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

Bon Bini Bri Bri: Daddy Issues and Diving

Long before the sun rises, I do, pull on one of my more aggressive pairs of leggings and hop in the back of Muhammed's black sedan where he sons me so hard discussing the six languages he speaks.

Make American educated again. 

The ride to LGA is quick and painless and, just as I suspected, the line at security is long and winding. 

No matter. My homeboy hooked me up with an upgrade to first class, so I feel confident my flight will be comfortable - and catered. 

Arriving to Queen Beatrix airport was a slow process, as we waited o the tarmac for what seemed like an eternity. Stress mounted as I tried to plot the acquisition of my ag from rows back whilst  not breaking very clear, if unwritten, airplane etiquette. In no way was this helped by the cheeky gentleman who literally declared - I'm a smart ass. I don't care how cute you are or how long your dreads are - self proclamation of sarcasm is not sexy. 

The airport hands out plastic bags emblazoned with tourist propaganda as throngs of Long Islanders adjust their visors and start to lather with SPF 2000 before reaching customs.

With only a few days here I don't want to waste a minute, and I am eager for the travel portion of today to be over.

Heartbreak at immigration as for the second time this year I have not received a stamp in my passport for the price of an international flight and am instead met with an electronic system that scans me and sends me on my way. I don't care what Barney Stinson says, new is not always better.

A quick stop at Hertz and it is a beautiful drive up the 1B to Noord, through the congested streets of downtown - Disney for the old and affluent - with the radio blasting Stooshe's 'Black Heart,' and me listening to the lyrics far too intently. 

I pass what I imagine is a shoe store called Me, My Sister, Shoes and Him and realize life just became so simple and complete.

I wasn't coming here expecting copious amounts of culture, but it does always sting a bit to see what you imagine was at one point a cornucopia of beautiful beach communities ruined by families like the Hiltons and the Trumps. After locating Aruba Beach Villas, that closes at 5 and is run by a man easily 210 years old, I find room S10 and unload, connect to wifi and take a deep breath.

Some time spent watching clouds and listening to the ocean lap against the rocky shore was spent before a rag tag race came through town with old, young, large and small all making their way down the 1B, accompanied by a truck with extra large speakers haphazardly affixed to the back. That was my cue to make a change and make my way to dinner. Only one small problem, the large rock path flanking my parking spot slipped my mind and I immediately pulled over a baby boulder and was immediately stranded. I managed to finagle one rock from behind the front left tire but the other was firmly wedged beneath the transmission (see:pretending like I know car stuff). 

Good times.

After some time spent struggling a kind man came over and investigated, deciding to utilize the jack from the trunk as his woman spoke rapid fire Papiamento to me in a tone that did not connote either helpfulness or irritation. Luckily some fellow guests at the hotel had had the same problem and climbed under the vehicle to dislodge the rock for me. True acts of kindness and patience were exhibited and appreciated as the sky melted into reds and yellows and I was finally able to make my way to my one true love... food.

A little shaken, I took my hotelier's advice and headed shortly down the road and took a right. Palm trees, neon lights and AARP catalog-ready interracial couples filled the streets of Palm Beach, but I needed grub so I took heed to the old adage and joined 'em. Smokey Joe's was Trapper Keeper colored and had outdoor seating - it fit the bill. The fact that my muy macho waiter was Dominican and I determined his orgin from hearing his accent was just an added bonus. 

The host asked repeatedly if I was sure it was only one for dinner, which I almost found to be amusing. But as I sat at this Señor Frogs for seniors alone, listening to obscure classic rock I have to admit, a sadness within me grew. Each and every time I take a risk, try something new and figure it out - alone - I do feel proud of myself and have a moment of ... man, I am such a bad bitch. But when the adrenaline levels fall and the world becomes quiet I can't help but at least be a little melancholy that, yet again, I am solo dolo.

Anyway... alcohol arrived so within two sips the world would be a happier place.

While consuming all 7000 calories of my meal a young couple was seated next to me and seemingly ran out of things to say to one another within five minutes. And here, I sit with an internal dialogue that never ceases. Perhaps I am the best company I could ask for after all...

Now, back to Ta-Nehisi and the balmy air.

I luxuriated in my book and the breeze with one cocktail going straight to my head to remind me just why I don't drink. The host, who I was definitely old enough to have given birth to suggested he was 'old enough' and he came to check on me repeatedly, and I was flattered. As I surveyed the eatery in which I'd been seated it was clear why any youthful male attention was being thrown my way - I seemed to be the only women who didn't yet have issues with vaginal dryness or hot flashes.

Speaking of which I did meet the nicest couple from Staten Island who spoke kindly to me about marriage and children and this island they love to much (Aruba, not Long)  they've been here 8 times. Finally prying myself from the pastel chair I decided to work the strip and made my way down the open air markets and bistros with live cover bands until I picked up a doll for my niece (only to find one I liked even better a few blocks down) and decided to stop for dessert at this exotic little shop called... Baskin Robbins. Sure, I dropped my ice cream cone immediately after existing the established, but the cruise home with the windows down and Steve Perry warbling allowed the day to wash away and my to await yet another...

I woke to a stuffy sunlit room and dragged myself out of bed, out of my terribly dehydrated stopper and showered and dressed. I'd decided I would take Dad to the California lighthouse on the North end of the island for his birthday and that's just what I did. 

Thankfully the opportunity to purchase a bottle of water was also available there only by way of a truck that's generator runs loudly and houses a beautiful parrot who wass chatty while chewing on plastic. I waited patiently for my bottle of water as a group of tourists greedily consumed their smoothies, exclaiming de nada when handed the fruity beverages. Sigh. 

Evidently for the first time in 100 years you can buy a ticket to travel to the top of California Lighthouse, named after a shipwreck here many moons ago, and I felt the $10 entrance fee purchased within the tranquil Faro Blanco restaurant was worth the cost on this trip, on this day. 

Young Rigo brought me to the top of California Lighthouse and was kind and informative; stressing the multicultural aspect of this small Caribbean island when I think what that really means is people visit and expat from all over the world here. The $10 was well spent, as I'd felt like I'd engaged in some ,at least semi authentic cultural experience offered here. Having seen the dunes off in the Northern distance I'd determined my compact rental car could handle the trek and traversed the bumpy unpaved roads to what seemed to be fishing country, finding my own private Idaho nestled between the errant fishermen for my own quiet ritual. I turned on Neil Young, tuned out the world and said goodbye, as I do each and every time I perform this secluded ceremony, to a tiny piece of my Dad on  what would have been his 67th birthday. 

Now he can rest at 'California beach' for all eternity. A few moments on the rocks, and a few repeats of 'Old Man' and I was done.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

I was glad I'd chosen to do this early in the day, c   as it appeared the weekend warriors were caravaning in the opposite direction as I drove out of the thorny wilderness and into the Arashi Beach, known for its tourist friendly shallow beaches and bartenders avant garde hair styling choices.

I made my way down the beach with a bottle of water and packet of peanuts as far from civilization as I could before entering too rocky a terrain and set up shop. Just me, my peanuts and 'Between the World and Me.'

I'm painfully aware that I am late to the game with this book; and I am equally aware that it was not written for a white woman to search her soul, per se, but alas I did.

As dark and stormy clouds approached I watched a man very gently teach his dogs to swim and was overcome with the beauty that life and the world that houses it possess.

His patience and care gave me hope, but also left me feeling blue.

Melancholia is my middle name and I lay on the pristine white sand beaches I thought to myself - I don't remember what it feels like to be in love anymore. Maybe I never knew, as my associations with that emotion at this point in life are tied to so much pain and turmoil I feel confused about what it's 'supposed' to be - what the people on this beach right now, silently sitting side by side, lathering one another's back and frolicking in the waves playfully must be feeling. They can't possibly feel as alone as me, after all - they aren't. But who am I to presume. Each one of us has a whole world; an entire civilization living within us and no one outside the city walls really knows what's going on.

A rain storm approaches and leaves the sky half dark and half light, like a black and white cookie from the deli in the sky. Lightening bolts insert themselves into the landscape and I begin to wonder, should I seek cover or ride it out?

I made the move just in time and slid into the driver's seat the skies opened up and didn't let up. I thought I'd make my way downtown while the sun was playing hide and seek but it seems the infrastructure of Aruba is not set up for the weather patterns in Aruba, as the roadways almost immediately began to flood and having already fucked this car up more than I'd like to admit I realized it was a fruitless challenge and headed back toward Playa Linda, as food was no longer a want, it was a need.

Dushi Bagels - yes pronounced just like you think, but unlike most eateries 'round here (see Counting Crows) was open before 5, so a purple table up front under a moderately patched umbrella allowed me to sit and eat and write.

I thought 'while in Rome,' but my meal only confirmed that I'd already known for some time - I don't like fish - even when it is fried and drenched in ketchup.

With the rain still coming down and the temperatures dropping I took this opportunity to write my Dad a long and thoughtful birthday letter. I told him what I'd been up to, expressed my hope that he wouldn't be too disappointed by some of the choices I've made in his absence and thanked him profusely not only for being authentically him, but also for loving me in a way I've yet to experience elsewhere. And likely never will.

Elton John cued up and my face became a rainstorm of it's own and I just sat. I didn't search or think or talk. I just 'be'd.'

I took a quick drive back to my villa to warm up and chill until the rain ended, but a siesta never took place as I became far too fascinated by the train wreck that is Kathy Griffin's 15 minute shorn diatribe about the underbelly of Hollywood - as if this is breaking news.

While cruisin' (see Smokey Robinson OR Huey Lewis and GOOP), I finally came across some inspiration of the trip and was quickly, directly dissuaded from hanging out in the abandoned dilapidated buildings with both graffiti and street art - a distinction I choose to make on my own here. set back from the Sea, behind the main roadway. Though discouraged I respected that this kind woman in the minivan was looking out for me and thought ... I could find some more inspiration, by way of BBM Idris Elba. 'The Mountain Between Us' had a 7 pm showing at the local Cineplex and I knew my dad would want to spend his birthday ogling Stringer Bell, so I acquiesced. Sadly, I also spent almost an hour circling for parking and nearly $30 for the flick and refreshments in the process.  

As soon as I entered the intimate theatre I immediately proceeded to dump my untouched popcorn all over the floor, before previews even began! Last night I dropped my ice cream cone while existing the ice cream parlor and now this, I am batting 1000 in the game of empty calories.

As if to confirm my aloneness - like Alexander the underage host from the night before and Rigo the guide had that morning - the theatre was completely empty, save for me and my spilled  popcorn 

2 hours older I emerged and with total certainty can declare that I would gladly be stuck on a mountain for a month if jack of every trade hot heartbroken Idris was there to get me to the finish line. What is it about a man who can fix your broken leg, save you from hypothermia and then bang you after 3 weeks without a shower that is just so damn sexy!?!

After a satisfying movie watching experience I headed back north to the Palm Beach Plaza in what turned out to be a futile attempt to purchased an artisnal good I had seen the night before but was on the fence about but decided to make the best of it, pick up a couple of postcards and ideally some water.The women from whom I bought my 5 cards was no help when I asked if I could get a bottle of water in these here parts and she shook her head furiously, coupling it with a very stern no.

Imagine my surprise when 2 doors down an Arubian bodega was found, replete with candy and bottled beverages.

I'm often in awe of these locals living in 2 car towns who don't know where things are. Why is it I have a better handle on all 5 boroughs of New York City than you do of this postage stamp country from which you hale? And she was listening to Christian easy listening so my assumption is that being kind to others is one of her guiding principals... Jesus would have told me where to buy some Crystal Geiser and a snack for sure!

Now sleepy time. Without the tea.

At 10 to 8 I was picked up in an 8 pass van by a tall drink of water with golden flax toppled upon her head and a strong Dutch accent. It looks like Happy Divers will be 4 women today.

My trips are becoming estrogen filled - is God trying to tell me something?

I chatted amiably with the two Dutch women and American, with a full face of makeup on - replete with crayon arched eyebrows ... to go scuba diving during the short ride to our diving destination.

Whilst chattering away I have come to realize that, through I have not yet become certified - as many have suggested - instead I have done an ala cart of underwater explorations in Australia, Vietnam, Hawaii, Egypt, and now Aruba!

As we go through the perfunctory lessons of how not to die when many meters underwater I cannot help but make note of the clear, fresh face of our guide for the day - whom I later find out is a spritely 21.

35 is the point of no return. Youth was on my side until I turned that corner and there is no choice but to let go, and breath. Much like the lesson presented in front of me. You might be able to admire the beauty of youth, but my god life is not easy and I've earned my wrinkles and grey hair. So you have to respect a woman who has lived.

Admire the beauty of youth but respect the beauty of wisdom.

After many delays due to eyebrows deeply rooted fear of submerging herself, despite having signed up for the certification course to scuba dive, I finally sink beneath the horizon line of water and down to the bottom of the sea. 

There is a meditative nature to travel. Especially when it's difficult and a true adventure - you're there, you're in it. How am I going to get on the bus? Where is there a place to eat around here? How can I communicate my needs to this person who doesn't speak my language? One of my most favorite parts of travel is being IN it. Sadly, Aruba doesn't offer much of that as this is most definitely a vacation destination, designed to limit friction and allow luxuriating, but if you look hard enough there is always an element of surprise not afforded in your every day life.

It is while traveling that I make my most earnest attempts to live in the moment, as life has aggressively taught me, nothing is promised. 

Scuba is much the same. It seems scary, it can be treacherous, as the coral that sliced open my knee proved, but if you slow down, breath and look around, it can be magical.

The sunken ship covered in algae and housing a cornucopia of sea creatures was most definitely a hybrid of Nemo and Titanic magic.

After many milliliters of oxygen the trio of ladies emerged and paddled our way back to shore where we disrobed in the afternoon sun and packed up our equipment - this was certainly a no frills scuba experience. A local comes by to say hello to the beautiful blonde instructor with legs up to her armpits and as we chat insists I am still holding it together at 36 - to which I am not sure if I should react with gratitude or offense.

A day with sun in precious, espeically as late fall descends upon New York City so, after paying up and bidding my ladies adieu I head straight to Eagle Beach to catch some rays and finish the Coate's book I have been voraciously consuming. As the sun lowers in the sky another sort of consumption is needed and I cruise Northward for food.

Along this meandering path I pass the Butterfly Farm and contemplate banging it out today, but decide instead to leave that for my last day, before my 3pm departure tomorrow.

I stop at the first eatery that I find open as most establishments seem to come alive as the candy colored sunsets begin to permeate the evening sky. 

Amore Mio offers decent pizza and a front row view of two sisters who have fallen prey to the beach side braids so many white girls make the mistake of enjoying whilst abroad, let me just make a blanket statement here - though you think you look cool and Caribbean - you don't - you look a fool. And this is coming from someone who toes the line of cultural appropriation on a daily basis.

I relax, eat and enjoy the covered sunshine and the wifi before I head back 'home' to shower and change. And by change, I mean put on the same clothes I was wearing yesterday because my resort wear rivals homeless chic on a whole other level.

Having not drunk in the aforementioned candy colored sunsets, I choose tonight to head back to the Lighthouse and set up shop at Faro Blanco for a front row seat to this celestial cycle.

I'd be lying if I said I weren't a little disappointed in the lack of culture I've experienced here on this tiny Dutch nation, but while sitting in the bar at this swanky restaurant I stare at the patrons like forefingers with whom I have no experience and who I refuse to become.

The retirement lot.

No disrespect to the portly people of DesMoines and the greying gaggle from Jacksonville but this cavalcade of older, never beautiful people terrify me.

Don't get me wrong. I respect that they're getting out and that they've grabbed their favorite caftan and kitten heels to accompany them on their journey to the world of tour buses and Chopard shopping in a more humid climate - I just can't relate.

Aging scares me as it does everyone, the loss of opportunity; the loss of time. And as a woman I am particularly sensitive as any beauty I may or may not have once possessed diminishes as life wears away at you like the sea on the sandy shore, but these are people I do not recognize as older versions of my one time peers but as totally foreign folk; folks from my own country to whom I observe like a national geographic special on Geritol and banana clips.

Talk about a stranger in my own home.

Luckily my bar stool is perfectly posotioned, though partially obstructed by some panes of glass, for my last sunset in Aruba, the only one I've taken the time to enjoy.

As I make my way back down the island I decide not to stop again at Palm Beach or downtown, but to keep driving, to see what the Southies are like. And it is here that I find where the real Aruba lies. I only wish I'd spent my time here but late at night with my fresh tan and my large black appendage may not be he best time to explore alone.

Regardless, I ride with X-tina - crooning her 20 something jams speaking to my 30 something soul.

A glance into the front room of a random woman in her real life almost made me come to a screeching halt as her booty was so bountiful it made me wish I was a real Caribbean girl and not a pretend one.

I went back to see if I could find the vendor I saw the first night with colorful wares at the mid point in the island, but to no avail and I have to accept it was just not meant to be. I do wonder how any one stays in business when everything seems to be open for business between the hours of 5 and 6pm. In the daylight this place like an abandoned flea market and after the sun goes to bed so do all shops and most eateries come alive. I'm at a total loss. With limited options but endless calories I opt for ice cream for dinner and a new read. Starting the trip with daddy issues and ending with relationship woes seems all too appropriate.

Ice cream for dinner. A promenade around town and a FaceTime sesh with friend back home to check out the tourists and comment, rivaling that of Joan and her fashion police were all had before meandering my way back to the car. En route I ran into the NY couple who remembered me and how many countries I'd visited and relay that they had just been talking about me earlier in the day. This couple, who had been married 47 years and still walk down the road hand in hand - now that is #relationshipgoals. Never mind Jay and Bey or that Jo Bro who just proposed to his 21 year old girlfriend and proclaimed it on Instagram - this is real love. Such a lovely couple and so nice to be remembered. Kindness is truly contagious.

Early to bed and early to rise. I will be up early to see the Butterfly Farm and catch some rays before catching my flight and return to the arctic tundra of the Northeast.

When I awake I am greeted in the mirror by a woman I barely recognize, with frizzy grey hair and deep set creases intensified by sleep drawing from her nose all the way to the corners of her mouth. This is a truly disturbing experience and I think to myself  who is this bitch and who invited her to the party? 

Not so terribly long ago I had a very late night with a decidedly early morning. I rose after what couldn't have been more than an hour or two and was met with a genial face who expressed shock at how good I looked after so little sleep. The gesture was casual and brief but made me feel deeply beautiful and truly seen - it is small gestures like that that stick with you.

So thank you, friend, that meant more than you know.

At the Butterfly Farm, essentially in my pajamas, I arrive before the doors open so instead decide to head back down to eagle beach and get some quiet time on the white sands before the throngs of thongs arrive.

To the Eagle Beach.

It's just me, the senior citizen constituency for their morning walks and a lone Sea Gull ripping his (or her) way through the gently lapping waves for what appears to be a delicious breakfast.

There are many reasons to love the beach. One reason I love the beach - everyone is in varied states of shape and dress her were all here unabashedly near nude and golden brown beautiful. Somehow cellulite and stretch marks, age and disheveled hair all melt away and seem beautiful when relaxing on the sand or splashing about in waves or turquoise.

The Butterfly Farm is on all of the lists and a nod to my late Grandmother who adored the animal I soon discovered only ilves a couple of weeks. In the price of admission is a brief but informative tour on which I was accompanied by an old married couple, the wife making yummy noises of confirmation to our child instructor the whole time. I took some shots adn purchased some earrings and went back out into the world to seek a Post Office, an apparently mythical location on this island. Without a ton of luck I decided one more beach was in order before packing up and went to Ashanti beach, with no signs of Nelly!

After warming up I got in the water where I'd become the mother we all remember and mock as I didn't want to get anything above my clavicle wet for the plane ride later. Took a quick dip where I swam with the fishes mere feet from the shore which is not my favorite experience, but hey I was in their home, right!

I take one last gulp of Aruba before heading out and think...

Aruba: White people on white beaches

I have an encounter with the cleaning lady and muscle my way in to rinse off, pack up my bag and say goodbye to my humble abode.

It's always hard to say goodbye to a beautiful day but I persist and pack up the car in search of a Post Office.

I foolishly follow Google maps to a post office only to be ushered south where yet another trail runs cold. Finally I find stamps in a mini mart and go into the tres swanky Marriott to post mail. Success.

Sustenance is needed before boarding a 7 hour flight and the cute Dutch outdoor bar, The Paddock is situated perfectly for a quick bit before jetting to my jet.

A woman with indescribable accent serves with me a smile and that word every woman fears... Ma'am. Have I become a ma'am? When the fuck did that happen?

This country must not understand the beauty of ketchup because this is the second establishment at which packets are offered yet nary a bottle is to be found. If I'm going to eat french fries I'm gonna go a half bottle deep. What are these people thinking!

After loading back into my baking car and heading to Queen Beatrix I think - this is not experiencing culture. This is experiencing weather.

And that is ok. Weather needs love too.

Costumed employees ushered me through the double security checked precautions at the airport and a I grab a buttered pretzel and Auntie Anne's during my flight's Halloween delay, which immediately brings me back to a road trip through NOLA in the year 2000 Airport. 

Before long I am boarding the plane and saying good bye to the tranquility of the sea of the Caribbean and welcoming the sea of Chaos, known as Manhattan.