My dad used to talk often of emotional intelligence.
Not of mine, per se, but of how the body remembers feelings and the senses can often bring those back in a heartbeat - without any cognitive thought going into them.
The past few weeks had been blue. Bluer than normal.
And June 17th 2019 was the 5 year anniversary of my father's death.
No coincidence there.
This year was tough both in terms of scheduling and finances, but since making my own personal travel goals dad related, I feel compelled to honor him, and myself, and continue to make my biannual sojourns around the globe to share the best part of myself with him. My dad.
This year brings up to Trinidad and Tobago.
Not because I was jonesing for a Caribbean getaway or because I was confused on the dates of Carnival, but because it was the cheapest flight I could find during that time frame, it was relatively close, and it was a place I had not yet been.
After a painstaking journey from LAX to IAH to POS I was done. I was done shoved into a naugahyde seat, I was done with Americans who think pajamas are acceptable outerwear if they're boarding a big metal bird and I was done with food that comes in single serving plastic pouches.
The last leg of my flight had been made much more pleasant by the fortuitous seating of aisle seat 30D being right next to Godfrey squared. The center square was occupied by an older gentleman, with the window taken up by his very quiet son, who was amiable and chatty and reminded me an awful lot of my dearly departed Grandpa Benevento, only with more melanin.
Grandpa Godfrey took such a shining to me that when we finally disembarked he offered me a ride to my final destination and, trusting my gut and my grandpa, I gladly accepted.
All 3 men walked me to the door as an act of chivalry to make sure I arrived safely at The Melbourne Inn before they drove off into the night, not knowing how much they had made mine!
I travel light. I pride myself on the limited amount of crap I need to schlep around this planet, two homes notwithstanding and so, when my single canvas carryon was called out by the Trini TSA I was concerned. Well, that a lie. I didn't give a shit -but when the 4th person mentioned my bag is contraband as, drum roll please.... Camoflauge is illegal in Trinidad and Tobago (and a few other Caribbean countries it turns out) my pulse quickened.
Instead of behaving like a civilized human being and going to the restroom to get my things together I instead, while in line at immigration, dumped the contents of my bag on the floor, flipped my bag inside out and tossed everything back in. A couple people verbalized their support of my decision as my bag would have been taken and tossed out once I reached security.
But there is always that one bitch. That bitch who feels the need to declare my American Privilege loud and proud as if I was causing some sort of Norma Ray scene and instead of keeping my mouth shut I replied.
I only wish I had replied with my fist and not my words.
But alas. Bag wide open and contents amiss I made my way into the balmy tropical evenings I have grown to love under the soft yellow light of an airport.
I was in Trinidad.
Grandpa Godfrey was all business as he packed bags of treats from the states for his family into the back of the economy vehicle, amiably piloted by Aaron, my newest best friend.
As I was tour guided around a darkened city, lit only by the dull yellow security lights lining the streets and university I was asked if I was hungry and, since I always am - we headed to Curep.
Evidently Curep is known for it's doubles, a local dish that is like a channa masala taco, and for good reason. This messy street food was spicy and delicious and I immediately went for seconds when they were offered, followed by an ice cold apple soda on a steamy night. I was clearly a fish out of water and immensely grateful that I was afforded this opportunity to dine deliciously curb side in a place I would absolutely not have visited solo.
My tour continued from the back of the 4 door silver sedan as Grandpa Godfrey proudly boasted of the most profitable KFC is all the world - in Port of Spain. I can't comment on the accuracy of that but it was packed - and it is open 24 hours, so who's to say.
With only a fan provided the room was hot and sticky when I finally rose to a late morning Caribbean sun.
I dressed, stepped out onto the, lets say veranda and a gust of wind immediately brought my dress up up and away. A quick costume change and I was good to go.
As I finally exited Melbourne Inn I was greeted with a city worker of some who show said only "buenos noches" - at 10am. I am not sure wy the only person in the whole world who doesn't recognize my latinaness is my own boyfriend - but thats a tale for another time.
As I meandered I quickly recognize that POS, like any major city I've found, doesn't possess the beauty or charm that people necessarily expect from a place, but rather municipal buildings, dilapidated store fronts quickly being replaces by McDonald's and 24 Hour KFCs and refuse from what is likely an overpopulated province.
Queens Park Savannah seemed like a place to check out - so I did.
QPS has a couple of romantic tress and curiously placed cement benches lining Queens Park West, with the US and Dominican embassies nestled next to one another across the way, but mostly it is just a large soccer field without the goal posts.
Thankful for the ocean breeze to offset the 90+ day tropical temperatures, I took a moment and made note that food is needed, but even more, I have not had water in what is nearing 24 hours. I wish the bodega embassy was close by too.
I doubled back through the park a few times, trying to decide what my most strategic move would be when it dawned on me I was running on seriously low batt and needed hydration, stat. Thank goodness it was Friday, because as soon as I made my way East a large, bright reg TGIF filled the sky and led the way to water and a Diet Coke, for sustenance.
The only difference between this and any other Friday's I have ever been to is that cricket was on the televisions at the bar and I was not only the only white person in the establishment at 11:30 am, but the only light skinned person.
These are typically not things I think about honestly, my own white privealge I know, but it was brought to my attention that perhaps my safety in these twin islands cozied up to Venezuela (who has evidently red covered on over about 400,000 refugees to this postage stamp sized country) might be an issue because I may stand out a bit.
And boom.
Mind blown.
In all of my travels my recognition of my own whitest has been minimal at best and that isn't to say I am color blind, I just rarely take my own race into account, as I am afforded as a Caucasian American. Here I am making note.
Before long Gerald with a job interview sat beside me at the bar and told me he had an 11 year old son, told me he was at Friday's waiting for a job interview and told me he was from San Fernando should I need a friend in the 'hood. I am not sure why people like to share with me - but honestly - I am glad they do!
Port of Spain, though deemed the 'New York of the Caribbean,' ain't nothing like New York and after I politely declined Gerald's offer for a personal tour I went on my own walk about in search of food that isn't served in an American chain restaurant - unless it's Chili's because they're the best!
Not only were the streets devoid of establishments in which you actually sit to eat, they were also lacking friendly faces. Never before have I felt LESS welcomed to a new land. Luckily I don't scare easily but distract almost always so the food court at the mall that I was passing for the third time suddenly seemed perfect and I climbed the two flights of stairs to dine on adequate Indian food and roti.
The food was mediocre but when a brazen 17 year old sat down across from me at the lacquered table and tried to chat me up the entertainment was well worth it. I had a chat with he and his friend, who, still in his school uniform, explained that had 20 siblings from his father and he unnecessarily emphasized how much his dad loved him even though his mom was not his dad's wife - poor thing.
I had sent a message to my escorts from the evening before expressing my thanks for the ride and the kindness on my first night here and it just so happens we were both set to take the midday water taxi, so we decided to do it together.
While en route to purchase my ferry ticket an old man on the street reached out and touched me, and I was instantly repulsed both by his clear disregard for me as a human, but also by myself for not verbalizing anything but almost shamefully slinking away.
#metoointrinidad
The ferry building is small and in disrepair. It is also fraught with so many schoolchildren, creating the most beautiful amalgamation of brown, that I am asked to move seats as to not be the creepy adult surrounded by kids on a school trip.
I sat and read Eckhart Tolle quite and felt quite contented. I feel my best contented when I am in a foreign land. Most comfortable when uncomfortable.
It isn't long before the Godfreys join me and Papa Smurf wheels and deals his way into some sort of upgraded ticket for all 3 of us.
The boat ride is brief and the view is literally nothing to write home about and before you know it all 3 of us have made it to San Fernando.
Senior Godfrey slept during the journey as I got to hear about my seat mates life and times in Atlanta, Georgia - a destination to which I have still somehow not gone.
San Fernando is a small town, streets lined with healthy looking dogs and street merchants hawking 14k gold jewelry and bedazzled bike shorts, ie - just my style.
Godfrey Senior has an old friend who founded a gym in the hood so we go and check out the underground establishment perched high atop a hill where they have your standard gym equipment in a large windowless room and a machine touted to tone the tush when really I just think it makes fat asses jiggle. I know it did mine.
We made our way back to the bus to Port of Spain at golden hour and I was met with more death glares only this time I had a temporary companion to confirm.
Our bus dropped us downtown where a night market of sorts was out in the streets but seeing as one vendor literally wouldn't even serve me because of either the color my skin or the combination of that skin with men who fit in. We even tried the 24 hour KFC but it was way too packed. Cray.
A Chinese restaurant with bars in front of the counter and a cantankerous proprietor served a decent dish late night and I was sated. A shared ride home and a pleasant goodnight to my knights in shining armor and I was, once again, alone in a strange place.
Day three was a slow start, slower still when I realized I was going to have to schlep my inside out not camp camp bag wherever I went. I showered and I dressed. Depressed.
These trips allow me to honor my Dad. To feel connected with him. And as much as I can speak without tears about him now, or refer to him in the past tense and accept that - I am not over it. The pain has not diminished and all I feel is sadder when I look at our last email exchange or the cavalcade of YouTube clips I passed along in the weeks and months preceding his death and all I wish was that I had more. More time. More clips. More.
I wish the sound of his voice wasn't so distant.
No amount of writing or traveling or crying will every convey who this extraordinary man was and/or what he meant to me specifically. All tangible or digestible information is an insult to the connection we had and the immense hole left by his absence, that will simply never be filled.
I think my desire to become a mother was only exacerbated by his absence. I think maybe part of me thought that would help and throughout my only pregnancy, which was both brief and tragic, I fully realized that no new Christopher could replace the old.
No one and nothing can.
I exit the Melbourne Inn and make my way downtown before heading to yet another boat
I am met with Spanish on the street and bask in my latin mystery and ignore any impoverished refugee or lady of the evening assumption it may imply.
I honestly cannot tell what people are yelling at me 98% of the time anyway, with the Trinidadian accent being more difficult for me to understand than Swahili, and the tonation, perhaps intentionally so well veiled that it is nearly undetectable. They are either saying I am an incomprable beauty from a land far far away in possession of both kindness and whit, or they're saying go home whitey. Who's to say.
I take the opportunity to duck into Trinity Cathedral finally and find respite from the rain in a cool, quiet and calm environment - perhaps that is why I like churches so much. There were not candles to light but it was nice to sit in the silence for a bit.
Though on the hunt for food I, instead, acquired a few trinkets for loved ones back home and marveled at the fashion in the windows, spilling out into the streets.
I wanted to buy every flashy, colorful, stretchy, sparkly item of clothing downtown, but refrained and headed to the water, remembering eateries with tables nearby.
to the inter-island ferry that will drop me off in Scarsbourough Tobago, a place I have heard is more mellow and friendly.
I lucked out with clear tables but no clear skies at this outdoor food court by the waterfront.My first stop was for some lemon passionfruit juice after which I was directed to authentic Jamaican cuisine just next door, served by Hattie McDaniels herself. Hattie was kind and patient while serving me black eye peas and jerk chicken which was especially welcomed given my less than warm reception on this island.
There was an interminable wait at the boat terminal just next door where I was seated next to a Trini sucking the life out of a mango pit and several dark skinned wide eyed young beauties awkwardly staring me down less out of hate than fascination with my inherent otherness.
Did I mention currently being dressed like Chquita banana?
The boat is boarded in sections and though I hear some rumblings about seasickness from a steward behind me I pay him virtually no mind as this boat is the size of an oil rig and the journey can't possibly be that long. Or so I thought.
The rocking quickly lulls me to sleep but once I awake it is with a vengeance and it isn't long until I am sweating, bobbing my head over on board boat toilets trying to take deep breaths. Motion sickness is no joke, yo!
When I deboard a cooky old character who introduces himself as Anthony and said he is from Trinidad but has never been to Tobago chats me up. He asks if I am Venezuelan. No. Columbian. No. Puerto Rican. No.
I love Anthony.
He teaches me the term lime as the sounds of the ocean meet the party of Scarsbourough on a breezy evening.
Perhaps it is a self fulfilling prophecy, as word on the street is that Tobago is more laid back and friendly than Trinidad - but I immediately feel more relaxed.
Being a female traveler, men often feel entitled to my time and attention and this often give me the opportunities for amazing adventures and great stories, but sometimes, like when I am sad or sick or just trying to take a moment to acclimate, I'd like to be left alone.
Putie means beautiful here and though I appreciate the sentiment, but a million people can tell you're beautiful, but that doesn't mean you believe them or feel it.
The Miller Guest House is pretty and blue and when I arrive check in is not available, but seating by the water with the sounds of Luther dancing through the night sky are.
I literally take the most romantic trips. Alone.
Very weepy, and not just because Whitney Houston's power ballad just crescendoed, it is like my eyes have a mind of their own.
They served local seafood which I didn't necessarily enjoy, but I certainly did eat and did so in style at their chic on site eatery.
Wifi was spotty and robbed me of my opportunity to fall asleep to the sweet sounds of Gilmore Girls, but I drifted off to strange dreams nonetheless.
I am awoken by the sounds of dishes being jostled, birds chirping and church songs being enthusiastically sung - things could be worse.
It was nearing 10 and it was time to make moves. My move today was Turtle Beach for Father's Day.
Breakfast at the place that tried to seduce me just last night was apparently only available for large parties, since single people are the last group of people society is blatantly allowed d to discriminated against. My days old coconut cookies, which weren't so great even a couple of days ago, canned pineapple juice and the sounds of the preacher across the bay on a Sunday morning fueled my tank and I was off.
After a run in with Winston, the owner and his adorable granddaughter who liked to proclaim everything was orange, I began what was meant to be 90 minute walk. In thongs.
The walk took forever, but just before the beach where Leatherback Turtles the sizz of small Volkswagons lay their eggs, there is a man who sells fresh fruit and cold water out of the back of his truck. In other words, a godsend.
Weather in North America, at least in the parts with which I am familiar, is monolithic. It is cold - wear a sweater. It is hot - put on some sandals. But in the tropics the sun is out and the rain is falling. All at once.
A storm sets in and you sit and wait it out on the beach because ou know it will pass and the sun will shine agin I can't help but wonder if this type of weather pattern better prepares people for life. For the inevitable ebb and flow of existence
I spend many hours on the beach.
I pop into the local Starfish restaraunt, but it is closed so I call a cab.
Elvis picks me up at a 3 star resort kind enough to let me use their phone and brings me to a Chinese spot that seems not to follow the never be open rule so often implemented in various parts of the world/
He, of course, immediately asks where my husband and children and and when I say I have neither - he asks wha the goal is then. And all I can think to say is - to see as much of the world as possible.
At which point Evlis offers to marry and travel the world with me.
We've known one another approximately 8 minutes.
He quotes the Bible with something about many blah bola blah but few are chosen, explaining why he too is unmarried.
He then gives me MY Father's Day gift when he hypothesizes that perhaps I have been getting less than love while here because everyone thinks I am Venezuelen and, therefore, a prostitute. It literally made my day.
Making Dad proud every damn day!
Once securely despited back at the Miller's Guest House I shower and dress and go sit on the patio.
There is no rush - there is nowhere to go.
I sit by the water and write my dad a Father's Day letter.
I had heard (and read) that Sunday school is the event that is a MUST in this tiny fishing town, hell - on the whole island - and it was happening just minutes away from me.
I am intimidated easily - but something about going to this lime alone, out of my element has me a little, well.... scared.
I finally force myself to go and feel like Mel Gibson with blue paint all over my face.
A couple of shops are open and Ra Nolan not only provided me with a handmade pair of fish scale earrings but a plethora of thickly accented wisdom. He told me I had a rasta heart, and asked if I had African blood and I felt it. I felt the power.
It was surreal.
I was too early for the party - but Ra Nolan had me feeling like that was meant to me - and he and I were supposed to meet.
By this time I am famished and decided known is best so I headed back 'home' to dine on fish and white wine while, tonight, Michael Bolton warbled over the piped in music. I believe it is this experience that gets you your card for the single middle aged woman union.
To finish off this gourmet mean I had what the waitress repeately called Napoleon ice cream but when I was served with three scoops of ice cream and not a short French soldier with an inferiority complex I was deeply dismayed.
By now Sunday school was underway and the sounds of steel drums led me to the action. When they played 'Imagine,' I felt glad I had come.
I've been reading a book about how talking shit about other people is a deficiency in your own ego, yada yada. Seriously - why do people have 'vacation clothes?' Are you a different person when you vacate your routine? These girls in flowey floral frocks look like they're trying too hard and don't even get me started on the table of college kids I pray to Allah I was never quite as obnoxious as.
Rant over.
Alex, my dive master, and his companion who's name I never quite caught so I will call Captain Tobago picked me up early at Miller's for my scuba sesh.
It was a rainy and grey day and no one else wanted to dive under such conditions so it was just the three of us, and Lucy - the boat.
I got 2 dives, the first of which was the most challenge I have ever had and , when back above water, Alex commented on it being so difficult because I was fighting so hard against the surge I almost laughed. Truer words have never been spoken.
The second dive on my private adventure gave me the opportunity to swim with turtles, which always makes me feel and also to see an Angel Back fish which Alex swore was so rare that it was a million dollar picture we had both looked at. I will say, however, for someone who has devoted their life to the ocean - the pure joy on his face, replete with mask, was priceless.
The rains were heavy as we left an I was shivering I was so cold and wet, but glad I had braved the weather on June 18th to swim with the turtles.
The storm had really set in and it was sticky so I took a midday nap and it was delicious as well.
Buccoo bay was just outside my window so once I had a little recharge I took a walk on the beach. A persistent man named Diamond tenaciously offered me a ride on his boat to go fishing and though I thought the experience would be enjoyable - my gut was saying no - so my mouth did too.
If only I were 10 years younger and single - I would most certainly impregnant at least 70% of the locals.
I sat and swatted away insects as rhythmically as the sea rolled in while pelicans before me scale like petulant subtends over the last candy bar, or in this case, fish inward.
It is grey and not pretty, but relaxing.
I find myself worried about work.
And I hate myself for that.
As I made my way back along the beach I felt compelled to hear a dad song and placed my phone in my bra (yes, I know that is bad for me) and on speaker. With no one around, I figure Ill have a moment.
As soon as I sat down a large wave camp up, the phone fell right out of my bra, and onto my foot with tough force to leave a mark - and into the sea.
I am grateful that even posthumously, my dad will not let me take myself too seriously.
I encountered a sweet older man who proudly displayed his fish to me and, when I expressed concern over it's suffering, threw it back into the ocean. It was his only catch of the day. I felt pangs of guilt.
Diamond takes another swing, and misses.
I took some time to wander the village and popped into an old bodega broadcasting a televangelist in shades and offering black see toothpaste - so that was fruitful.
I know I am a city girl, but every time I am in a place like this I can't help but wonder...
Two rhinestoned barrettes later and I see a bougie Italiani spot settled back from the street that is beautiful and has the price point to prove it.
I figure it is my last real night in this Caribbean paradise so I splurge, if not only to avoid the sad looks of the staff at Miller's for a third consecutive solo dining experience at their lover's hideaway.
Full of a wonderful meal I left satisfied and headed to the jetty. As I approached a buttery yellow mutt approached me. He appeared to be interested in treats, but when I explained to him I didn't have any, he persisted, escorting me home. I'd stop to take a photo, and he would patiently wait beside me. I'd sit to ponder life and gaze at the moon. He would too. I'd started to believe that this K9 was my father speaking to me from the great beyond until he (or she) decided to go down on themselves for about 20 minutes. At that point the magic was a little lost.
Tonight was the night for my ritual. I tried to wait out the one dude off in the not so far distance, but when he seemed determined to sit there, smoke, and try to shoot the phone with his cell phone, using the flash I gave up and proceeded.
I was minutes into my ritual when Butter (aforementioned mutt) alerted me to stranger danger approaching and protected me. The "photographer," as it were, came up to introduce himself and give me his card. I was clearly emotional. And clearly in the middle of something - but he approached me anyway - to do what he felt compelled to do. That was some disrespectful shit.
His name was Smokey. And he was a douche.
My elaborate plans to see the entirety of the island on my last day were thwarted when I realized ... I didn't want to try that hard.
I returned to Turtle Beach because I knew that it would be almost vacant and I would have a day at the beach alone before having to go back and face the proverbial music.
Once again, a man inserted himself into my solitude, but luckily Diamond, again took no for an answer and Michael, who wanted to take me bird watching my last afternoon took the hint quickly enough. And by hint I mean me saying no repeatedly. Next up was Toothless Tobagan who was sporting a beret and carrying a machete who came up to introduce himself after hacking away at coconuts next to me. He told me I was built like a warrior - so perhaps he isn't all bad.
Then. Suddenly.
Who cares about snakes on a plane when you've got... cows on a beach.
This was a first for me and I was thrilled. This was perhaps the greatest day of my life as I was able to commence with cows who I swear I was having major HT moments with. They were quickly shooed away and though our time was brief - I will always cherish it.
Miller's was kind enough to let me shower despite my already having checked out as I knew that this journey was going to be a long one.
As I make my way out into the drizzle of late afternoon and bid Miller's an adieu, a bunch of homies in maybe a Corolla holler and as I don't see any other cab options - I hop in with them.
Tobago invented Lyft.
These kind and entertaining gentleman brought me to Cheg's BBQ in Crowne Point where I would be catching a flight back to Port of Spain in a few hours. The cassava was ok - the other foodstuffs were not worth mentioning.
I walked down to the water and sampled my first Caribe as I watched young teenagers clumsily frolic in the ocean, and in love.
I passed a grown man eating an ice cream cone with remnants still on his face and wondered how the hell that was possible. Gross.
Sweating now, under the weight of my bag and the humidity I am even more aware that I will be showing up at the offie tomorrow in exactly what I put on in a small fishing village in Tobago the day before. Can someone say sexy?
Ever the youthful budget traveler I forego any other transportation options and walk to the local airport.
A disrespectful TSA agent, multiple delayed flights and an adult man offering me unsolicited opinions about abortions - it was almost like I was home already.
Tobago to Trinidad to Houston to Los Angeles to work and that was it.
My adventure was over and 5 years is officially in the books.
I love you, Dad
Country #46. The end is nye.
