliffs.

If we have time we hope to drive to the Black River and check out Rasta George.

I’ve got your packing list printed out and will take your advice on the Wet One’s! Any other advice about where to get some good local flavor would be greatly appreciated, but we can’t wait to have a Red Stripe in our hand, and our toes in the sand. You’re not going to be there from 11/20 -11/30 are you?

Thanks again for the great reading. We both hope to become one with Negril and its people.

“A phattie the size of a baby’s arm” OMG, LOL! When I read this I immediately fell off my chair and rolled around laughing with tears streaming down my face. Nice work!

Cheers,
Joe & Laura

Wow! Thanks Joe & Laura,

It never ceases to amaze me that people are helped by my ramblings.

First off, Negril is a great choice! People are always asking me, “Why do you go there?” Soon you will know the answer. You also picked a great time to go, I’ve done the late fall trip. The place is getting ready for the high season so things look great and the businesses are up ready to go.

Charela is very nice, I have friends who’ve been spending two weeks there each summer for more than twenty years. I’ve gone for dinner and drinks, and you can’t beat the location right in the center of all the beach action. I like taking a private water trip with Famous Vincent, or one of the many glass-bottomed boat guys up and down the beach, but The Wild Thing is also a great time. As you may have gleaned, I stay at The Blue Cave Castle and every afternoon the Wild Thing takes a slow cruise right by, when, on occasion, I’ve been known to moon them.

Please remember, you don’t have to go totally native on your first trip to have the time of your life! If you get one thing from this note, please get that. My first two trips were to an all-inclusive, but luckily a buddy told me to get out and see a little of the real thing which I did. On both of those trips I spent a fortune for all the things you go to an all-inclusive for and I totally loved both Hedonism and Sandals. I often give first timers the same advise I received. Go AI but get a little taste of The Real Negril!

For me, it wasn’t till my third reach when I needed a cheap trip that I totally immersed myself. I paid $25 a night at The Yoga Centre, foraged for food at small local places, drank in little hole in the wall bars, and really fell in love with Negril.

All your choices sound great. I suggest a stop into the The Blue Cave Castle up in the cliffs for one of Teddy’s sunset meals. He is an inspired chef and there is simply no better view, period. Also, don’t miss Rick’s Cafe! Some of my friends consider it too touristy, and even though I agree to some extent, its sheer awesomeness overshadows the commercialism.

The only thing I’d warn you about is the car rental. Getting around is very cheap and easy via route taxi’s and tour bus. I like to use Kenny 876-384-1371, and most of the better restaurants will send a car for free. I’ve heard many a story where the stress of dealing with a car in a third world country had buzz-killing results. Hey, maybe you guys are seasoned world travelers so this is a moot point. As for me, I’m usually too wasted to even chance a bike ride

Happy Anniversary! Have a great time! And please let me know how it turned out.

Peace and gassho,

Your Pal Vinny

Flight info: Flying from JFK to Montego Bay on Air Jamaica Flight #0010 with a scheduled arrival time of 3:35PM.

Negril Transport: Usually I take the J.U.T.A. shuttle to Negril for $20US, but this trip with my parents I hired Kenny from Negril. Kenny will pick us up as soon as we clear Immigration and he’ll ferry us to sunny Negril in his big comfortable van stocked with snacks and Red Stripes.

Hotel: As usual it’s another stay at the wonderful Blue Cave Castle. I’ll be in Deluxe #1 and Mom and Dad will be in Superior #10 just across the yard near the coffee hut. Mom and Dad opted for a few creature comforts like a TV and Air Conditioning, though I’m not sure if Dad will be able to get the Giants game on Sunday.

Plans?: We don’t have much planned, there are a few things I’d like to do though. I’d like to do a beach day up at Half Moon Beach, and a day trip out to Black River and its environs. I’ve already tentatively booked Kenny for the Black River trip. I’m not sure if Mom will be cool with the fishing boat cruise up river, but I’m sure we will find some mutually accessible activities. I’d love to go out to Treasure Beach, and Alligator Pond, or up into Cockpit Country.

No matter what we choose we will have a great time! I’ll be posting with pics and news, so check back often!

Peace,
Vinny

Kuyaba for romantic dinner and drinks on da beach

Boat Bar for 200J Red Stripes on da beach

For Real for 150J Red Stripes on da beach

Selinas on Sunday for Brunch on da beach road

RealNegril.com live webcasts Tuesday’s thru Sundays – say “Hi” to dem at home

Ossies or Best of the West for Jerk on da beach road

Sunrise for Italian or Pizza on da beach road

JahB’s on da beach road for Scooters, Food and Cottages

Jenny’s on da West End Rd for best prices on breakfast, lunch and dinner – “Special Cake”

Wild Thing for a sunset cruise and open bar

Royal Palm Reserve with Famous Vincent

White Sands for 2 for 1 specials on beach

23/7 for drinks anytime on beach

Alfreds for breakfast on beach

Canoe on da West End Rd for great food and drinks – 200J Red Stripes

Fishing with Capt Stanely

Xtabi on da Cliffs for snorkeling and food and drinks

Bouborn for Jerk and live music on Monday Wed and Sat nights on da beach

Alfreds for live music Sun, Tues and Fri nights on da beach

Roots Bamboo on Wed nights on da beach

Wednesday nights “On the Rocks” has a party night dj playing on da West End Road

Charela Inn blues on Thursday nights on da beach

Tuesday nights at Negril Escape Sunset Show on da Cliffs

Late Tuesday nights at MiYard for live and direct DJ’s on da West End Rd

Famous Vincent for Snorkeling

Jungle on Thursday nights for Ladies Night on da beach road

Legends and SamSara Happy Hour 4 – 7PM

YellowBird Happy Hour 4 to sunset on da beach

Margaritaville popular all afternoon and good place to watch sports on a lot of TV’s on da beach…

Cosmos for food at da start of Negril

Kool Runnings Water Park on da beach road

Shamrock Shop on da beach road for coldest Red Stripe Beer and fresh squeezed OJ

LTU for Chicken Lola and pumkin soup on da Cliffs

SeaStar Inn on Sat nights for $15 buffet and entertainment on da corner of SeaStar Lane and West End Road

HiLo for changing money at da best rates

Cool Runnings,
Marko

Thanks Marko!
Vinny

PS: When do you ever sleep?

Maybe it has something to do with my horrible typing skills. Writing on paper is a tactile experience, free flowing thought to words without the editing inherant in my slow typing. I want transfer to typing completely, that’s my goal. It’s not because I bought this cool new toy, that’s a cart and horse issue, I actually bought this cool new toy because I wanted to affect this transition. Using a computer, a wordpress blog and Google everything promises to make the writing process much more efficient. Writing on paper, re-writing, re-writing again, typing into a computer, posting, editing, re-posting, yada, yada, yada, is a pretty tedious process, and to ever expect this writing gig to go beyond hobby status something has to give.

So with the help of the comfy coffee houses of Brooklyn (I’m at Has Beans right now), I will be working through this. I apologize in advance for any schlocky prose you may encounter.

Peace,

Vinny

I haven’t really gotten started. I’m usually 90% packed by now, shirts starched and boxed, new travel sized toiletries stacked up. I did buy a new big bag. Since 9/11 I don’t bother with a carry-on. Actually it wasn’t 9/11, it was the liquids ban, which was just silly. The liquid bombers are in prison, but that doesn’t stop the geniuses at the TSA for keeping the barn door closed. And I’m eying a good sturdy pair of Birkenstock’s for all that walking I plan to do.

Mom and Dad are coming along this time, which should be a lot of fun. I was hoping the Kid would come too, but she couldn’t carve a week out of her busy schedule. We got a great rate from Air Jamaica and we got the parents a fancy room at The Castle. This is Dad’s second Negril trip, but it’s been a long time since Mom has taken the rustic route. It’s always so much fun taking a newbie to Negril. I get to do all the touristy things that I love to do but don’t bother doing when in town with more seasoned Negrillers.

Normally I have a very loose schedule, but on the Mom & Dad trip I’ll have to at least sketch out a thumbnail. I’m sure Mom will love Rick’s Cafe, and likewise a nice shady beach day at Half Moon, though we may have to tone down the Black River Safari trip a little. Maybe I’ll send Mom and Dad out alone for a romantic sunset cruise with Famous Vincent.

Well I’m going to Target to start checking off my list. I’ll be posting the packing list about ten days out…

Peace,
Vinny

The St. Claire Restaurant, is a diner on the corner of Smith and Atlantic in what I guess is technically still Boreum Hill though I think the trendy realtors like to call it BoCoCa (I’m not even going in to it.) I’d been by it a hundred times, it always looked clean, well lit, and as I reflect in this moment; empty.

I was on an aimless journey, I’d missed the early start time for a film I’d only marginally wanted to see and I hadn’t eaten, so I hopped off the bus and wandered into the St. Claire. My goal was to get my standard grilled chicken over a salad, though splurging on the special was a possibility.

Completely empty at 6:45PM. I must be an idiot, but still I nodded blankly as the busdude waved his arm expansively saying, “Anywhere you’d like sir.” I took aim on a booth opposite the counter, plopped down and reached for my book. It took several seconds to realize my ass was wet, then my arms, then slowly I awakened to the fact that this clue-dog let me sit at the one seat in the entire empty damned restaurant with the AC vent leaking on it.

Over in the next booth now, the menu and the iced tea came out without incident. To be completely honest it was pretty damned good iced tea. It hit that iced tea sweet spot, not too icy, not too tea-y. I forewent my usual salad mainly because they all had stupid names and I wasn’t in the mood to decipher the Smith Street Special or the Brooklyn Classic’s ingredients. I ordered the meatloaf special. It’s a diner, I’m from Jersey, and the Tuesday Night Special is Meatloaf served with soup or salad, potato and vegetable, how could I go wrong?

The salad came out promptly. Upon serving the salad, my friendly, yet strangely stand-offish server asked what kind of dressing I wanted. I asked for italian. She said, “Creamy Italian?” and I wasn’t sure whether she was asking if that was OK, or if she was trying to warn me off. I smiled and nodded. I’ve spent most of my adult life smiling and nodding at attractive women I don’t understand, so I went with what works.

As soon as it hit the table I realized I’d made a poor dressing choice. The texture was off, different than any other salad dressing I’d here-to-fore encountered. A heaping jiggly blob of creamy detritus that seemed to be plotting an escape from the all too confining monkey dish. I approached with due caution. It was a slightly flavored mayonnaise with chunks of odd chunkiness throughout, confused and a little disturbed, I asked for oil and vinegar.

I pushed my empty salad bowl, dressing dish, and oil and vinegar caddy to the corner of the table when I was finished, where it sat.

My main course came out on two plates, steamy meatloaf slathered in gravy on the big one, and steamed broccoli and green beans on the other also hot and steamy. I was psyched to dig in, “they can’t screw up everything?” I thought. Oh naiveté.

I’ll start with the veggies. The broccoli was sitting somewhere dying before being conscripted for my order. It wasn’t terrible, but more Denny’s than I’m used to. To stay on the Denny’s kick, the green beans were standard Jolly Green Giant frozen flavorless. At least Denny’s used to soak them for days in some greasy sort of salty brine which was a flavor sensation all its own.

Now for the thick meat flavored substance they were pawning off as Meatloaf. Back in the day, and when I was a kid, and when I made Meatloaf in a diner, it was a signature dish. It is deceptively tough to create and sell a dish so common as the lowly meatloaf, because everyone’s Mom makes the best meatloaf ever! So it needs to be of quality and high standard, but with that something extra that makes it great without threatening anyone’s notion of mom’s pièce d’ résistance. A true balancing act.

Don’t worry, your Mothers have nothing to fear from The St. Claire. This meatloaf-ian mystery meat was almost worth eating just to discern what the hell it was, but between the grease, the furiously salty gelatinous glop that passed for gravy, and the hard bits, I was at a loss.

Dizzy with the MSG rush from the canned gravy-like substance, I stacked and pushed my plates next to the still there plates from the salad course, the empty water glass (plastic glass), the empty iced-tea glass (ditto plastic), and my flatware with my uncharacteristically linen napkin folded neatly atop the pile.

Finally after several bouts of the “obviously looking around for my server” head movements, she finally appeared from the one direction I wasn’t looking and startled the shit out of me. I asked for a refill on the iced tea. “How was it?” she asked with an accent of Ukrainian origin. I smiled and said, “The iced tea was great.”

After ten or fifteen minutes of relaxing, reading my book, and recovering from the salt shock, I got up to pay my bill. I was still the only person on the restaurant, though by then I knew why. I perused the bill as I walked to the very uninterested gum-chewing-reading-glasses-on-a-chain cashier, and laughed aloud as I saw that they charged me for the iced tea refill. My first instinct was to be annoyed but the iced tea was the only part of the meal that was worth paying for.

“How was everything Sir?” the very uninterested gum-chewing-reading-glasses-on-a-chain cashier asked in her droning way.

“Pretty terrible actually,” I said with a smile.

“Thank You.” she said not even registering my comment, or so cool that she didn’t want to give me an inch. I just kept smiling, by this time amused by the whole situation.

I walked over to the table and put my 20% tip on the table next to the festering pile of dirty dishes. It’s not her fault she works in the worst restaurant in Brooklyn, and I’m not the type to hold a grudge.

Peace,
Vinny

That’s the question. We get used to this or that, the trail clears, widens, and the rut deepens. It may sound apocalyptic but it’s not so dramatic, we do it with everything. Being habitual isn’t the problem, it’s our blind faith in these habits, the non-questioning life.

When a friend and mentor recently made a change, a change to further his practice, a positive change, I felt my clinging to the status quo rear up in my life. Such a simple thing.

I spent several days thinking, “This sucks!” even though I knew intellectually this was a positive move for all involved. “What an asshole I am,” I thought. So conditioned in what I like and what is familiar, it makes one reflect on forests and trees.

It also brings to light just what an expansive journey this life, this questioning life is, and how steep even are the foothills.

Vinny

Are are some things one can do? Is it ever too early for pre-trip inventory? Then at least I can begin the post-inventory pre-packing travel equipment staging, right? Maybe I need another cup of coffee! Well, no; obviously not.

Packing and gear aside, I’m quite prepared for this trip. I’m usually agonizing over what books to bring, to computer or not to computer, and since I’m bringing Mom and Dad along, the itinerary is pretty much set to “The Jamaica Experience in Six Days.”

The computer problem was solved with the purchase of my totally awesome HP Mini, and since lately I’ve been buying books at a disturbing rate my backlog is filled with tasty selections.

The book backlog problem is all about talking on the phone while perusing the stacks at Barnes & Noble. Everyone has suggestions and of course, I am easily led. Discussions spark memories of myriad conversations and Discovery Channel episodes ended with choices like Orwell’s 1984, The Omnivore’s Dilemma, Tim Wise’ Between Barack and a Hard Place, and several more. A few weeks ago it was the same story but with different stories, Daido Roshi’s The Heart of Being, Pride & Prejudice & Zombies (that one may need to be reviewed here), and then several tomes on theoretical physics, a kind of Michiu Kaku Greatest Hits.

Damn, 53 more sleeps till Negril, I shouldn’t stay away so long next time, this is going to be torture…

Peace,
Vinny

The reason I went to the whole netbook concept is portability, the thing weighs 2.5 lbs, but when you add that to the convergence of all these technologies I’m not really giving up any performance. Another big reason is it is very blog friendly. As I’ve been moving towards “The Cloud” with Google Docs, Google Calendar and two WordPress blogs, I plan to keep all those heavy apps like MS Office and the like back on my work computer which now seems huge although it is only a 14.1″ Dell Laptop.

So next year when I post my Second Annual Independence Day Blog Post, we’ll see how this new technology helps me keep writing, moving and blogging.

Go eat some BBQ! I’m headed to Coney Island to eat some hot dogs . . .

Peace,
Vinny

OK, so maybe that overstates the problem, but this media apocalypse is way overblown. From the news to the office, from the subways to the streets a pall of uneasiness has swept my little corner of the world. The housing crisis, pirates in Somalia, failing banks, bankrupt auto makers, the list goes on and on. It’s relentless. People on edge, society all keyed up, then this?

When things are broken, or even when they seem broken, people look for someone who promises to make it better, they abdicate their responsibilities, and the pendulum swings towards tyranny. The path of history is crowded with the muddy footprints of they whose over-reaching has led to the disenfranchisement of cheering crowds.

I don’t believe in messiahs. Life is to be lived one day at a time, one moment at a time. I can’t stomach the thought of a future kept in constant crisis, with people betraying their better judgment for some collective cure. It either ends up as a Demolition Man prozac world of neutered sameness, or Roddenberry’s Borg. Neither is very appealing.

My suggestion? Let’s all take a step back and gain a little perspective. When I used to run fast-food joints we’d train the cashiers to never focus on the line out the door, but to just handle the customer right in front of you. Give them your full attention and the line will take care of itself. I think it works in life too.

Vinny

I will never pretend to be a huge baseball fan, but one of the charms of living in Philadelphia all those years was hearing Harry Kalas calling a Phillies game. A lot will be written and said over the next few weeks as those more knowledgeable than I wax eloquent on his accomplishments. Even the most casual Phillies fan like myself knew the greatness we were in the midst of. It’s hard to describe in text what the man could do with a microphone, scroll down a few posts and play the clip of Harry calling last year’s World Series, or just go to YouTube and search his name.

Goodbye Harry, rest in peace.

Last week I was on a commuter train, minding my own business, trundling through the back yards of suburban New Jersey. Everywhere I looked, endless tracks of plastic demarcation gleaming in the morning sunshine; ice cliffs calving into a sea of banality, one after another, ever new, ever fresh, ever cheerful.

Is my worldview changing? Warped by a few years of introspection, or is it Brooklyn? Am I becoming like those self important Park Slope nose-down-lookers? I’m not quite there yet, but I wonder about those fences. Plastic yard borders surround plastic houses full of plastic things, and even a plastic car on a driveway not yet plastic, though I’m sure teams of plastic scientists are at work right now to remedy the situation.

A banana tastes best as it begins to rot, entropy is what is, an intimacy conspicuously ignored. What price pricey perfection? Standards skewed, Jones’s up-kept, what are we teaching these kids? Causes affecting more causes effect again moving through someone’s idea of BMMRs and minivans choking the cul-de-sac. But it’s OK everyone has GPS to navigate the sameness.

I hope they can find their way…

… AND THE CROWD GOES WILD!!

… Channel 29 coverage …

I can’t believe I missed the West Indian Day Parade last year! I don’t remember what I did instead, but if I’d gone I would have remembered what I did, since I did this, and it would have been awesome, but then I’d be comparing this year to last year which may or may not have impacted what a wonderful time I had today. But I digress…

I’ve been living in Brooklyn a little over a year now, and in that time I’ve taken two trips to Negril. Today at the West Indian Day Parade I felt like I’d taken trip number three.

All along Eastern Parkway stretching eastward from Prospect Park’s Grand Army Plaza to Utica Avenue deep in the heart of Crown Heights Brooklyn, a stronghold of Caribbean culture since the 60′s, the massive parade and street fair held sway. It was as much Carnivale as a NYC Parade, hundreds of food stalls, craft booths and t-shirt sellers lined both sides of the two-mile long route.

I hopped a #3 train from Atlantic Ave to the Franklin Ave. As soon as the train doors opened the sweet smell of food on the grill hit me, so I followed my nose. I went right for the first Jerk Chicken stand I saw, the old woman’s lilting Jamaica patois like music drew me in. I ordered a small portion of well prepared nicely spiced Jerk Chicken. I forwent the extra packaging, I knew it wasn’t going to last long, and the lid, fork and bag would just be a waste.

I began walking through the crowd eating my chicken, the spice cleared my head and I began to realize the enormity of this event. As far as I could see a sea of people, food being served and eaten, thousands of colorful flags from all the West Indian countries fluttered in the soft breeze of this perfect sunny day.

I may not be the most objective correspondent but the crowd seemed to be at least half Jamaican, or at least dressed in Jamaican flags and Jamaican colors. There was a good contingent of Haitians, and Trinis as well as Guyanans, Barbatons, and Grenadans. The food was amazing, everything you could think of. Some from organized food trucks run by the myriad local Caribbean restaurants in the area, to small family-run concerns with Grandma doing the cooking and the kids higgling for customers.

I had my main lunch, after the above mentioned Jerk Chicken, a Curry Chicken Patty, and a half frozen bottle of water, at rough looking food stand run by a group of would-be rastas. They were disorganized, a bit overwhelmed, and their spray-painted sign read Rasta-I-tal, but they had genuine smiles and seemed to be the real deal (Reshay who served me was in Portmore this time last year). I got the Curried Goat with rice and peas. It was fresh, meaty, good portion and was spot on! I gave them a card and told them I was going to write about them. I also told them to open a restaurant. They had that intangible something that turns good food into a great meal.

The heroes of the day were the usual suspects: Bob Marley, Haile Selassie, Martin Luther King and Malcolm-X, but supplanting them all was Barack Obama, it was all about Obama, you’d think he was running for President or something. Even Chucky Schumer’s entourage were sporting “Obama is the Answer” t-shirts. I didn’t wear my Obama shirt, nor did I wear my Bob Marley shirt. I don’t like being “that guy.” There were penty of “those guys” around. It’s funny how silly wannabe white-boy dreads look in such situations.

The music was loud, we were all having a good time, I didn’t see any trouble, but New York’s Finest were out in force. I walked from Franklin Ave. up to Utica Ave where the parade started and I ran into a Police created coral with no throughway, so I went into the subway and went back into the thick of things at Nostrand Ave, but on the other side of the Parkway. This time I walked back towards The Brooklun Museum and Prospect Park. Soon I was standing at Grand Arch at Grand Army Plaza looking back at the parade.

Fun Day
Vinny

I found some storm video of Dancing Mangos in Negril.

I like to watch the National Hurricane Center. They have the best and most current coverage.

There is always the Jamaica News-Gleaner, with decent coverage, though they sometimes downplay the bad stuff.

Hang in there!

Vinny

George Carlin died yesterday, it’s sad but it’s not really a shock. I’d been a fan since I first heard him in 1974. Jeff Geist and I “borrowed” the Class Clown album from his uncle and sat listening to it through shared headphones while his little brother Michael stood look-out. This was very controversial stuff for a pair of ten-year olds. Then late in 1982 my buddy Frankie Tuossolo and I saw him live at the old Club Bene in Sayerville, NJ, I don’t think I ever laughed so hard in my life.

As a tribute to the master curmudgeon of our time I did a web search for some Carlin-isms, I hope you enjoy…

When cheese gets it’s picture taken, what does it say?

Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.

I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self-help section?” She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.

When someone asks you, A penny for your thoughts, and you put your two cents in, what happens to the other penny?

If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen defrocked, doesn’t it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted?

When someone is impatient and says, “I haven’t got all day,” I always wonder, How can that be? How can you not have all day?

I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks so I wondered, what do Chinese mothers use? Toothpicks?

If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

Is a vegetarian permitted to eat animal crackers?

What if there were no hypothetical questions?

Frisbeetarianism is the belief that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.

Some national parks have long waiting lists for camping reservations. When you have to wait a year to sleep next to a tree, something is wrong.

Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.

Before they invented drawing boards, what did they go back to?

Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.

Why do croutons come in airtight packages? It’s just stale bread to begin with.

I have as much authority as the Pope, I just don’t have as many people who believe it.

Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?

If the #2 pencil is the most popular, why is it still #2?

Electricity is really just organized lightning.

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.

“I am” is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that “I do” is the longest sentence?

If all the world is a stage, where is the audience sitting?

Well, if crime fighters fight crime and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight? They never mention that part to us, do they?

Honesty may be the best policy, but it’s important to remember that apparently, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy.

I recently went to a new doctor and noticed he was located in something called the Professional Building. I felt better right away.

If you can’t beat them, arrange to have them beaten.

I’m completely in favor of the separation of Church and State. My idea is that these two institutions screw us up enough on their own, so both of them together is certain death.

There’s no present. There’s only the immediate future and the recent past.

At a formal dinner party, the person nearest death should always be seated closest to the bathroom.

As a matter of principle, I never attend the first annual anything.

The very existence of flame-throwers proves that some time, somewhere, someone said to themselves, You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done.

Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.

Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that.

I think it’s the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately.

The only good thing ever to come out of religion was the music.

Religion convinced the world that there’s an invisible man in the sky who watches everything you do. And there’s 10 things he doesn’t want you to do or else you’ll go to a burning place with a lake of fire until the end of eternity. But he loves you! …And he needs money! He’s all powerful, but he can’t handle money!

Peace,
Vinny

On past trips I’d be packed by now, my over-stuffed rolling duffel bag sitting expectantly by the door, but this time around the bag is yet to be zipped. I did some stuff, but I still need to hit Target for some necessities. I’m having a tough time finding heavy-duty bug repellant in New York City.

I’ve also gotten into the habit of posting my packing list a few weeks out, but I think the idea has gotten stale. I don’t think I added anything since the last trip, and some stuff was never unpacked.

So this trip will be completely unscheduled. I rarely follow my damned schedule anyway, but for some reason I feel the need to pencil something in.

I will be posting, my room at the Blue Cave Castle is very close to the WIFI, so there shouldn’t be a problem.

See you in Negril!

Vinny

Maybe I should explain:

Friday night I went over to my friend Dee’s place in Crown Heights. She had somehow come into possession of a wild bird, and she wanted me to help her set it free in Prospect Park. It’s a whole other story. Our original plan for the day was to meet up in Manhattan, have a few drinks, and then go to see the new Indiana Jones movie. So after the bird was free and happy in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, we hopped on a 3 train heading into Lower Manhattan.

Street level somewhere near City Hall I pulled out my trusty Blackberry and hit the Google Maps Button. Within seconds it told me where we were and where we needed to go. I love my Blackberry. I’m almost obsessed with it. It holds everything, numbers, emails, to do lists, music, and lectures on mp3. And of course I have it all tricked out just the way I like it, in the picture you can see I even created a Negril Notes theme for it. Okay, I could be a little obsessed.

The map on my Blackberry said we were too far away to meet up with our friends before the movie started so I hailed a cab and we hopped in. And that’s when it must have happened! My Blackberry fell out of the pocket of my jacket. I always wear that jacket and I hop in and out of cabs, subways, busses, you name it, and that Blackberry has stayed with me every time.

When we met up with our movie companion we found out the nine-thirty showing was sold out and that we were on for ten o’clock. We walked to Chevy’s around the corner to kill some time, ordered Margaritas, and made chit-chat. Dee’s friend was very nice though she was obviously crazy for me, Dee pretended not to notice. Sometimes it’s not easy being me. Anyway, After only one round we walked over to the Regal Battery Park, found decent seats, and settled in to watch Harrison Ford do what he does so well.

I reached for my phone to make sure it was on vibrate, and it wasn’t there! I checked my other pockets; nothing. I stood up and looked around my seat; nada. I raised me arms and screamed “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!” Okay I didn’t really do that, but I was pretty upset. I headed back to Chevy’s to see if maybe I took it out and laid it on the bar for some reason.

Indiana Jones was playing in five of the theater’s eleven screens, and we were in theater number eleven on the top floor. Some other showing had just gotten out and the down escalator was jammed. My stress began to build, the escalator moved glacially, and I felt like a trapped animal. I checked my pockets for duct tape to wrap around my head to keep it from exploding, but I had none! Instead I took a deep breath and tried to relax. When I was calm and still several floors from street level I realized all the people around me were talking about the movie, discussing in detail things like the plot, and the ending!

Finally back at the bar the pretty yet vacant doe-eyed bartender, who made us the shitty margaritas, disappeared for several minutes finding a manager. Meanwhile I found the bus boys and asked them in Spanish if they found a phone, I didn’t know how to say Blackberry in their native tongue. “Si Si,” the taller one said and my stress just deflated, I hadn’t realized how hard my heart was beating. “Thanks Guys,” I said as I started counting out twenties as a reward for their honesty, but I nearly broke into tears when they handed me a scuffed up Motorola Razor.

Walking back into the theater I began to think philosophically. “It’s not like I lost a kidney.” “I have almost everything backed-up.” “I’m just going to look like an ass at work on Tuesday.” “I don’t mind looking like an ass.” “Who cares what those bastard think!” “Who needs that f*****ng job anyway!!” Now back on the escalator I asked the big football player type ahead of me if he had any duct tape. He just looked confused, and began walking more quickly up the moving steel stairs.

I plopped into my seat in failure and disgust. My companions were sweet and consoling, which made me feel better, and by the time the myriad previews were over I was able to let go and really enjoy the film. Indy Rocked!

The rest of the night I kept calling the phone hoping the evil bastard who had it would pick it up. I was planning to threaten that I could track them on the GPS, though I never actually loaded the friggin’ program.

Saturday morning I had my spare cell phone charged up and working, and I sent the number to all the people who might need to get a hold of me over the weekend. I kept calling the Blackberry which I keep on vibrate. I pictured it buzzing under the seat of some cab never to be found. But life goes on.

I took the 63 bus through Park Slope to the Food Co-Op, and as I sat there I rang the Blackberry again.

“Hello” Holy shit! Someone answered, and she didn’t sound evil at all! She’d found the Blackberry in a taxi the previous night and was waiting for me to call and claim it. I must have sounded like an idiot on the phone, I was so excited, and happy, and exuberant, and relieved that I almost didn’t write down her address.

She was like a Blackberry finding angel, she seemed as happy that I found my phone as I was. Whoever stereotypes New Yorkers as uncaring troglodytes are just as wrong as they can be. I’ve only been living here a year and the people have been great. Rebecca the Blackberry Angel is just another example.

I blew off food shopping for the time being and took the 63 all the way to the Atlantic Avenue Train Station. In minutes I was on a 4 Express train to the Upper East Side. From Eighty-Sixth and Lexington, I all but ran to the address Rebecca had given me, and that I’d written on the palm of my hand. The doorman seemed a bit suspicious as I trundled through the revolving door almost out of breath.

But, as I yanked out my wallet to show him my identification, he handed me the grey envelope that held my beloved Blackberry. I think I actually caressed it as I gently pulled it from the envelope and removed the bubble wrap. Yeah, she actually used bubble wrap! This is a woman of substance!

Before leaving I asked the doorman, that if I sent flowers or a gift basket to the building with her first name on the card, would she get it. He assured me it would.

Later that day I looked around the web for some token of thanks to send to Rebecca the Blackberry Angel, but I couldn’t make up my mind. Flowers seemed corny. A fruit or cheese basket seemed too, I don’t know. I went to Harry & David’s to send a Moose Munch basket, but again it didn’t hit the mark. So I did what I always do in times like this, I called my daughter Kristine for advice. She suggested I make a donation to New York Cares in our heroine’s name. Kristine and I are recent members. We believe in the cause, and they do great work.

I emailed Rebecca the Blackberry Angel to say thanks again, and to tell her in lieu of flowers or some such thing that I was making a donation in her name.

The next morning she emailed back saying it was a nice thought but not to make the donation in her name, but in the name of:

“all of us who will loose a cell phone or need a hand, and appreciate the kindness of strangers.”

She went on to say that she has been the beneficiary of annonymous efforts, and if I wanted to give something towards the “Big Karma bank in the sky,” that I should go for it.

And I did.

Thank you again Rebecca. Words can not describe my appreciation.

Peace,

Vinny

Since retirement, Dad has gotten used to sleeping in, and for me in Negril, sleeping in is about six-thirty in the morning. I’m not sure when he actually rose since clocks are not on my vacation agenda, but by mid-morning we were hungry, and I had Dad all jazzed up for an authentic Jamaican Breakfast.

I always enjoy Selina’s so I figured we’d head down to her place for breakfast. We hit a road in a route taxi, and my Dad was great, he just rolled with the punches all week long, open to everything. We got to talking to our fellow travelers about Jamaican Breakfast, and one of the guys named Lionel told us he had a cousin with a real authentic Rastafarian Breakfast Joint directly on the beach.

“I’m a tour guide!” exclaimed Lionel, but when the other guys in the car laughed when he said it, he knew the jig was up.

Of course the afore-mentioned restaurant seemed too good to be true, but what the hell, these guys had a good positive vibe and I said, “Sounds great! Take us there!” Dad seemed a bit trepidatious.

We passed Travellers and Shields and pulled into a small overgrown drive just before Bar-B-Barn. From where we parked, we couldn’t see the beach, or the road, and Dad was expecting us to be robbed at any minute, but I could hear the surf close by. We followed our new friends up a grass covered path and in seconds Seven Mile Beach appeared before us. I looked over to Dad as he stood wide-eyed at the impossibly beautiful sea of blueness. We were so taken by the scene that we didn’t notice the big Rastaman setting up a table for us.

Lionel, who stood beaming as if he was a bit surprised by his new-found success as a tour guide, decided to talk, and talk, and then talked some more. He was entertaining at first, an amiable bloke to be sure, and he was even up front about having to hustle tourists to make a living.

I don’t know If the big Rastaman was actually his cousin Lionel, but Lionel seemed pretty nervous when he came by to give us fresh squeezed juices, or to update us on the progress of our meals.

The Jamaica Breakfasts arrived and I was impressed! They were bountiful and beautifully plated. The big Rasta-Chef explained everything and my Dad was rapt with attention. “Don’t eat too fast.” He admonished us. “We don’t use salt. We let the natural flavors come though the food. Please enjoy!”

This guy had a great touch, and the food was excellent. The Ackee was tender, and there were few bones in the Saltfish. The yam, the plantain and johnny cakes were as advertized, bland at first but the subtle flavors built as you enjoyed them.

I was so happy with the meal that I grossly over-tipped Lionel, which had the added pleasure of making him go away. I loved the guy, but we really wanted to eat in peace.

I guess I’d made up for the previous night’s hooker debacle. I really felt like the island-savvy son, and Dad really seemed to be enjoying himself.

We checked out the beach a while but there wasn’t much going on, and we were back at The Castle before noon. I walked over to the bodega for beer, water, ting and other assorted necessities to stock the fridge for the week, while Dad went to work on his Vince Flynn novel.

On my way back from the bodega I ran into sweet beautiful Petrona, who offered to move us from Deluxe 2 into Superior 12 which had a TV and A/C. Dad was happy with the move, and with the panoramic ocean view from the porch. You really can’t beat this place, you’re treated like family, the location is paramount, and the prices are so low you can’t understand how they stay in business.

Dad and I relaxed reading, taking short dips in the sea, and drinking Red Stripes. The place wasn’t crowded, but we did meet Angela from Nova Scotia that day. Orchid as she is known on the Negril.com Message Board. Dad had been to Nova Scotia with my Mom a few years back, and they seemed to hit it off pretty well. Angela was living large in the penthouse and was on an extendned and extending vacation, she may be still there.

Later in the afternoon Susan, the owner of The Castle, returned from her vacation. So where does someone who lives in Negril go for vacation? Brooklyn of course! Susan graciously invited Dad and I out for a lobster dinner at Erica’s Cafe.

Susan drove us in her little red car, Petrona joined us, and there was also a Canadian couple, who were long time Negril residents, and friends of Susan’s. We had a nice time, the food was excellent, and so was the conversation. We each had half a grilled lobster, and a nice portion of curried lobster with all the accoutrements. Dad and I peppered Susan with questions about the building and history of The Castle. There’s definitely a book in that story, maybe even a mini-series.

Being Saturday night we said our good-byes to our hostess and we hopped a taxi over to The Seastar In for some twisting by the pool. The road into Seastar seemed darker than usual on this moonless night, but everything brightened up as we turned into the driveway. The party was in full swing when we arrived, Rob, Lisa and Captain Rob were working the webcast, and I introduced my Dad to all the boardies logged in that night. The place was crowded, there seemed to be so few people in Negril, they must have all been at Seastar.

As we settled in with ice cold Red Stripes, there was some commotion in the pool area, some girl had gotten naked and jumped in. Henceforth she will be referred to as Nakid Girl, though her nakedness was relatively short lived. She spent most of her night stumbledancing to the reggae stylings of Rasta Ralphie, other than the few minutes we chatted about things metaphysical. She was very wasted but she was no dummy, and she seemed a bit over her head in whatever she was involved with, but for that night she had a grand time.

Dad was very impressed with Rasta Ralphie. The two of them were in the same basic age range, but old Ralphie had the physique of a much younger man. I’m sure is had something to do with his hyperactive stage persona. I tell you that man can rev up a crowd.

I had a nice time visiting with Rob, Crob and Lisa. Lisa was only a few days away from heading back to the frozen tundra of Winepeg Canada after six plus months in sunny Negril. She must not have stayed too long because it seems like she was back in a few weeks, but I’m sure for Rob it was an interminable absence.

We’d had a long day and I doubt we lasted much later than ten or eleven o’clock. Chris, the Seastar’s owner, had his driver take us back to The Castle with the added fun of sharing the ride with Nakid Girl.

More to come…

Vinny

So where was I? We left off with Dad and I making it to The Blue Cave Castle after a bit of drama at the airport. Can you believe them treating me like a tourist? Well ok, but anyway it was pretty un-cool.

Arriving on a Thursday was a good idea as far as airfare was concerned, but Dad had to miss the Rutgers v. FSU game. He’s a Rutgers season ticket holder. Therefore after settling in we figured maybe we could find a bar with ESPN for a little dinner, football scores and maybe some highlights.

We asked Santa, the night security man at The Castle, if he knew any bars showing American Football, or at least one with cable. He mentioned a few, but he didn’t seem to sure of himself, so we decided to grab a taxi and see what we could find.

Stepping into the steamy street of the mid-October evening, it was quiet, the little beer shack across the street had morphed into something else since my last trip, and Elvis the carver was gone for the night. In a few minutes we were in a cab with a driver who swore he remembered me from last year, and we lit out for Mary’s Bay. I’d watched football there before, but it looked closed as we pulled up. Even Easy Rock was closed. October is about as low as low season gets in Negril.

I asked the driver if he knew of any places that might show American Football, but he was kind of shaky too. I didn’t want to go all the way to the beach so he turned around and we headed up to LTU or Parrot Bay, but as we pulled past the Castle I remembered Xtabi, “They have TV’s,” I thought.

Before we committed, I jumped out of the cab and asked the girl at the front desk if they had a TV with cable in the bar, and she enthusiastically said, “Yes, we do!” her pretty Jamaican accent filled the room. I all but skipped out the door, paid the driver and said, “Get out Dad, this is the place!”

“They’re playing the game?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but they have a TV with cable.” I was already crossing the street, and in minutes we were sitting at the bar pretty much all by ourselves.

“Hey Buddy, what are the chances you can turn on that TV so we can catch a little ESPN?” I asked as he opened our beers with his lighter.

“Not so good mi bredda, the TV is broke.” he said with a sad smile. I looked at my Dad and he just smiled, “It just ain’t in the cards tonight.”

I just laughed, the pretty girl at the front desk didn’t lie, there was definitely a TV and I’m sure it had cable, but next time I’m going to ask, “Do you have a working TV with cable?” Once bitten…

Dad must have been hungry because he dug right into the mediocre off-season Jerk Chicken, and he really enjoyed his first-ever plantains. We took a few Red Stripes for the road and walked back to The Castle since it was just a few doors down.

Once on the street I thought walking had been a bad decision, and I was quite over-protective of my Dad on the dark dangerous strip of road. I get pissed off at Samsara every time I walk that part of the road, with that wall so close to the road there’s no room to walk, and I’ll never stay at Samsara because of it.

As the shoulder widened we relaxed and my Dad got the chance to say “No Thanks” to his first ganja proposition. I was proud of the old guy, he was smooth and finite, and the Jamaican entrepreneur didn’t ask again.

But the next part was entirely my fault. Only thirty yards from the safety of The Castle gates, a taxi passed slowly, and as I waved off the driver I looked for just a split second too long at the scantily-clad Jamaican hotness in the passenger seat. I knew what was coming next, and I knew I couldn’t stop it.

“Hey boys, you need some company?” there were two of them, and I did something really stupid, and no I wasn’t drunk, I have no excuse, but I engaged them in conversation. I don’t know what I was thinking; I guess I was trying to be cool in front of my Dad, “Watch your island-savvy son handle this.”

They got out of the car, I told them to get back in, and of course they didn’t listen. Somehow certain people in Jamaica just know you’ve recently arrived, and you’re ripe for the picking.

My Dad just kept walking, and at first it was funny. I was between him and the two girls, and I was talking back and forth telling them we weren’t interested. They were nothing if not persistant. Then the tall one passed me and started talking directly to my Dad. He didn’t answer, but I got a little angry. The driver must have noticed my attitude change and called the girls back to the car. Their graphic promises of carnal delights didn’t stop till they drove away.

“Does that happen every night?” My Dad asked half amused and half astonished.

“Maybe it’s the time of year, I’ve never seen them so aggressive.” We were joking as Santa opened the gate for us. I must have looked shocked or something because Santo asked if I was okay.

We were exhausted after a long day and were sleeping soon after entering our room.

More to come…
Vinny

A friend gave me a copy of The Wisdom of Insecurity by Alan Watts. In this book I saw the question phrased in a way I understood it, and the open ended answer seemed to point directly at me.

Born and breed Irish Catholic the idea of a non-theistic religion took a long time to sink in. Over the next few years I read voraciously on the subject. I read the popular books; The Celestine Prophecy, The Alchemist, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior, and even The Dancing Wu-Li Masters. I also read dozens no one’s ever heard of. I went to workshops on “Realizing Your Chakra Energy,” participated in Drum Circles, and other like-minded New Age-y things.

I did a lot of meditation, but I wasn’t very consistent. It was this style one week, this tape the next and so on. No matter how much I sat I didn’t realize any realizations, skies opening or enlightening, but there was something there, something I couldn’t quite grasp, something that kept me coming back.

So, when I moved to Brooklyn last July I made it a point to go to the Zen Center Of New York City to see what they had going on. I wrote about my experience that first Sunday on this site, but not much since. There’s a Buddhist saying: He who knows does not speak, He who speaks does not know. So read further at your own risk.

People always ask, “What do you do there?” Well, we mostly sit, there’s some chanting, and some great teaching.

“You just sit?” Well not exactly, we do Zazen, a form of sitting meditation which is hard to explain, you just have to do it.

“Do you chant prayers to Buddha?” No, chanting isn’t praying, and Buddha isn’t a god.

For something fairly simple it’s very hard to explain. Zen Buddhism is experiential in nature, and it takes time for the clouds in your mind to part for it all to start making sense, and even then it only comes in glimpses. There is something about the practice of sitting quietly and doing nothing, to sit with your own mind, which opens a whole realm of possibilities. 

All the books I’d read pale in comparison to an actual thirty-five minute session of sitting. As it was told to me that first Sunday in beginning instruction after describing the mechanics of sitting Zazen; a very easy to say, but to truly enter into it is the most challenging thing you will ever do.

The challenge is the question, “What is this life?” and for twenty-five hundred years people have been coming to The Buddha for a path to the answer. An answer that can’t be given to you, one you must figure out for yourself.

More to come…

Vinny