What a blog avoiding jerk I’ve been these past few weeks! My impending Negril trip looms near, and like always I attempt squeezing four weeks of work into the two weeks before a two week vacation. I should know better, but it seems to happen to some degree or another every trip.
Hmmm, so what have we missed? The Eagles won last Sunday, but they still suck! The Little Fower Field Hockey Team could beat the Jets! But of course they don’t listen to me, and the Philadelphia media are fawning like lovesick lemmings staggering ever so close to the precipice of a six win season.Â
 All that said, I did enjoy the game. My brother Mike scrounged up tickets from some disaffected Jetster, and kindly thought of his big brother the Eagles Fan. Our tailgating left much to be deisred, after finally squeezing into a parking space we ate Tastee SuperSubs and Dr. Pepper on the trunk of Goldy, while people all around us feasted on various parts of large hooved creatures. Pennington may throw like a girl, but Jets Fans can tailgate with the best of them.
Ahhh Negril is so close I can shut my eyes and feel it everywhere. We leave in just about forty hours, I’m packed and relaxed. The normally jittery ravages of PNS (Pre-Negril Syndrome) have calmed into a simple to-do list. My roomate Chris is watching Rosie for me, so the cat guilt is chilled. My packing is down to such a science, and I keep most of the essentials in my duffel year-round.
A two-something flight from Newark, at The Castle by early evening, Friday morning Caribbean sunrise…
Soon Come…
Vinny
October 16, 2007
At 30 days out from a Jamaica trip I usually begin to stress about packing, rounding up all the supplies, and trying to remember all the things I forgot last time.Â
Well, this time I’m not stressed at all. Here is it 28 days, 14 hours and 45 minutes from wheels up and I’m completly confident in my packing and organization. I’d like to think I’m maturing, or that I’m learning from my past. But no, I just never unpacked from my last trip!
Don’t get me wrong, I unloaded the stinky clothes, and aired out my big rolling duffel bag, but afterwards I just dumped most of the stuff back in. Then when I moved to Brooklyn I threw more crap in it, and rolled it away in a rented storage space several blocks away. I’ll go get it this weekend and double check it against my list.
Yes! The List! I know how you all look forward to my Packing List, so without further ado: Here it is!
The Packing List -Â October 2007 Trip with DadÂ
Clothes (This is a two week trip, but I’m planning to get some wash done)
- 2 pairs - Swim Trunks (I plan to do more swimming this trip)Â Â
- 3 pairs – Cargo Shorts (Somehow all my shorts have leg pockets these days)
- 3 pairs – Gym Shorts
- 12 Assorted T-Shirts (I just blow through shirts and I usually bring a few silly ones like my Spongebob shirt that seem cool when I’m packing, but would make me look like a moron if I actually wore them in public)
- 6 Hawaiian Shirts (I deleted the golf shirts this trip, I think I look cool in Hawaiian Casual)Â
- 1 pair – Jeans
- 1 pair – Socks (This was 5 last time, what was I thinking?)
- 12 pairs – Underwear
- 1 pair - Silk Boxers (Just in case)
- Sandals
- Flip Flops
- Running Shoes (As if?)
- Fleece Jacket (For to and from)
- 2 Ball Caps (Eagles and Phillies, though with the way the Birds are playing I may opt for an “I ♥ NY” hat instead!)
- A Collapsible Duffel Bag (The last few trips I used this for dirty clothes and stuffed my suitcase with souvenirs)
Health & First-Aid
- First-Aid Kit (Simple, Band Aids, alcohol wipes, tweezers)
- Benadryl Itch Stick (For creepy crawly bites - I recommend it highly)
- Aloe Vera Lotion (Gringo burns)
- Sun Block 30SPF Spray-On (Spray-On RULES!! Worth the extra $)
- Sun Block Stick 30SPF (For my nose)
- Sun Block for Sensitive Skin 45 SPF (For my face, no comments please)
- Chapstick w/ UV protection
- Bug Repellant w/ at least 30% Deet (Can’t use wimpy stuff in Jamaica)
- Pepto Bismol Individual Packs of Caplets (Just in case of Bustamante’s Revenge)
- Excedrin Extra Strength Individual packets also (Nothing better for a Negril hangover)
- Vitamins
- Hand Sanitizer (Sounds a little prissy, huh)
- Wet-Ones (Put them in the freezer and use them to wipe your face. Woo Hoo! An old restaurant manager’s trick)
- Condoms (I usually think up a funny comment here, maybe that was a jinx…)
Toiletries
- Toothbrush
- Toothpaste
- Mouth Wash (I usually list floss, but I’m not living that lie anymore! Who flosses on vacation?)
- Shampoo
- Gel
- Disposable Razors (I always bring 4, I know not why)
- Shaving Cream
- Moisturizer (Yeah, moisturizer!)
- Hair Brush
- Deodorant
- Cologne (I’m a Polo man)
- Towels – Washcloth
Other Stuff
- Digital Camera
- Camcorder
- AAA Batteries – Energizer Max - 8 Pack
- Laptop Computer (The Castle has WIFI)
- DVD’sÂ
- Disposable Flashlight (Rarely needed, but needed when needed)
- Disposable Rain Ponchos (I’d delete this line, but I still have the same two ponchos I bought 5 years ago)
- Disposable Lighters
- Leatherman
- Travel Clock
- Cell Phone
- Sunglasses
- Breath Freshening Gum (Jerk Chicken is great, but …)
- Candy for the Kids – Non-melting, individually packaged, and yummy! (I usually come home with most of it, but I always bring some)
Mind and Body
- My Jamaica Journal – It’s a leather bound journal Kristine got me a few years ago that I only use in Jamaica.
- My Non-Jamaica Everyday Journal
- A Good Journal Writing Pen (High quality, low friction. A Fast Pen)
- Assorted Incense
- My Travel Buddha
- My Portable Sitting Cushion
- Books:
Gone to New York - Adventures In The City by Ian FrazierÂ
A Collection of Short Stories about NYC.
I thought it would be fun to read about my new home while in Negril.
The Bourne Supremacy - by Robert Ludlum
Working my way through the series backwards, don’t ask.
Zen Buddhism - Selected Writings of D.T. Suzuki
I like to think big thoughts on vacation.
I’ve been wanting to study more classical Zen writing.
Travel Supplies
- Passport
- Money some 20’s, and $100 in singles for tipping
- ID, ATM Card, Credit Card
- Travel Wallet
- Plane Tickets
- Printed Hotel Reservations
- Pens (Half a dozen pens for immigration and customs forms on the plane. No one ever has a pen, and I like to be the hero)
- Lonely Planet Guide to Jamaica ’06 Edition
- Jamaican Road Map (Don’t ask me why. I’m a map guy!)
That’s it for this trip, as always please feel free to comment.
Peace 
Vinny
September 19, 2007
My first 9/11 as a New Yorker was thankfully uneventful, though it seemed to me there was a lot more security around on 9/10. All day people were looking up, and pointing south, “Where were you?” conversations overheard everywhere.
In some ways, it was just another 9/11 which is pretty sad. The news covered the anniversary with little enthusiasm; speeches, reading the names of the victims, politicians making uninspired speeches.
I did have one moment though. Kristine sent me a PowerPoint presentation featuring dramatic photos of the destruction, pain and terror of that day. I was sitting in a little restaurant on Carmine Street in Greenwich Village looking at the presentation, and at that moment the radio was playing My City Of Ruins by Bruce Springsteen. I was moved by the pictures, I was moved by the music, I was moved by the gut wrenching emotion I was experiencing. I’m the guy who says, “People forget what happened on that day…” But I’d forgotten. I remebered the details, the ten thousand worthless facts and figures, but I’d forgotten that feeling, that fear, anger and dread.
In the evening of September 11, 2007, I had the opportunity to attended a seminar dealing with 9/11 and life in New York City; ”Moving Beyond Anger.” First there was a screening of a Bill Moyers documentary from the 90’s called Beyond Hate, followed by a discussion of how anger and hate manifest themselves in our daily lives.
The film was hard to watch. It painted a grim picture of our world from a pre-9/11 context, and things haven’t improved. Our discussion dealt with anger and hate from a Buddhist perspective, and though we never got in to much about 9/11 specifically, it was interesting to discuss current events in the light of a 2500 year old tradition.
Where were you?
Vinny
September 11, 2007
This isn’t a diatribe against the Eagles coaching staff for letting great player like Jeremiah Trotter go—again. No, the sudden sacking of the vaunted Middle Line-Backer, or more so my reaction to it, brought into clear relief the fact that I no longer live in Philadelphia.
It’s funny how things hit you. I worked from home today, and I spent most of the day listening to Philadelphia talk radio. The day’s big hubbub was the decision by the Philadelphia Eagles to release Jeremiah Trotter. I always liked Trotter, he’s a good guy, he’s great in the locker room, but he was a step slow last season, and it’s time for him to go.
If I took the train home to Philly, half the train would have a kind of hangover because of the Trotter news. Someone would see you reading the headline on his paper and say, “It sucks what they’re doing to Trot.” An affirmative grunt would rise from the throat of everyone within earshot.
Later I’d stop in the Steak & Hoagie Factory, and I’d get into a conversation with that drunken guy who is always in there watching the Phillies. Then he’d probably get all emotional, and I’d regret starting the chat.
But in Brooklyn, no one cares! No one knows who Jeremiah Trotter is, and if they do know, they don’t care. I felt so foreign!Â
Intellectually I knew leaving the Philadelphia area after twenty-two years would eventually hit me, but I thought it would be more, I don’t know, cinematic? Like maybe catching Rocky IV on TBS, or seeing a picture of Kris and Me on South Street, but no, I’m standing on the D train heading into downtown Brooklyn pining over the future of the Eagles’ Defense, and it hits me like a ton of bricks.
Now I didn’t weep openly or anything like that, and I’m sure I’ll get over it, but it will be a long time before I can say I’m from Brooklyn.
Good Luck #54,
Peace,
Vinny from Philly
August 21, 2007
Writing about and visiting Jamaica in due course includes dealing with hurricanes. Hurricane Dean is slamming the shores of our favorite likkle place as I write this. I nervously watch the NOAA Storm Track, and I sit helplessly online in a RealNegril.com Boardie chat-room keeping an all night vigil hoping for some word that our friends are ok.
The little bits of news we’re getting isn’t good. Drudge is reporting “HELL STORM: JAMAICA,” thanks Matt, like this storm isn’t senationalized enough. The BBC is using terms like “lashing” and “battering.” The Weather Channel is doing wall to wall coverage, but they’re not showing live pictures.
The Weather Pixie on my sidebar is presiding over thunder and lightning, but she’s reporting little wind. The Jamaica News Gleaner seems more concerned with quarreling polital parties using the storm to run a-muck just a week before the big elections. At least it’s still online, during Ivan they went text-only, and for a while they were down alltogether. The Go-Jamaica Blog is full of stories and photos.Â
Rob, Lisa, Captain Rob, RL, Petrona, Susan and the Crew. Clive, Selina and her family, and so many other friends and aquaintances. The list gets bigger every year.
Godspeed till morning, the sky will clear and the sun will shine.
Vinny
August 19, 2007
Here we go again! I just booked another Negril trip! Woo Hoo! I did the cha-ching thing with the nice Air Jamaica gentleman last night around 9PM. I was going to wait till next week to book, but the fares plummeted in the last few days. EWR (Newark NJ) to MBJ (Sangster Montego Bay) round trip $276.00, you can’t beat that! It beats my best rate $306.00 back in ‘04 by thirty bucks!
This trip is going to be a blast, (aren’t they all in thier own way?), my Dad, Vinny from Jersey, will be coming along for all the fun and frivolity this time. It’s his first time to Jamaica, but he’s been to the Caribbean many times. Over the years I’ve brought back souveniers, so he does have some proper attire, at least one Red Stripe shirt, and a tye-dye.
Plans? Plans? Of course I have plans. I used to plan each trip for hours at a sitting, but recently I realized, “I keep going back over and over, so why not continually plan, but in smaller chunks. Then just plug them is as needed.”Â
So on this trip the only real planning will be for my Big Blue Cave Castle Bashment. The Sunday after we arrive we’re having sunset cookout at the Castle. I’m thinking, BBQ, beer, rum, music and maybe a webcast if I can set-it up with Rob @ RealNegril.com. I’m not sure who will be in town, but we should be able to round up a crowd.
By the way, you’re all invited.
We’ll do a few day trips of course. My Dad will love a Black River Safari with Rasta George, and then on to Appleton Estates for the rum tour. It’s corny, but I like it. A detour to The Pelican Bar is possible too. I’ve heard a lot about the place, but I’ve only seen it in pictures. Then there’s snorkeling, bar hopping and possibly a fishing trip with Captain Rob.
My Dad is with me for the first week and then I’m solo for the remainder. There’s nothing like it, two weeks at the Blue Cave Castle overlooking the hopefully placid Caribbean Sea.
I can’t wait, its just on the other side of September…
Vinny
August 12, 2007
For years I’ve been a proponent of Eastern Philosophy. I read “The Wisdom of Insecurity” by Alan Watts in the late nineties, which set me on a course of discovery. Since then I’ve read boxes of books on subjects ranging from Vedanta to Voodoo, Tao to Toltec, and nearly every flavor of the New Age (though I did draw the line at Shirley MacLaine). But from the “I Ching” to “The Alchemist” I kept returning to simple straightforward books on Zen.
The clarity and simplicity of Zen Buddhism attracted me. Books by Natalie Goldberg, “Writing Down the Bones” and others have been the backbone of my writing practice (daily journal writing in the spirit of Zen, but not Zen). I’ve burned a lot of incense, and I’ve spent many hours meditating, but without any real structure. I was playing at Zen, curious about the idea of Zen, more correctly, my idea of Zen.
In my effort to learn more about Zen, I discovered the Zen Mountain Monastery in Upstate New York, though I was intimidated by the idea of just showing up for a weekend retreat. I thought a visit to the New York City branch in downtown Brooklyn would be more accessible, more my style. Well, now I find myself living in Brooklyn, and only an express subway stop from the New York City Zen Center, so I decided to dive in to see what it’s really all about.
Last Sunday morning I left the house at eight-twenty, and immediately I began to stress about time, “What if I’m late?” “What if the train is late?” “Did the website say nine or nine-fifteen?” I let myself relax long enough to have breakfast at the Sunset Park Diner, and by eight forty-four I was in the subway. The D train came, after what seemed an eternity, the empty-car air conditioning was a blessing after five minutes in the steamy station at 36th & 4th. At eight fifty-nine I disembarked at Pacific Street and climbed the two flights to street level. I made my way down Atlantic, across 3rd, on to State, not breaking pace till I stood in front of Fire Lotus Temple.
Standing at the huge wooden doors I felt a cool breeze, there were cars and people passing, but there wasn’t the bustle of pre-church hob-knobbing. So often the art of being seen at church is as important as the arts practiced within. There was guy in a t-shirt and jeans sweeping some dead leaves. He didn’t seem to notice me as I took in the moment. I figured he was in some deep Zen trance, and a thrill shot through me as I took my first steps into Zen.
I climbed the steps and entered the vestibule. I use the term vestibule from my catholic altar boy experience. This is all new to me, I’m sure they have their own name for the entrance alcove. As I entered a student wearing a grey robe welcomed me.
“Hi, is this your first time to the temple?” she asked, I guess my yak in the headlights look clued her in. “My name is Heather, welcome.” Her easy smile helped lessen my edge.
“Hi I’m Vince, um I mean Vinny,” I stammered like a jackass. I was nervous, she was cute, and my “monkey mind” was on full display. She directed me upstairs to where I could put my shoes, and then she invited me to join the others in the training room for coffee or tea. She said someone named Karen would be there clue us in on the morning’s schedule.
I walked up the loudly squeaking staircase to the second floor, found the coat room, took off my shoes, but left my socks on. I wasn’t sure if naked feet were cool. What about athlete’s foot? In socks, sweat pants, and an oversized golf shirt, I entered to meet my fellow sangha members.
I don’t know why I was expecting middle aged bald men, maybe it had more to do with how I see my self, but this group was an eclectic mix of Brooklynites. All ages, sexes, and sizes were represented. They were all barefoot. Everyone seemed nice, smiling and nodding. Quiet chit-chat murmured in the rear third of the space. There as a refreshment table, some chairs and couches. The front two thirds of the room was a mini zendo complete with a small Buddhist altar and a dozen or so Zabuton (32″ X 28″ meditation mats), with corresponding Zafus (14″ round cushions used for sitting meditation). Otherwise the room looked like any second story living room in a Brooklyn brownstone, hardwood floors, baseboard heating, and walls painted too many times bearing the scars of age.
Karen, also a gray robed student in her mid-twenties, took the four or five of us newcomers and explained what we should expect during the service. There was still about ten minutes before we were to go downstairs, so I grabbed a cup of coffee, signed up for the newsletter, put my five dollar “suggested donation” into the blue box, and then I snuck into the coat room to loose the socks.
At nine twenty-five Karen directed us downstairs to find our space in the zendo. My heart was pounding as I creaked down the noisy steps ahead of the others, and I entered a Buddhist Zendo for the first time; barefoot with butterflies. At that moment I realized, after all my reading and study, just how green I truly was. I found a zabuton/zafu/seat on the left side of the room three rows from the back, and I tried to get comfortable looking around to see how others propped themselves up on the little cushions. I put my hands together and tried to be solemn, but trying to be solemn is like trying not to think about a green elephant.
There was a faint incense smell mixed with wood cleaner, the room was dim but not dark with ceiling fans at full blast. Heavy wooden columns and thick paneled walls gave the room character. In the front of the room there stood a small altar, small by catholic standards, with a lovely Buddha carved from some kind of colored stone that gave it an antique look. To the left was a tall thin vase of flowers, two puffy white and mum-like, a hyacinth, and a few twiggy things; very elegant. On the right a heavy beeswax candle like the ones I lit by the hundreds as an altar boy. In the center fore is an incense holder, and in the rear a small vessel of water. Earth, Air, Fire and Water. The basic four elements.
A bell, no, more a chime brought me and the group, the community, the sangha, to focus. With another chime the liturgy began. I felt excitement muted by circumstance as Shugen Sensei began his chants. I had little idea what was going on, but followed along as best I could, bowing, and chanting with the group.
The full bows were unexpected. I’d read about them, but these were my first, and graceful they were not. The full bow begins standing, hands in gassho (a Namaste or traditional prayer gesture) with feet together. Then it’s a bow from the hips, down to the knees, and down further, till the forehead touches the mat with hands to the side of the head, palms up. Then it’s back up. I think we did three such bows. It was then I realized why people were stretching before the service.
Sutra books were handed out to those who needed them, and within moments the group began chanting the Heart Sutra. I was caught off-guard and it took me well into the second verse to catch-up with the group. I’d prayed aloud before, I’d sang in church, but I never felt such group cohesion as we all chanted in rhythmic unity.
By the time we were through chanting in both English, and what I assumed was Japanese, though it could have been Sanskrit, the words had somehow penetrated. I still had no idea what was going on, but my feet sank deeper into my zabuton.
At the end of the liturgy part of the program, the newcomers were asked to gather at the back of the hall, and to accompany one of the lay students upstairs for beginning instruction in zazen. Once upstairs we all took a seat on a zafu and zabuton, and were told a senior monastic would soon be in to talk with us. I looked around at this group of newcomers. A woman in her fifties, who I came in with, was beaming in expectation. A young couple looked terrified, like potheads at Jesus Camp, and a pretty twenty-something girl looked like a little Buddha in full lotus. My knees hurt just sitting next to her.
Me? I was sitting Indian-style; I don’t think that’s any kind of lotus, but still I tried to straighten up when a man in the black robes of the monastic entered our space. He was an ominous figure, and we were spellbound as he sat before us spending several minutes rolling, folding and configuring his robes so that, when done, he looked symmetric. He addressed us in a gentle voice, and with kind humor.
He spoke of Zen, its history, and its general philosophy. He told us a bit about the Fire Lotus Temple, and of the Mountains and Rivers Order it is a part of. Then he taught us several different sitting positions. I picked a kneeling/sitting posture called seiza, using the zafu to carry my weight with my feet hanging off the edge of the zabuton.
He taught us how to sit: back straight, head forward, eyes in a “gentle gaze” at a forty-five degree down angle, hands together in the cosmic mudra. Our next step was to go down to the Zendo, find a space, and commit to sitting still for the second thirty five minute period of zazen. Zazen for beginners consists of watching the breath. When distractions arise, let them go, and go back to your breath. He explained how Zazen or sitting meditation is very easy to describe but extremely difficult to do.
“Bring it on!”
I found a space on the far right of the zendo. I situated myself in my seiza position, and it felt good, I even remembered to bow to my seat before sitting. A succession of chimes and clappers began my first real zazen session. There I was, counting my breath and dismissing my thoughts. I was in the zone! “I can do this for hours,” I thought.
Then came the distractions; the mosquito bite on my foot, a truck in the street, motion here, a creak there, I dismissed them and went back to counting my breath. I became aware of every itch, ache and pain, and I began to feel stress, like when you’re on an exercise bike, exhausted, and the timer says you’re only halfway through.
“This is intense,” my mind rebelled, going off in a thousand directions. I fought to stay with my breath, but I wasn’t winning. I sank deeper into my cushion and stuck it out. This was the longest thirty five minutes ever. I began to think of all the other ways I’ve lasted thirty five minute in other situations, but then I’d catch myself and go back to my breath.
A chime toned signaling the end of zazen. I unfolded my lifeless legs, and awkwardly began to stand, my bones creaking like the temple stairs. I followed along as we began kinhin (walking meditation). During our instruction the monk said to “just walk,” continue in meditation, counting your breath and just walk. The cool marble floor felt good as I walked and stretched. I was in the moment, and as I sat, less formally now, on my cushion I was ready for the next part of the service, the Dharma Talk.
Shugen Sensei gave a talk dissecting a Zen Koan from the ninth century. A Koan is a story or statement, or even a question that defies rational understanding, but can be accessible through intuition. I enjoyed the teaching. Shugen Sensei brought the meanings in to present day life and familiar situations, even speaking of life in New York City.
When the talk was finished there was more chanting and bowing. I tried to chant along, but was just moaning in tune with the group. “I’ll pick this up eventually,” I thought, and for the first time I knew I’d be back.
At the end of the service, everyone dusted off their zabutons, and fluffed their zafus. Some people left, but most went upstairs to the training/refreshment room for more coffee, refreshments and conversation. I spoke to a few of my newbie classmates. The older woman and the little Buddha were jazzed, while the young couple looked less scared, but still a little freaked-out.
I felt great. I felt at peace. I had a sense of accomplishment, and I knew I was at the beginning of something that I really didn’t understand. And that was ok.
Vinny
August 1, 2007
Cub reporter Buzz Bogan here on the scene in Midtown Manhattan where something happened at or near Grand Central Station around 6-6:15 today.
The police closed 42nd Street, only allowing westbound foot traffic, heading away from the scene. It was quite a sight! Thousands of New Yorkers walking calmly but quickly eastward on 42nd Street. This reporter saw several dozen people who looked like they were sprayed with a fine rusty dust or maybe dirty water.
All subways in or around Grand Central are closed as hundreds of first responders rush to the scene. Police, Fire, EMS, you name it, if it had an NYC Logo; it rolled to the area around Grand Central.
Of course we were all thinking, but no one was saying, BOMB! The word on the street was that a transformer blew up under Grand Central Station, but as you can see from my photos, the smoke is coming from the south side of 42nd, while Grand Central is mainly on the North side.
I was in Grand Central about 5:30 when and a harried call from my boss had me scurrying to find a Starbucks so I could grab some internet access, and to avert a minor crisis at an Upper West Side overpriced eatery.
After Starbucks, I ended up at 45th and 6th, eating falafel from a great sidewalk vendor, when I noticed people rushing and pointing to what looked like a cloud hovering over the Chrysler building. On closer inspection I realized it was billowing smoke or steam, so I braved bodily harm and went to see what was up.
Faces became serious, talking on cell phones, and heading away from 42nd Street with a purpose. When I reached 42nd and 6th, the police were stopping anyone from getting closer to the “incident”, an after some pushing and shoving I made my way to the center of the cross street looking up at a sea of humanity completely filling the street from 5th Ave to 6th.
By 6:45 things calmed down, people walked south to other subway stations, and aside from news helicopters and some official siren-laden motorcades, whatever happened was over. I headed back to Brooklyn to see what the news has to say on the subject.
Byline: Vinny Â
July 18, 2007
I haven’t completed my first week in Brooklyn, but I’m enjoying the culture shock. Wow! Brooklyn is a lot different than Philly, but since I lived in Abington, a comparatively bucolic backwater, not actually in Philly, my head is spinning.
Rosie “The Cat” is adjusting well, thought she was really pissed the first few days. She was like, “Excuse me, what’s up with all these weird smells and sounds, they’re freaking my kitty ass out!” But in her own way she is coming to terms with this pre-war three story walk-up. She’s sniffed and rubbed against everything in the place, formulating her take over plan, I think she’s already turned the corner, and it’s only a matter of time before she feels at home.
I’m loving the neighborhood, working class Spanish, great restaurants, and lots of families. Sunset Park itself is great. I went for a walk through it earlier this evening, my second in as many days. The place comes alive with the cool of the evening. About a dozen pick-up soccer games, though they call it football, volley ball, basketball and maybe fifty kids playing in a huge sprinkler.
Then there’s the view! Sunset Park sits on a big hill rising up from about Third Avenue giving a panoramic view of New York Harbor. From the tip of Staten Island, across the bay the giant cargo ships take on the look of cruise ships in the gloaming haze of the sticky summer evening. Center view is the green harbor goddess Miss Liberty looking majestically bored as Manhattan bustles over her shoulder. To me she’s always looked kind of man-ish, probably a French practical joke. On the north side of the park there’s a full view of the Empire State Building standing sentry over the city that never sleeps.
I keep thinking, “I’m really here.” It’ll take a while for it to sink in. It’s new, and old, and different, and the same, all I can do is dive in.
I took my camera with me to the park to snap a few pics for my blog, but the batteries were dead. Dammit!
Vinny
July 12, 2007
The Jamaican Cowboy was a friend of mine, though I did not know him well. Like a piper calling us home to Negril, his music and his charm filled our living rooms every Sunday morning.
Our first meeting was on my first trip to Negril way back in February 1994. I didn’t know who he was when I met him, and thankfully he didn’t remember me because I was naked at the time. Let me explain…
Cowboy was the entertainment for Hedonism’s Island Picnic in those days. A girl I’d met on the Road to Negril bus ride asked if I wanted to go to the “Island Picnic†the next day. It’s been my experience, when a girl asks you to go to a naked picnic; you go! Flab be damned.
We ate, drank and jiggled to the syncopated, rockabilly-reggae beat all coming out of one man, and one guitar. All I can remember is thinking, “Man, dude makes that thing talk!â€
I found Negril.com in late 2003, the message board, the Real Negril Sunday Webcast from Selina’s, and of course The Jamaican Cowboy. I remember scrambling to my memory box (a big plastic bin filled with my keepsakes) looking for my Hedo trip stuff, and right there on my Island Picnic Agenda, “Entertainment provided by The Jamaican Cowboy.†“Yeah, I remember that guy!â€
By the time I got to Negril in April ’04 I was an official Boardie. I was consistently amazed with the quality and the sincerity the answers my newbie questions received.
I didn’t know how to act on my first live Sunday Morning Webcast. I wore my Philadelphia Eagles cap, ordered Jamaican Breakfast, and tried to figure out who was who. About halfway through my breakfast Meg (Tom & Meg from Wilmington) came over and asked “Are you Vinny from Philly?†I said yes, and she yelled to everyone in the joint, “Hey everyone, Vinny from Philly is here!â€
At first I was kind of embarrassed, but within five minutes I was part of the crowd, part of the wonderful boardie family. I met Rob. Selina hugged me. Several people whose names I can’t remember bought me Bloody Marys, and Selina introduced me to Alex, The Jamaican Cowboy. I tried to tell him I was a big fan, but he would have none of it, I was moved by his modesty. He just smiled with those warm piercing eyes and began to play. He was much better in person.
When a person on the periphery of your life passes on, at least for me, it gives the most room for pause. Forcing you to look within yourself, to come to grips with the big questions. To take a look at life, at the life lost, or at least your impressions of that life, as a mirror or even a magnifying glass to your own. Like a distant relation, one you don’t see very often, but feel an attachment to. Standing at the back of the room during the wake, a partner to the family’s grief, yet somehow disconnected from it.
My eyes welled up reading Selina’s stoic report on the message board, the overtones of her sadness, her loss, and her tears bleed through the words catching me in the throat.
Cowboy’s passing also brings to light the true hardships our friends in Jamaica face every day. We see them in town, we trade with them, have a few Red Stripes, but it’s rare that we get a glimpse into their total life.
We take for granted the ease of life in the States, and in the Land of Maple Leafs. If I get a sniffle; I hit CVS for some medicine; if it holds on; I go to an excellent doctor right down the street, and then I only pay a ten-dollar co-pay.
My downstairs neighbor had a heart attack in 2005, he was ok, but it’s two years later he’s still bitching about the interminable thirteen minute EMS response time. There is a lot said about healthcare in the states, but with even the most basic emergency room care, Cowboy would have had more than a fighting chance.
Happy Trails Cowboy…
Thanks to Dreadneck & Lizzardbeth for the photos
June 24, 2007
Sunset Park Brooklyn to be exact. It’s a nice upscale Spanish neighborhood, a ground floor apartment, and only a few minutes from the Subway. I’m excited to make the move. My suburban Philadelphia existence needed some shaking up, so I decided to try something, and somewhere, completely different. It’s been years since I lived in a city.
It wasn’t a hard decision really, I work in Manhattan three of four days a week and the commute has been killing me. Moving closer to NYC is a way to get more productive time into my non-working life. My first plan was to move to Northern New Jersey, but Vinny from Paramus has no ring to it. Manhattan is too expensive, The Bronx is too scary, and Queens is too far out, so Brooklyn it is. There are a few bad neighborhoods, but most of the borough has gone through a re-birth with the real estate boom over the last half-dozen years.
I did my search for the place on Craig’s List, I love the site, and I’ve been a big fan for years, but I think this is the first time I’ve used it for something productive. I was amazed how easy it was, and by how many responses I received. I responded to, maybe, three dozen ads, and I got responses from about half.
Sure, some of them were like, “I’m sorry sir, but we don’t want some old guy for a roommate.” OK, I shouldn’t have responded to the 19yo female struggling artist, but she’s the one who put her picture in the ad! Most people were serious about renting, and only several were agencies scamming that they were real people.
In the end I found a place that agreed with me, with a roommate who I’m sure I can get along with, and the price was right. I only ended up looking at four or five places, most of them were decent, but I liked Sunset Park as soon as I climbed out of the subway.
I thought it would be cool, in a romantic, wanna-be writer sort of way, to live in Bed-Stuy, or Crown Heights, maybe even Flatbush or Cypress Hills, but I realized I’m too much of a wimp to live in the ghetto (I downloaded the song from I-Tunes).
I make the move at the end of the month, and now the only problem is dealing with all those Giants Fans 
Vinny
June 14, 2007
She did it again! My amazingly attractive, smart, competent and witty daughter Kristine graduated from Hofstra University yesterday afternoon with a B.A. in Film Production. Woo Hoo!!
What a week Kristine had. Last Monday (5/14) she turned 21, and on Sunday (5/20) she not only graduated from college, but she hosted her very first all family house/graduation party.
Congrats Kris,
I love you,
Dad
May 21, 2007
 Yes, Yes, Negril Notes has won the prestigious “Bloggy Award.”
I’d like to thank the “little people” who have made this all possible: My family; my friends; my beloved readers; and, of course, the phalanx of midgets I employ who do the actual typing, spell checking, etc. (they prefer the term “little people,” they’re very sensitive).
On a more serious note, I’d like to thank the BA folks for actually spending some time reading the posts and giving NN a fair shake (although they could have been a bit more synchophantic).
Vinny
May 4, 2007
I woke early Thursday morning, and though I tried to go back to sleep, I found myself staring at the moon-lit ceiling of Deluxe 1, our room at the Blue Cave Castle, for what seemed like an hour. Without waking Dee, I slipped out of the room to stretch my legs in the still morning air, another beautiful day in paradise.
From the cliff face I looked down toward the beach. The twinkling lights lined the crescent, the water below gently splashed in the caves and on the cliff, but otherwise the morning was very silent. It was the perfect moment for meditation, to become one with nature, but I was totally preoccupied with the mornings impending tasks. Dee was leaving today. Clive was coming for her at nine o’clock for a twelve thirty flight. I knew I’d miss her, but part of me was looking forward to the three mellow days ahead.
After spending five or six hours on the water the previous day, we’d gone to Kuyaba for a nice dinner. The sultry April evening, and a bottle of better than expected French Cabernet added a special touch to the always excellent meal. Unfortunately, we hadn’t realized how much the day has taken out of us, and we found ourselves dozing in our desserts.
I was hoping for a romantic last night in paradise, but we were so exhausted, I barely remember the drive back to the Castle and I woke still in my clothes.
I sat with my legs dangling over the cliff’s edge as the daylight crept across the bay, trying to capture the mix of thoughts, feelings and emotions I’d experienced these past few days. I love mornings in Negril, for me they are the antithesis of sunset. Of course there are the obvious reasons, sunrise and sunset are opposites, but while sunset is a party, a celebration of another great day, and the beginning of a promising evening; sunrise is a solitary experience where, if there is anyone else about, words are rare, and personal space is respected.
I’m brought back to the present by gentle clanking in the coffee hut. I look over to see the inviting green light meaning the morning coffee is ready, and I pad across the lawn to fill a cup from the urn of fresh brewed Blue Mountain coffee.
The sun was up by the time I finished my second cup, and a few of our fellow castle-mates were milling about in the pristine morning air. I went inside to hop in the shower, see if Dee was awake yet, and maybe to order some breakfast from Brown Sugar.
“What time is Clive coming?” Dee shouted into the bathroom.
“He’ll be here at nine sharp, he’s always on time. Do you want some breakfast?” I answered.
“Yeah, I need to get a little sun before I go.” And off she went.
Its funny how Brown Sugar’s portions get bigger, and the delivery times get faster as the week wears on. Part of me feels bad how much impact a 200 to 300j tip can have. Maybe just a tinge of American guilt, I was brought up Catholic after all.
I lay in the sun for a while with Dee. Only for a few minutes though, I’m a burner, not a tanner. It amazes me how dark she gets in only a few days. She has more melanin in one square inch than I have in my whole body, so I just lay there and enjoyed all her square, and not so square, inches.
Eight-thirty came quick. I must have dozed off. I went into our room and Dee was dressed and stuffing her belongings in her suitcase. Clive was early. A couple from Ohio was also leaving, and Clive had been hired by the Castle as their airport transfer.
Dee said her goodbyes to the staff of the Castle. She’d gotten pretty friendly with Susan, Petrona, and especially the two dogs that lived on the property. I didn’t get their names.
We stowed Dee’s bags in the back of Clive’s van, and within a few minutes we were on the road. I asked Clive to stop at the Scotia Bank in town to get some cash. The Ohio couple seemed impatient with me. I got some US dollars for Clive’s services and for some flying money for Dee. The Ohio people gave me a strange look as I handed Dee a stack of bills saying, “You were worth every penny.”
“I’m worth a lot more than this.” Dee replied; joining me in the teasing of these relatively uptight people. What I didn’t notice is that Clive was looking on too.
He gave me a big smile, “Vinny is a big man for sure!”
Dee and I joined him in laugher, “I’ll explain later me friend.” I said, and with that we were back on the road.
The trip was quiet. Dee seemed lost in her thoughts and the Ohio people slept most of the way. I chatted away with Clive as each milestone took us closer to Montego Bay and Sangster International Airport.
Sangster was packed. I never thought Thursday as a big travel day, then again, I never really gave it much thought. The US Airways line snaked all the way across the terminal. It worked out that Dee and the Ohio people were on the same first flight to Fort Lauderdale. They would go on to Cleveland, while Dee was headed back to Philly.
It was 11:15, and the line was barely moving. Since I had no place to hold I went looking for someone in a US Airways uniform to see what was up. I grabbed the first guy with a clipboard and gave them Dee’s flight number. He came back with me, and whisked Dee and the others to a special line. We said our good-byes.
A few minutes later I was back in the noon-day sun looking for Clive. I hopped in the van, and we motored into downtown Mobay.
“It’s Lunchtime Vinny. You ever eat Rasta I-tal food Vinny?” Clive asked.
”Yeah, sure. Vegetarian food right?” I answered, hey, I’m a traveler not a tourist.
“Not like the places in Negril, we’ll go to the real thing.” Clive’s seemed different. The tour guide facade coming down.
I’m always looking for an authentic experience, so I was psyched as we drove through the back streets of Montego Bay. The crumbling infrastructure was at once depressing and encouraging. The buildings need work, the electric grid is precarious at best, but the people seem upbeat and active. Everyone headed here or there all trying to make a buck in the daylight.
We pulled up to a small strip mall. The storefront window was painted black with yellow, red and green writing. There was also a prominent yet simple yellow and black Rasta Lion.
I hopped out of the van as Clive bumped fists and spoke in rapid-fire patios to the several toughs standing out in front. They gave me the hairy eyeball as I walked past, but since I as with Clive, known to these guys as Buffalo, his other name, I was ok.
Inside I was surprised. I feel bad for being surprised. I don’t know what I expected, but the place was very clean, the people behind the counter wore spotless white uniforms and had the demeanor of monks in a temple.
Clive ordered his food, and asked how hungry I was, while extolling the virtues of i-tal food. I asked for something light, and Clive ordered for me. I couldn’t understand a work he said.
I reached in my pocket when our food came up. Clive touched my arm and motioned for me to keep my money. He paid and took our food to a picnic€“style table in the next room. I grabbed my fork and was about to dig in, but waited as Clive finished a prayer over his food.
“We need to give thanks. We’ve got food to eat.” Clive said, regaining his normal personality.
“This place is different than I imagined.” I stated looking around. “It reminds me of a Jewish Kosher Deli in New York City.”
“We’re not Jewish, but we do have rules about how we prepare our meals. Rasta-style!” Clive was serious as he ate.
“Is there a current relationship between Jewish and Rasta? The whole Lion of Judah thing, I know a little about that.” I said.
“Yah Mon, it’s a likke like that.” Clive said, but he didn’t elaborate. I figured he didn’t want to get into a religious conversation with and infidel in this place. I let it go and finished my meal.
We took a different route back to Negril, heading south out of Mobay through beautiful country. I figured we were going over the hills to Sav-La Mar, but after about an hour we stopped in a town called Grange Hill deep in the hills of Westmorland Parish.
The place was quaint, a real outpost deep in the heart of Jamaica. I was sure I was the only tourist within miles. I loved this place, the people were nice, no higglers. Clive went in a store to talk to his comrades, and I bought a newspaper and a bottle of water.
The verdant beauty of the area made my heart soar. I pretended to read the paper, but I was really soaking in the scenery, the people, and the town. I resolved to do some research on this place, and to come back for the day.
Clive’s business was done, and in no time we were pulling up to the gates of Blue Cave Castle. I shook Clive’s hand, and confirmed my 2PM Sunday pick up.
One more after this 
Vinny
April 15, 2007
“So, are you heading up to Alfred’s for the beach party?” I asked Georgina, a beautiful Jamaican girl who’s attention to me was motivated by commerce, not by any interest in forty something American men.
“Let’s go to Triple-X, I have friends there.” She offered, suddenly bouncing back into sales mode. She thumbed her cell phone, calling someone as if the decision was already made.
“Sorry Sweetheart. I can’t leave, it would be rude. My friends are over there, and we have plans.” I sat up shaking off my daze, and then standing up in hope of an easy break.
“What? You don’t like me? I thought you were my friend, you can’t party with your friend?” She was speaking faster now, a slight edge emerging on her smiling face.
“Let’s not argue about it Sweetheart. I like you very much, but I’m going to find my friends now. You’ll have more fun with your friends.” I really wasn’t blowing her off. I just didn’t want to get caught up in a situation I couldn’t handle, and the next step was either to shit or get off the pot, as it were.
We went back and forth like this a few times, but she wasn’t very persistent. Could it be possible that she wasn’t all that jazzed about having sex with me? I thought not. Maybe since it was early, only ten-thirty or so, there was still time to work her magic on a less morally upright fellow.
“My ladies are gone, you get me a taxi?” She asked, meaning, “It’s the least you can do you cheap bastard.”
“Sure, OK” I said warily. I wasn’t sure if this was another ploy. We walked in to the bar area of Kuyaba, a waiter gave me a stern just walk through look as he stood in the way to the bar.
Near Kuyaba’s gate I saw a driver who looked familiar. I asked him to take her anywhere she wanted to go.
“Come on Man! You’re not going with the girl? What’s wrong, you don’t like Jamaican girls Man?” The big driver’s voice boomed, and in some way he was letting off the hook.
“Yeah, I like her. She’s beautiful, but she’s looking for her friends, not for an old man like me.” I said trying to match his big voice and bravado.
“Ahh, too much to drink?” He laughed, as I came right up to him.
“I’d hate myself in the morning.” I said quietly as I handed him 1000j.
“Respect,” he said with a serious nod, as we bumped fists. “Get in ‘de car girl.” His booming voice returning.
I said goodbye to Georgina, gave her a few bucks for her time, and off they went.
I walked back to the bar, stopping at the bathroom to wash my face, and to get myself together. A few heads turned as I returned alone, their expressions mixed.
“Barkeep, beer! I need to put these flames out.” I said quoting Tom Cruise. Looking around I saw my friends. They hadn’t gone anywhere, they had just moved to a lounge table with cushy chairs.
“We thought you got a better offer.” They weren’t sure what had happened. “Um… she looked like a nice girl.”
“I’m sure she is, I’ll introduce you when we get to Alfred’s.” I assured them, but our second wind had blown out, and we never made it to the beach party.
Peace
Vinny
April 11, 2007
After a great meal at Selina’s, we headed over to Kuyaba for dessert. We’d planned to relax, digest a little, and then to ride our second wind up the beach to Alfred’s for the Thursday Night Beach Party.
Does Kuyaba just keep getting nicer, or do I forget every time I visit? You can’t beat the location, a great bar and restaurant just yards from the bay. The ever present salt-kissed breeze whispers through the abundant foliage keeping all conversations private. But it’s the attention to detail, the constant small improvements that I noticed. A decorative stone walkway here, a new lounge section there, a likke splash of design in a newly built stairway, all keep Kuyaba fresh and new every year.
We begged off table seating, who can resist those hanging-hammock-barstool-chair-like thingies Kuyaba is famous for?
I’m glad these chairs haven’t spread all over town. I love the way they get more comfy the more you drink.
Since this was dessert we dared the bartender to surprise us with something unique from his blender. We weren’t heading to Margaritaville that night. These creations were to be glorified milkshakes doused with over-proof rum. I forget what he called them, but they were full of creamy coconut yummy-ness while still packing a punch. After two my sweet tooth was sated, and I switched to Red Stripes. In general my foo-foo drink tolerance is pretty low.
This was Megan and Jason’s last night in town, so I decided to take an evening walk in the surf to give them some time to make googly eyes, and to whisper sweet nothings. The beach was beautiful that night. The faint lights of the beach-side businesses mixed with a three-quarter moon infused the sea with an aquamarine translucence that gave off a soft glow. I’d spent so many nights up in the cliffs these past few years, it felt as if I was discovering it for the first time.
I was lost in the moment, communing with the sea, I didn’t notice a group of five or six Jamaican girls drawing near as I stood ankle deep at the waters edge. I smiled and said hello. I couldn’t help but to notice they were all dressed to kill, though undressed to kill might be more accurate. I think I was staring. I assumed they were headed up to Alfred’s Ocean Place to party.
“You look like you’re having a good time.” A light-skinned girl with the spiky braids said as she came close in the way certain island girls do when flirting unattached older men in flowery shirts.
I didn’t know what she meant by saying that. Was it; ”Hey, you look really drunk, may I take advantage of you?” or; “Wow, you look like and unaffected party animal, and I want to be a part of your world if only for a few fleeting moments.” My problem is, in that moment of boozy bravado I assume she means the latter, and in the morning my empty pockets realize she meant the former.Â
“I’m Georgina,” she said with a pearly white smile. The other girls kept walking.
“Hi, Georgina, I’m Vinny.” I played along. I knew my virtue was well intact, and I wasn’t going to be swayed by this twenty year old vixen. The devil on my shoulder smiled wickedly, while the angel on the other knew he was still in control.
We made small talk, the usual meeting a Jamaican thing: Where are you from? Is this your first trip to Jamaica? Where are you staying? Do you like Jamaican girls?
She noticed my beer was empty, and she asked if I’d like another one. I said yes, and she waited while I pulled some cash from my pocket. I gave her 1000j, and told her to get something for herself, big spender that Vinny.
Being past the dinner hour a waiter cleared the surf-side table for two Kuyaba usually sets up to entice folks into a romantic sunset dinner. I took a seat. Georgina returned with a beer and a shot glass with some kind of red stuff in it.
I was surprised when she pounced on my lap and poured the shot into my mouth. Trying to act cool, as if this happens everyday, I reached for my beer, her ample Jamaican ampleness just inches from my face. Taking a swig I tried to regain the upper hand.
The devil on my shoulder was reaching for my wallet, while the angel just looked pissed. She poured what I thought was her shot of rum, mixed with some sickly sweet proof hiding agent, down my throat, and asked again if I wanted to party.Â
I feebly tried to make light of the situation, but her coconut oil lotion, the rum and our precarious position were conspiring against me. Luckily physics bailed me out. Her ninety-five pounds bouncing on my lap was just enough to cause the back legs of our folding chair to loose footing in the wet sand, and forced her to hop off as I rolled sideways onto the sand.Â
She sat on the opposing chair, and we did another shot. I could feel her reeling me in. My friends were nowhere to be seen, I had a pocket full of money, and Georgina had my full attention. By this time the angel had gone to bed, and devil was bartending.
Stay Tuned…
Vinny
April 8, 2007
I never thought to have dinner at Selina’s. Sorry Selina I’ve always thought of your place for brunch, beans and Bloody Marys, but not anymore.Â
I met Petra at Selina’s Sunday Brunch Webcast. I knew she was German, and that she recently moved to Negril. We didn’t talk much, but I envied her moxie for making the big move.
A few days later I stopped at Selina’s to load up on some fresh roasted Blue Mountain Coffee, and to grab some lunch. While enjoying my cheeseburger in paradise, Petra came by and we got to talking. I was surprised to learn she was the new chef at Selina’s, and after hearing her story I was intrigued. Petra, a classically trained European chef, began spending her off-seasons in Negril a few years ago. I guess she liked it because she moved to that particular harbor this past year.
We spent some time talking about Jamaica, Germany and the fact that we had food in common. She likes to cook it, and I like to eat it. Actually, I was in the restaurant business for over twenty years, and I think of myself as a wizard in the kitchen. It was great to know there was a fancy-shmancy euro-chef right there in Negril, and I promised to try her food before I left town.
It turned out I didn’t have to wait very long. Upon telling Megan and Jason about my new chef friend we decided to start their last night in Negril celebration with a meal by Petra. We met up at the Castle around 4PM. My room there, along with the adjacent patio, had a spectacular ocean view, and we partied through the most beautiful sunset of the week.
We toasted Megan and Jason’s last night in paradise, and their first real trip to Jamaica. Jason had planned a romantic sunset dinner at The Rockhouse for their last night, where he planned to ask her to marry him, but he couldn’t hold his water and he asked her within twenty-four hours of arrival. Maybe not exactly how he planned, but still a moment they will remember forever.
Soon after sunset the mosquitoes started biting, so we hailed a taxi for the ten minute ride to Selina’s on the beach. We sat at the bar and ordered a round when Petra came out to tell us about the specials and discuss the menu. Yeah, discuss the menu. It was nice; the usually wide open Selina’s seemed smaller and more intimate in the darkness.
I was sold on the special. I’m easy. My friends told Petra what they liked, and she suggested options. We had another round of drinks, and our food came out quickly.
I had the Vegetable Lasagna. It was beautiful, not some kinda-sorta Jamaican knock-off like the reggae version of Freebird. This was excellent; a small caesar-like salad with two pieces of grilled baguette. The pasta was tender, dare I say home made, with a variety of local vegetables in a creamy cheese sauce. All baked and topped with crunchy herbed bread crumbs.Â
My friend Jason some kind of Escoveitch Fish, he came to enjoy that Jamaican style of cooking. Megan had Grilled Snapper in a light butter and wine sauce with local vegetables. Both Jason and Megan were groaning in culinary delight as they ate.
I was in a struggle with myself, do I devour this delicious meal like a rapacious Leaping Slug, or do I savor each bite like a mature adult? I came down somewhere in the middle. This was hands-down the best meal of the trip, and one of the best meals I ever had in Negril. Petra’s hospitality in Selina’s humble relaxed eatery created an elegant and satisfying evening.
We said our good-byes and waddled over to Kuyaba for dessert. There’s always room for dessert
Peace
Vinny
April 2, 2007
Most people who frequent Negril tend to shun so-called tourist traps like Rick’s Cafe. Thought of as a haven for All-Inclusive types (people not in-the-know), Rick’s Cafe is an island of crass commercialism in what we consider our little bay of authentic Jamaican culture.
Even the guidebooks play along. Lonely Planet’s Guide to Jamaica speaks of the “touristy throngs.” The Rough Guide to Jamaica is downright snippy referring to Rick’s Cafe as: “Negril’s biggest tired cliche,” and “undeservedly popular.” I think it’s just marketing. People who buy a package deal from Sandals don’t need guide books. Self-styled sophisticated travelers like me, do.
Caribbean Travel & Life Magazine rates Rick’s Cafe as one of the “Ten Best Bars in the World,” and Patricia Schultz considers Rick’s one of the 1000 Places to See Before You Die in her smash-hit book. This is high praise for a tourist trap.
So who’s right?
Before my first trip to Negril in 1994, I read several guidebooks, and thus I thought Rick’s was a waste of time, which is funny because I stayed at Hedonism II, the most undeservedly-popular, tired-cliche in the Caribbean.
Several years later, by then an experienced Negril traveler, my date and I spent an afternoon at Rick’s Cafe, but we left before the sunset throng thronged in. I didn’t understand the pro or the con really. It was a nice place, the food wasn’t very good, the beer was nice and cold, and the single diver was fun to watch.
In 2004 I befriended some crazy people who loved to party. Our night at Rick’s Cafe was a blast. This was the first time I got the full Rick’s effect: sunset, bikinis, divers, and dirty bananas. I loved the place, sure it was a more expensive than other places in town, but it also had better infrastructure.
Several months later came Hurricane Ivan. Ol’ Rick’s got its butt kicked, as did most of the West End of town. Soon thereafter I stayed right next door to Rick’s at Banana Shout, and I got a good look at the devastation. The word on the street was that Rick’s had American insurance and would be rebuilt by a major contractor. The locals were pretty salty about it, since they knew it would be many months before it reopened, and many months till it brought all those tourists back to the far end of the West End.
Now I rarely miss a Rick’s Cafe run when I visit Negril. Since Ivan it has been rebuilt twice as big and twice as touristy, but I still like it. The house band rocks, there’s a pool, with all the things pools at bars bring, there’s a second floor dining area with a soul stirring two hundred degree sunset view, and even the food has gotten better, if only by a little.
Peace
Vinny
March 4, 2007
A few weeks before last trip to Negril, I was doing some spring cleaning, getting the Love Shack ready for Christmas. Yeah, I was spring cleaning in November, make your judgments as you must.
Anyway, I came across a package of battery powered Christmas lights in the back of a closet, and a wonderful idea began to form like in “When the Grinch Who Stole Christmas” when the Grinch’s heart grows two sizes too big.
“I’m going to decorate my patio at The Castle with Christmas lights, just like Calico Jack would have done, all things being equal and stuff. Did I mention I drink when I clean?
Luckily I noticed some discoloration on the package before I stowed the lights in my rolling duffel bag. At first, I thought Rosie “The Cat” peed on the box, somehow punishing me for leaving her with the evil kid down stairs for a week, but, upon closer inspection, the battery pack had corroded, and all the wires and lights were fused together is a sticky tangle of yuck.
“Well, So much for Christmas lights,” I tossed them in the trash, but didn’t take them off my list.
A few days before my departure, I was in Target (pronounced: tar-j-A) picking up the few last things on my packing list, when what to my wondering eyes did appear? A huge bin of bargain basement Christmas lights! I took it as a sign and picked up a twenty foot strand for a dollar and ninety-eight cents.
Finally in my room at The Blue Cave Castle, I dropped my bags and plopped on the big bed. The salty evening breeze billowing the lacey white curtains, throwing gentle blue shadows around my familiar room. I could have called it a night right then, but I had plans. I walked into the bathroom, and was revived under the cool fat-water shower.
“Christmas Lights!” Popped into my mind, and running from the bathroom, I was barely dry before tearing into the small yellow box of colored lights. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any convenient power on the patio, and no way was I going to wait till tomorrow to pick up an extension cord.
So I looked around my place, and I found a socket near the big bay window that faced the Caribbean. Aahh, this was the perfect place to express my Yuletide spirit to passers by.
I ran outside to view my handiwork, and I have to admit the lights looked fantastic. I sat on the Castle wall for a while with a cold Red Stripe luxuriating in my accomplishment. After ten or fifteen minutes I remembered I was expected over at Xtabi to meet up with friends for dinner. We had a date with some five star jerk at 3Dives, so I went inside to put on some good clothes.
“Woooooooo,” someone was shouting from somewhere behind me. I spun around to see a glass bottomed boat about thirty yards out on the sea, silhouetted black on black, I couldn’t make anyone out.
“Merry Christmas!” A woman’s voice shouted. “Love those lights!”
I walked to the patio wall and waved, “AARRGGHHH! Merry Christmas Me Matey’s!”
“Thank You, Happy Christmas Pirate Mon!” replied a smiling Jamaican voice as they rounded the cliff and faded from sight.
Needless to say the lights were a big hit.
Vinny
February 26, 2007
It annoys me that they don’t say, “… and the Winner is …” Does it really make the fellow nominees feel any less like looooooosers? 
I think not.
I bought Little Miss Sunshine this weekend, and it was just amazing. I laughed, I cried. I felt good because, in contrast, my family is normal, though we were a Volkswagen Bus bound family on many a road trip back in the 70’s. The characters were at once unique and archetypical, watching the film I wondered who I identified with the most. Was I the angry teen? The eccentric uncle? The over-zealous dad? Hmmm, at least I wasn’t the crazy dope smoking grandfather, not yet anyway.
I also picked up The Departed, it was excellent, but it was no Goodfellas, hell, it wasn’t even My Cousin Vinny. I think Marty went to the gangster well one too many times; at least it was the Irish mob this time. It just makes me laugh to portray Patriots fans as tough guys, talk about suspension of disbelief. My nephew Thomas could kick Leo’s ass.
OK here are my picks:
Best Picture - Little Miss Sunshine (it won’t win but it should)
Best Actor - Forrest Whittaker should win, but Will Smith will win.
Best Actress - The Queen chick should win I guess, but I didn’t see any of those movies. Penelope Cruz could win on general hotness.
Supporting Actor - Eddie Murphy - as long as it stops him from making those annoying fat suit movies.
Supporting Actress - That girl from American Idol.
Best Director - Paul Greengrass for United 93 but that suck-up Scorsese will win.
Best Screen Writing - Michael Arndt and Sacha Cohen
Animated Film - Cars - Aidan helped me with this one.
Best Documentary - Better known as the Americans Suck Category - Big Al is gonna win, and he will probably be so obviously trying to look un-tree-like, it will be fun to watch.
Best Foreign Film - Who cares you can’t figure out what the hell they’re talking about anyway.
Best Song - I think its unfair that Dreamgirls has three of the five nominations.
Vinny
February 24, 2007
Next page
Previous page
