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.
