Antigua, Barbuda and the Great Loss (es)



A Perfect Day (as sung by Lou Reed in Trainspotting)



You know the best way to celebrate a fatherless Father’s Dad and the 10th anniversary of the death of your dad, arguably the love of your life - get fired. While on your period.

Get fired mere hours before you’re set to embark on your already truncated tropical excursion for false, if not shadily vague reasons. Drink tequila with the security guard from said job. Get up before the sun. Take a Lyft with a man who clearly just learned to drive and then enter JFK at peak population.

Life is good.

I’ve spent the last 6 months or so becoming a new woman. I write my own daily affirmations, meditate regularly, keep a gratitude journal. I’m wearing crystals in my bra for good energy for Christ's sake.

This side of 40 looks different. Don’t get me wrong - I'm still wearing a crop top and hoops too big for my wrist sitting here at the airport as I write this - but after having spent a decade being much less happy and much less present in my own fleeting existence than possible - I simply to refuse to continue to do so.

I'm choosing joy in a way similar to the loathsome Miranda Bailey. And I'm not proud. But I am happy.

This must be the universe testing me. I’m fortunate, I know. I have functioning limbs and a killer rack. I have known love and adventure, but man, sometimes it feels like the gods are conspiring against me and when picking paths mine was chosen as not only less traveled but also unpaved with boulders and potholes and the errant rusty nail.

After being called up as Spinster Heard to change my seat to accommodate a family prior to boarding- my fate seems sealed.

But that’s not who Briana 2.0 is. She is optimistic and filled with hope and wonder. She is someone you both aspire to be and aspire to smack in her smug face.

A Love and Basketball and half a The Breakfast Club later I’ve landed in storming Antigua. Congratulations are in order as I managed to get through the flight without murdering the children screaming for 4 hours straight and kicking the back of my seat or the ones watching me, wiggling about a row ahead.

It seems this is the land to which white middle aged couples bring their unruly children. And I’m not with it.

It’s balmy but very very wet as I exit the airport, step in a deep puddle and am put on pause by a woman seated behind the Avis counter, but on lunch....

When Mitch arrives moments later, the tides turn. Sure this 28 year old asks repeatedly why I am not married but when he says if only I’d met him before his wife and it’s not about age but chemistry, I take the win!

The roads are windy and the rain is thick as I drive on the ‘wrong’ side of the road from the North to the South side of the island, which even in a storm takes 40 minutes.

The Antigua Yacht Marina Club, where I booked a room, is nicer than I’d anticipated, tucked away in the bay with bobbing boats and breeze abounding.

I take a significant siesta, or as much as one can with their next door neighbors apparently hosting the Caribbean leg of Lolapalooza in the adjourning room, and finally drag my ass out of my very big bed in my very big room, replete with a patio looking out at the water, and make my way out onto the streets.

After a many minute debate with the two exceedingly attractive front desk attendants about whether to walk or drive to Cloggy’s, my stubborn streak supersedes their recommendations and I insist the seemingly 2 miles is nothing for this New Yorker. I’m a douche. And right.

Cloggy's is less than two miles and on a dock on the opposite side of the bay where I get to pet a big fluffy dog and enjoy a Coke Zero while the warm breeze dries my sweat mustache.

Along the route I was looked at like I was crazy. Or maybe like prey. But at no point did I feel the disdain that was palpable in Trinidad in 2019. And though I’m jobless, dadless, and (Mitch is right) husbandless. I'm grateful.

I’m unsure as to whether it is age or wisdom or hormones that are making me undecided on the cat calls The man with a 6 year old girl on his lap while trying to chat me up might have been a bit much. I am terrified of becoming invisible and admit that work and male attention may be my only two vices, but sometimes a bitch just wants to take a walk and listen to the birds and admire the bougainvillea in peace. Know what I mean?

I soon realize that the citrine I keep in my bra. (Briana 2.0) has also created one large protruding nipple, hair blanketed over the other, so maybe the unwanted attention is, in fact, my bad…

Dinner is Roman in that I no longer consume animal at all, but while in Rome… I have a small side salad with egg and Kalamata olives and chicken curry. I pick out much of the chicken but it’s tasty and my guess is the protein is good for me (insert dirty protein joke here).

The jams at Cloggy's are a mix of adult contemporary that I’ve never heard and dated American hits from the early 90's.

I’m served a bottle of water in an ice filled champagne bucket as the sun comes through the clouds onto the water and I read my trash novel, listen to my pop music, and look out at the rippling reflections in the bay.

The air is thick, like my thighs. Luckily nothing seems to be rubbing.

It is now dark but I make my way back to room 4 on the ground floor to rinse off the day, tuck into my large platform bed and uneasily sleep until morning.

I’ve purposely left the curtains open, partly because I seem to relish in exhibitionism and partly because I want to see the sun rise over the water.

In no way am I questioning the cultural relevance of this small Eastern Caribbean country, but I seem to have chosen to visit the days that most things are closed and scuba isn’t tomorrow, so the schedule is not packed. I disdain the word vacation and pride myself on travel instead - which includes large amounts of stress and discomfort - but maybe it’s ok to 'vacate' right now. Maybe it’s ok to lay in bed, dozing in and out of slumber until 9 am and then walk downstairs to Bar B’s for fresh orange juice and a local breakfast that I in no way will enjoy more than my go-to eggs and toast.

While waiting for my salt fish and tomato purée I see there is a pig beach here that I would definitely drop $100 on to frolic on with piglets, only to realize - they’re closed. If visiting this beautiful island, don’t bother coming a Saturday through Tuesday. Nothing is poppin’!

Oh well. Back to vacating. I’ll lay on a beach and read a trash novel like a good middle aged white woman should. 

It’s a long and circuitous route to Valley Church Beach but winding through the countryside, on the left hand side of the road no less, makes it worth it.

I’m nervous when I pull up. It’s a makeshift parking lot with a handful of vehicles, no signage, and certainly no foreigners.

The beach itself is white sand in a C shape that curves around with houses peppered into the foliage surrounding. When I arrive there are a half dozen locals quietly frolicking as I set up camp mid beach curve and take a dip.

The water is both turquoise and clear and there is an imperceptible temperature change when sinking beneath it’s tranquil surface.

Dare I say this is one of the most peaceful places I’ve seen on planet earth.

Before too long another lone beachgoer, I learn named Kazi, approaches and we discuss life and all of it's foibles. He is sweet. And charming. And 26. 

I would have guessed just a few years my junior - and he guessed just a few years his senior, but maybe age is more malleable when abroad. I’m the Scott Bakula of the Caribbean.

It’s funny, as I realize it’s Father’s Day, that I was on a beach not so unlike this 10 years ago. To the day if memory serves. I sent my dad a text from Miami Beach wishing him what would he a happy final Father’s Day. Now I’m here, thinking of him again. With no father to text.

After a seemingly impromptu choral baptism takes place mere meters from me I think this is the kind of peace I want my dad to experience. I hope my dad has, maybe forever. So I proceed with my ash ritual. Turn on some Neil Young and give dad a primo view of the bay here in Antigua.

Kazi told me life on the island is 108 square miles of struggle. 

My struggle is to be present - a lofty one, I’m aware.

The beach is heaven, save for the curious bites all over my belly and it’s made even better when 27 year old Deshawn comes up and spits game. Trivial, silly, pointless, validating - call it what you will - 90 Day Fiancé me up, Deshawn, I’m here for it. 

He actually mentions that Jolly Harbour is nearby, assuming I’m staying there. It seems driving across the country to chill at a beach is out of the norm here. I figure why not dine in another part of Antigua and drive over to the curry house. 

As I wait for my chana masala, "No Air" begins to play and I know I’m exactly where I should be.

The meal was mediocre and I was very Lorelai, surrounded by cats - knowing that’s my destiny.

The drive home was slightly more exciting from a damsel in distress perspective. Maybe 20 minutes outside of English Harbour I hear a noise. One I ignore. Did people perhaps make note, waiving and pointing - maybe. Did I pay attention. No. When I can no longer ignore the rumbling, I pull over and as  suspected, I have a flat.

My guess is these are not so uncommon on the pitted roads, as Mitch back at Avis specifically showed me where the tire and jack could be found in the car.

I took a good long look at the tire, phoned a few capable men who I felt could talk me through it back in the states to no avail and thought … fuck it. Maybe I can make it the last 15 minutes on a rim.

I was wrong. Moments later I realize this just as a man on the roadside points emphatically at my car and I sort of shrug. I pull off to the right and, shortly thereafter, my knight in shining knock off Versace silk shirt comes to my rescue and with very little conversation gets to work. 

He lets me know he will be taking off his party shirt, my words not his, and lays it in the backseat of the sedan and I tell him I’d like to learn. So I dirty my hands and knees as he talks me through the process. He lets me loosen the lug nuts, more as a kindness than an efficiency and then he spends the next 20 minutes in the darkening sky sweating profusely, through his wife beater, as he replaces my front right tire with the spare, and places everything back where we found it.

He was clearly on his way somewhere and was so gallant I felt the least I could do was drive him to his destination. I offer, he accepts.

Akeem is a 34 year old father of two. And Antiguan native. And a drug dealer. He does not hesitate in telling me any of these details, along with how to drive, as we make our way toward English Harbour. 

He is going to Shirley Heights and suggests I come and, feeling Sandra Dee dangerous, I agree. First I’m directed to the twin peaks of Antigua that has a beautiful 360 view of the island and has absolutely been the conception point for more than one baby throughout the years.  

Just down the road is Shirley Heights and, being Sunday and Father’s Day, an exceedingly boisterous party with a live band, a barbecue, merch and drunk locals and tourists swaying, grinding and tumbling side by side is in full swing by the time we arrive.

It’s beautiful and tropical and absolutely not where I would have ended up if I’d not gotten a flat or if Akeem was not kind enough to help. Or hell - if I wasn’t balsy/brazen/bananas enough to have put him in my vehicle and come here with him.

While there I get to watch young American couples arrhythmically grind on one another, take their shirts off and swing them in the air. Grown locals watch the debauchery and eat jerk chicken. And we all enjoy the reprieve from the heat the hilltop breeze provides.

I watched my first rum punch be poured by the bartender but when Akeem brings me another, I take pause. And as any self respecting, responsible not so young woman does I do drink it, but only after expressly asking if I can trust him to hand me a drink, IE - are you going to drug and rape me? He takes a sip himself. I’m satisfied. I have several more sips before I tap out. He insists he would never roofie me because, when he inevitably wakes up with me he wants me to know who he is. I make it quite clear he will not be waking up with me. One of us was right.

Akeem insists on driving me home - in my car - as it is now dark and he knows the roads better, and I allow it.

6 months ago my life seemed the most stable and settled it’s ever been and today it’s all in tatters, allowing room for new growth, new fears, and new experiences- like late night drives with a strange man in a strange land.

Akeem deposits me back at my accommodation, but not before coming up to share a spliff that may as well have been rosemary, with me. We chat. He leaves. I pass out and all I’m left with the following morning is an empty dime bag on my patio and what appears to be a small bag of used up coke. 

Am I foolish or brave - who’s to say. Glad to have the story. Glad to have woken up another day. Alone.

Today is D-Day. Not only is it my very best friends birthday, it is the 10 year anniversary of my dad’s death. And to add insult to injury it is also my first day not at the job from which I was just let go, as I’m reminded as my former, very lovable coworkers are texting me their well wishes.

It a beautiful day. Clear skies and a gentle breeze. 

I take my time getting ready for the day and decide the local juice shop, Diced, is the move today. This tiny hillside establishment has a lovely proprietor who makes smoothies and eggs you can consume while staring out at the blue sea and, this morning, listen to a resident practice what sounds like their electric base and a very nice, mellow pitch.

I’m spending a very leisurely breakfast in the hills and when a woman and her two cherubic children come in for a chocolate waffle. I chat with her for a bit and when I ask where she thinks I can buy a towel for my scuba excursion around here she insists I can just borrow one of hers from her gym and wellness center, Energie, located just up the road.

The book I’ve been reading for a week or two now is about 300 pages in and speaks more about masturbation and sexual tension than much else. Perfect for mind numbing beach time. But today the chapter I’m on speaks both of the fear of being fired and the loss of one of the main characters fathers, who was his best friend. An odd turn on an odd day.

I’m being met with texts from now former coworkers and I try to remain present. Though I don’t have to be at the dive spot for another hour I head down and am directed to some shaded benches near the water. And … seated directly across from me is a man with USF, my dads alma mater, emblazoned in red and white on his chest. I mention this to him and he says he’s never been, which doesn’t surprise me. He speaks of timing; being in the right place at the right time and I agree. We both know he’s made my day.

Scuba is delightful with two kind men not too far or too deep but pleasant. Those people at Disney really knew what they were doing with The Little Mermaid. After a dive I’m hungry and a bit spent so I stop by the local wine shop for water and locally made banana bread to consume in my bed.

Knowing Pigeon Point Beach is nearby and having had it recommended by Kazi yesterday makes me drag my ass out of bed and hike past the enormous yacht parked in the marina to a little nook facing the western mountains. The beach is filled with local young couples in love and even younger people squirting one another with water guns while in water, making me confused by the screams of terror elicited.

I stay long enough to see the sun set behind the mountains and hike back to shower two days of ocean out of my hair.

This much vitamin D has drained me and I lay, listlessly for a while before I can gather myself. I need a proper meal and Los Canbrones down the street checks all of the boxes, primarily proximity.

This is clearly a tourist trap. Nothing here is cheap. But I don’t care that Sam Smith is blaring over the too loud speaker after I finish 3 fish tacos and, when the waitress ask if I need anything else I ask her if she’d judge me if I ordered more. She says no, of course not and I take that as a sign to order the sweet potatoes tacos to greedily consume before hopefully being in bed my 9:30pm.

My last morning and though I had grand plans of getting up and cracking I luxuriate in my platform bed until 8. I do have big plans before heading to the airport, but those are quickly thwarted by my dead battery. Then when I do phone Avis -  they tell me to call back later. 

Then I gave another flat tire.

Then my battery dies again.

It is truly only through the kindness of strangers I’ve survived this voyage and I am grateful. After TiTi from TiTi’s Car Rental hooks me up one last time and refuses payment for his assistance I drive north, airport bound.

I make a quick stop to return the towel I borrowed to Energie and sadly, Diced is not open so I slowly careen down the hill, over the mountains and through the woods.

Sand Everywhere. Jan everywhere. Jammin' in Jamaica

 Why do people wear their beach clothes to the airport in New York?

Explain it to me.

You’re in Brooklyn and you’re like let’s put on a fishing net and a floppy hat and get on the A?

I’m watching some whore wear the equivalent to a shiny lavender bikini on a 730 am flight and these American Airlines desk agents weren’t having it.

At first I thought she was in the wrong boarding group but after she was turned away she dug into her tote and pulled out what I’m assuming is her boyfriends fluorescent green tee to cover up on what I usually find to be a chilly plane.

Flanked by rhinestones and multicolored  attire, I’m getting a read on what the MBJ clientele just might be like. And I’m frightened.

The flight smelled more than vaguely or Doritos and the entertainment offered on my hand held device was elusive.

Let me sum up this flight in one statement: when we landed, everyone clapped.

Enough said

Immigration is a breeze though I find the kiosks to be offensive both for their lack of stamp in the stupid paper book that is somehow internationally recognized as official and for the offensive I just for off a plane oh wait that’s my picture documentation of me at my worst.

The moment I step outside I am hit with the thick heat of the Caribbean. Not overwhelming, but very present. My driver, Al, arrives shortly thereafter and though our time together is brief we discuss accountability, religion and the beautiful tragedy that is life.

I hold back the tears that have been residing in my throat, just below my ducts for weeks now and behold this kind man.

Sometimes, being of cynical mind and religious free body, think these men are sent to me as apostles, apparitions of love just when I need them.

I want to really push it and say they are sent to me from my father, who died 9 years ago this week - hence the timing of this particular journey - but this has happened for as long as I remember, long before losing him, it is just with age that I can recognize it more immediately.

Al brings me to the ATM and then to Pelicans on the hop stop where he insists I try ackee.

After a disappointing meal of curried vegetables and ackee, which in my experience looks like brains but tastes like butt, I made the mistake of answering the phone.

When I first started traveling the world smart phones weren’t a thing and even if they were my budget prohibited it.

I’m some ways the the technology is a god send but in others…

When I was paying a mobile station, for example, to call my dad from Aguas Calientes, I was in no danger of                                                                                                 haphazardly answering a call from the billing department at Weill Cornell where they not only reminded me of a procedure I have schedule that is terrifying and I’m guessing incredibly painful but they also called to say as a self pay patient that will be 10 grand, thank you very much. Due upon arrival next week.

After the shock wore off I climbed up the mountain to my humble abode, trailed for a bit by a local who felt it his mission to teach me about the world. He was not cute enough to entertain such nonsense and I lost him at Queens Street where he felt I was rude for not wanting to go into the jungle and have him video tape me dancing in a waterfall in my two piece. And no - I did not make this up.

My apartment #4 at Gema’s Nest was ready for me and I laid still for a bit trying to see if I could trick the humidity into not sticking to every inch or my body.

Some more real life phoned and thought I’m grateful that people love me enough to call me, today had been a little too domestic for my international adventure.

Doctors Cave Beach made just as much sense as any, save for it being more populated and, therefore more expensive ($8 USD) than others on the strip in MB.

The sweltering sun and tepid blue sea made everything better. If not temporarily.

When the beach closed at 5:30, after a paltry hour of my being there, I decided to walk the strip where men were friendly, woman were cold and everyone was seemingly powder fresh, except for the Magnum PI level mustache painted across my freckled face. If the pallor didn’t make it crystal clear I wasn’t a native, the ability to withstand the humidity did.

I made it as far as Sunset Beach for a quick mediation at almost Sunset before a blister took up residence under my big toe and I thought it best to head back ‘home.’

I popped into a Bodega for apple juice and water where the fellow patrons might as well have been speaking Chinese for as much as I can understand patois.

And, for a little culture, BK for dinner.

After reading a review on google touring the beach near my street as being ‘only 5 minutes from Burger King’ I felt it imperative to continue my rich cultural experience of sampling international BKs. Verdict - BK fries are superior to mere American.

The sun set in that god like way it’s known to do, as If reaching out to hug you from the great beyond across the blue expanse ocean and I rocked the  ‘Jamaican Beach Vibes’ playlist on Spotify and my first, of very few, days in Jamaica nears an end.

Sammy Spanglish and his diatribe on racist American women’s inferiority to cool Euros provided some nighttime entertainment before I lay in the dense darkness of night, ready to close the chapter on this particular day.

The one hour time difference allowed for a slow morning, but I was still up and out for a run in that already 80 degree heat by 8am.

Instead of taking the hip strip, a run down beach side road filled with shirts bedazzled with “Feeling Irie” and Bob Marley bongs, I decided to go up into the hills. And I wasn’t disappointed. Nor was I entire welcomed.

As a cis white hetero college educated woman from a liberal state in America I am aware I’m not really allowed to comment on much. But as an individual who likes to go places alone either in spite of or due to the list of my inherent sins above I do feel I have some context for saying there are places in the world I most definitively do not feel welcomed due to the perception of who I am at first glance.

My hour run up into the neighborhoods of Mobay was punctuated by looks and comments and two small children who follows me down a path asking for high fives and if I’d ever been to America. They’d just witnessed a handful of men try to direct me back to my resort (nope, don’t have one) and when they grew tired one just waved me off with clear signs of exasperation that I didn’t immediately turn on my heels and head back to Margaritaville.

I will note at one point my pants did begin to fall below my underwear and I was briefly reminded of the very attractive penis I saw on a very mentally unstable man wandering the streets shoveling handfuls of rice and peas in his mouth but I don’t think my momentary thong reveal was the issue. It was simply that I didn’t belong.

In no way did anyone say anything offensive or aggressive or was just a clear sign that I was a little too far from the designated area for tourists and, being of fair mind and body, I was clearly one of those.

I’ll also make note that in my brief time here this was the most beautiful place I’ve seen. Colorfully painted walls in tribute to those lost and schools that emphasize patience and kindness. Children in uniforms, hair beautifully plaited for the day. Goats and jungle and locals gathering on corners and driveways chatting before the day had fully begun.

I didn’t have my camera with me nor will I bring it back as I have concern it would be seen as offensive and never am I coming to someone else’s country to offend them.

But I’m glad I turned right instead of left. And I might just do it again tomorrow.

The walk back to Doctor’s Cave Beach was brief and damp and I coughed up the $22 for a chair and an umbrella . What was free was the man assigned to my section of the beach. Ricky was kind and attentive and told me that this beach was bequeathed to the country of a group of doctors who found healing properties in the salt water. He also agreed with me that The Pelican is not good Jamaican food and offered to hang out later and show me some delicious faire.

I have a a jam packed schedule - meaning a single appointment at Jay’s Signature Nails at 5, so who can say.

Ron Swanson - the security beach guard also popped on by my umbrella to chat me up and I’m telling you ladies - traveling alone may seem scary but in my experience it’s rife with opportunity.

Sadly the gentleman who have propositioned me this far are not hot enough to risk sexual assault or murder. But one can hope.

With the waiter telling me I was sexier than Rihanna (a line too foolish to even flatter), who comes up often when I say my name and the security guard buying me door adornments as a present I was distracted enough to delete the first few shots I’ve taken here and anxiety quickly usurps the flattery.

It’s amazing how quickly time flies when simply laying on the beach and letting strange men shower you with attention. 4 pm came quickly and it was time to go get my manicure/pedicure downtown.

I’m making life sound really hard right now - I know.

I’m simply choosing to focus on the positive and try desperately to remain present. At least for the next 3 days.

My manicure took nearly 3 hours and Amelia was diligent in her work; the outcome satisfactory. Feeling myself age in that chair made me realize these will be the last set for a long while…

I popped over to downtown thinking I’d pick up some sundries but having just paid cash all of my cash to the nail salon due to their faulty machine I needed to wait inline for the ATM.

I was yelled at and my card would for some reason no comply with the bank and that was it.

I was done.

No meeting up with a new local friend to eat - which I hadn’t done all day. No drinks - I was dehydrated as fuck. My blister was now open and the sweat was pouring off of me and I just wanted to go home. Like hundreds of miles home.

Luckily the walk to my abode was brief but steep and I had a handful of dried mango waiting for me, though no water, so I could feel my feelings alone in a comfortable space.

I recognize there are likely many reasons for anger directed at someone who looks like me in the world. But I can assure you it still doesn’t fucking feel good.

I was up with the sun at 530, braided my hair and put on sensible footwear for the 4 mile walk to my day of scuba. I’m in such a foul mood I almost just want to lay here and watch Gilmore girls in my sweaty sheets all day, but I persist.

I make it two miles, past the crazy penis man who is now scaling the side of a building while grunting and revealing his pert posterior as well as a man who slows down, flicks his tongue at me and tells me he likes to suck pussy, all before 7 am.

So distracted by the raw sexuality of the streets I don’t even notice that I’ve walked to dead end beach which, you guessed it, is a dead end.

Luckily Gilbert, a handsome older man dressed in a crisp white shirt and tie can give me a ride to Hotel Riu, but once again cashless, we have to make a stop first.

He brings me to the airport where I take our 10,000 JMD but only 5,000 is dispensed and then I spend $7 USD on two small water bottles for both me and my man Gil.

I’ve been in the car maybe 12 minutes total when Gilbert drops me in front of a hotel secured at the front gate by a young man with milk chocolate skin and eyes to match and I’m so intoxicated by his beauty that the $40 Gilbert charges me for a 12 minute ride almost doesn’t offend me. Almost.

As I make my way into the hotel where I’ll be paying an additional $60 for not being a guest to scuba another handsome young man informs this is not the right hotel at all but mine is just down the road.

I told Gilbert Jamaica has not been kind to me. And I am not joking.

Finally I arrive at Riu Montego Bay and my passport and $60 are taken from me so I can depart with a group from this location.

I know I’m not doing this trip right.
But it’s not doing me right either.

So I shove some simple carbohydrates in my face since I haven’t had anything but Twizzlers and plantain chips for 24 hours and rush to the scuba location on the property of this resort for my 8 am check in and the group of people standing by the dive shack could not look more shocked to see me.

They know nothing of my name - despite checking in with security at the front. They are my confirmation email and more confusion ensues and then they require me to find the reservation date so that they can then meet it with stunned silence.

I understand the concept of putting negative energy or thoughts out and it coming back to you. I once had an abusive boyfriend who said thoughts are physical - but I’m feeling undeserving of this not so comedic comedy or errors.

Being in a resort - or in a Caribbean destination for that matter makes the concept of resort wear all the more real. People actually buy clothes specifically to look good when overseas. I’m wondering if, at 41, I should adopt that as my homeless chic attire is generally brought to a whole new level on trips where I put things that are old and worn, disposable and the antithesis of fashion on such a journey.

The debacle at the dive shop continues and my one dive day got extended but my instructor Odi has made me feel just like Garfield, save for the lasagna. And by the time we’ve finished our practice instruction my spirits are buoyed and he has already declared me an ‘interesting charachter’ which I 100% take as a compliment.

I had just enough time to shovel some sub par resort buffet food in my mouth, in an attempt to be better prepared for the dive, before Odi returned for me and we set out on the very choppy waters.

A merchant on the beach commented on my bootie as I boarded the boat and I assured him that I would let my parents know he approved - so thanks, Dad.

The winds were intense and the waters rough and by the time we got to Sting Ray City I was already dealing unwell. As Odi and I descended I was unable to find the right rhythm and despite my fair share of experience, I required literal hand holding. It would have been almost romantic if I wasn’t trying to plot my impending puke 20 leagues below.

The sting rays did not disappoint and I was able to see many before our merciful ascent to the surface. I was not even out of my weight belt before I felt it coming and before you knew it I was puking. I was puking over and over again. I was puking up hotel buffet over and over again until there was nothing left to puke.

If you were under the impression that one could not get sea sick UNDER water, you’d be wrong.

I dragged myself off of the boat and deposited myself onto the nearest lounge chair with some shade, covered myself in a towel and attempted to be still. Attempt to shake off the motion sickness.

All was well and good and I didn’t even mind the report DJ destroying the natural sound of the sea and breeze in the palms with rhythmic jams until a group of ladies set up shop next door. On the surrounding chairs, despite an open beach, to discuss their next travels and their friends behind their backs. I can’t remember her name but some bitch isn’t invited to Aruba.

I was saved by Odi waking me from what it seems was 2 hours of sleeping it off.

Evidently guests and staff are not allowed to sit next to one another in the dining hall so we parted ways but I remain grateful for his kindness and his very very white teeth.

I lackidasically remained at Rio option for some ‘free’ bread to calm my stomach before making any moves and say next to the man I knew was also diving that day. Being the o oh Japanese person in a place can be memorable and we began to chat across tables, eventually merging.

We chatted for an hour or so about scuba and travel when I realized I may as well take another dip in the pool while I am here. Hiro followed.

The temperature in the late afternoon with the breeze of the ocean made the pool seem less like human soup and I watched middle aged women in matching suits pose for multiple shots while on their divorce party trip and couples canoodle in the pool. One such couple, a rotund and jovial lesbian couple were lovely enough to even invite me on their excursion the following day. I politely declined.

Hiro and I parted ways as I finally felt stable enough after my gastrointestinal debacle to make my way to Scotchie’s - a 30 minute walk according to google.

I figured it would he faster with my New York honed walking skills. Is followed the highway path nearly almost there when a man in a red shirt flagged me down and I, for some reason unbeknownst to me, stopped.

It didn’t take long for the man who introduced himself as Junior to lure me into what was evidently an eatery, though there would be no way of knowing looking at it. I was served peas and rice and chicken while seated outside next to the man in red as he rolled joints and offered them to me.

The food felt like risk enough so I sat there and picked. It was fine. He saw my camera and as most men do, immediately asked I take photos of him, leading me to the back of this accumulation of shacks to see the water, all the while insisting he was too hot to be a rapist. Comforting, right?

Timidly I took some photos and we chatted as the run hung low above the water. To exit you had to pass through a bar with happy birthday decor and two beautiful ladies who were quite welcoming.

The called the man self identified as Junior.

Bruce and I was soon informed he was also know around these parts as Dr. Strange Love, Late Pharmacist. A character to be sure the conversation quickly led to my fertility and that of the women in Jamaica. I’m telling you, I don’t know how this comes up but it does - and often. I was intrigued/entertained enough to stay atop a wobbly stool for a couple of hours discussing the fact that Jamaican men have the largest penises in the world (as nearly every Jamaican man will tell you), family, god and Jolie’s interpretation of my treatment the night before being ignorance. I was grateful for her kindness.

Evidently I need to return to this bar, drink some potion and potentially fuck Dr. Strangelove and I’ll be pregnant in 2 weeks time. I have to admit, the argument was compelling.

Having had enough analysis for one evening, the doctor put me in a mini bus that was approximately 80 cents to get to my destination, half the distance the other direction was nearly $40! And with the kindness of the woman in the car I was able to sort out a way back downtown.

Feeling more confident after my barroom confessional I headed downtown in search of a bodega. An older gentleman nearly immediately said, “hey white girl, can I wash your hair?” I was on a mission for water and crackers but he wasn’t wrong - it does need to be washed.

Snacks finally procured I climbed the mountain back to Gema's Nest and realize a mini mart is just next door and perhaps my famine and painful dehydration the night before wasn’t completely necessary. It harkens back to Panama, right Jackie?

Needless to say I was sweaty and spent but less cynical than I had been the night before. Here’s hoping!


Though I woke up early, per usual, I stayed in bed for a very long time. A culmination of things I’m sure kept me dragging ass for hours.


I contemplated hiring a car to go to a far away beach, I tried renting a car to get to Negril, where I’d very much wanted to go, I attempted to meet up with a new friend and ultimately schlep down the mountain and went to Juici Patti for breakfast. It was packed (and dirty) and I waited in a very long line to have people step in front of me for no know reason, have no veggie patty or coco bread and be learned at as I sat down to eat a single chicken patty (no real food stuffs found) patty from the Carl’s Jr of downtown Mobay.

I’ve been hungry, sweaty and uncomfortable for days now and I’m more than ready to leave this Caribbean paradise.

Unable to finish my patty I meandered over to the public beach situated east hit across the world famous KFC (read implied sarcasm) and though Harmony Beach Park is lovely it offers little shade and lots of ants.

I sound like a prima Donna at this point I realize, but I’m just cranky.

I finally made my way back to Doctors Cave based on my knowledge of its comfort and was met with lots of beautiful children and a small smattering of white people.

I do like solo travel. Clearly. It’s sort of become my brand in an authentic way as opposed to the documented beach twerking and day drinking I’ve witnessed the past few days non stop. But sometimes, just sometimes, I want a hot boyfriend to drink watered down cocktails and caboodle in the waves with. The only time I’ve ever had anything close is when I went to Bermuda with a sweet dude I was very casually dating and asked sort of on a whim to join. We weren’t fucking and no amount of wave canoodling was changing that.

It’s interesting looking back and realizing perhaps you were thinking with the wrong organ, consistently.

I wonder how Jay is….

It, of course, is not lost on me that today marks the day I lost my dad. 9 years ago but you know why they say - time flies when you’re not having fun.

I often note the days approaching June 17th ( the day I lost one great love of my life and the world gains another - Hi, Simone!) as the last time Dad was alive X amount of years ago. And today, not any longer.

I think he has made this trip suck for me because he too did not like his time in Jamaica and he wants us to be connected in her, another cosmic way.

Little does he know part of him will remain here … forever.

To toast such a joyous occasion I order my first (and last) alcoholic beverage of this adventure and sip on a surprisingly strong piña colada while listening to reggae and watching the blue expanse before me sparkle.

My grilled fish tacos arrive just as the girls trip to my left burst out in accusatory rants. I’ve often fantasized about such a trip- a group of women I love all take the time to go somewhere together on an adventure. I never thought that could result in adult audible woman friction. But here you go.

The beach closes at 5:30 and I left to do my Dad ritual before it for dark with several options for entertainment later.

The sun was near setting and my original plan had been to go to Old Man Beach. When I reread that is was in fact One Man Beach I felt it was still appropriate enough so I climbed out into the rock peninsula in the water while a group of rowdy young boys dove off the rocks into water they immediately seemed to be able to stand up in, so that was concerning.

Take a right at the Rasta meditating and I found just the right rock to leave pops, looking out into the sunset for all time.

As I made my way back through the mosquito filled thicket I ran into no other than Scottie Spanglish who is met a couple of days prior. When I called him Sammy he reacted as if I were another one of the American women he will no longer date but once I have some more identifiers he relaxes and we chatted as I smacked mosquito’s large enough to leave big splotches of blood all over my body.

He gifted me a bracelet he fastened to my wrist and just as we turned to walk up to the street the friend he’d left to quickly grab something and I stared for quite some time. This warm, broad face was smiling at me and I knew I knew him but couldn’t place from where. Silly me, I didn’t recognize a man I’d met just two days before at the beach. Small world/small MoBay.

I was offered a ride home and, though cautions, I trusted my gut and allowed this kind gentleman to ascend the mountain with me. Or rather for me. He asked me to dinner and I had already made semi plans and I realized that in less than a week in Jamaica I was already in some sort of Days of Our Lives love triangle totally by accident.

Not out of character for me, per se. But certainly not for several seasons.

Needless to say I went home and laid in a towel with freshly coconut oiled legs alone.

Though I had big plans for my last morning, I’ve given up. Jamaica - 1, Briana - 0.

Instead I luxuriate on my cheap mattress, utilizing AC, and allowing one of my Jamaican friends the pleasure of saying goodbye to me.

I wonder why I am so ‘special’ and beautiful’ only to men outside of the contiguous United States. Is the the lure of a foreigner? Is it a line to try to get in my pants before I get out of town? Is if that I’m my best self when traveling and, therefore, attract attention?

In no way did I have a Jamaican romance while here. I’m spoken for back in New York. But I’d be lying if I said being told I was special, repeatedly, didn’t feel good.

I’ll choose to take that with me when I leave this balmy ‘paradise’ and leave behind all the disappointments.

Wait… is that just life