Carib Culture
Okay, time
to don my anthropologist’s hat, and do my duty to educate y’all on some of the
cultural differences between St. Barths and New York City.
Warning:
today’s report has much to do with gender differences, i.e, how females here
differ in dress and comportment from females in continental United States and
Canada. If you have no interest in this
subject, this would be a good time to bail.
Okay, here
we go: every trip we make to St. Barths
starts, duh, at an airport. It’s a two
leg trip: 3.5 hour jet to the Dutch/French island of St. Maarten/St. Martin,
and a ten minute rubber band powered plane from there to Paradise. Landings in Paradise are not for the
faint-hearted.
The trip
from KDY was uneventful. Because we had luggage, (we tend to bring all our
worldly possessions with us, even for a ten day stay. Well, not quite all. I did not bring my down
parka or my tuxedo.) it was necessary to re-check baggage in St. Maarten, and
go through security again there. That’s
where cultural difference number one was highlighted:
I was busy removing my shoes, emptying the computer bag onto the counter
that fed the carry-on luggage xray machine conveyor, all of this being done
with the boarding passes between my teeth. This is an intense time for me, and
no matter how often I go through this drill, I frequently screw it up, leaving
behind belts, wallets, wristwatches etc,. Pinks is very aware of my focus at these
times, but nevertheless insisted I interrupt
my routine and pay attention to a developing controversy up at the people scanner
where what I took to be a Japanese
family of five was lined up at the scanner threshold, but not moving through. The first in line was a young woman,
somewhere between 25-35 yrs old. She was stalled there because The Dutch
equivalent of a TSA officer standing at the other side of the arch raised his
palm and refused to permit her to walk through. He insisted she could not pass
because, he said, she was not properly
attired for the departure concourse. Why?
Well, her complete ensemble consisted of a thin strip of a bikini top
and a thong bikini bottom, over which
she wore a black see-through beach coverup, which, in conformance with St.
Barths style mandates, covered up nothing at all. In fact, the filmy black thing only
accentuated her apparent nakedness because the damsel’s bikini was flesh colored
and one had to stare long and hard in order to establish that she was
wearing anything at all beneath the black
see-through. Because I am your trusty
anthropologist-reporter, that is exactly what I did. And after dedicated observation, yup, I can attest she was wearing a bathing suit---of sorts. But the TSA guy still refused to let her
pass. (Query, would a United States TSA agent take the same position? Why?
If ever there were an airline passenger who was not hiding a weapon, this
woman was it.)
The problem was accentuated by the fact that the TSA guy spoke only Dutch and some
heavily accented English, and the Japanese family had no idea what he was
talking about. Finally, after a lot of
pantomiming, the young woman reclaimed her carry-on, retreated to the rear
where she pulled on a pair of shorts over the bikini bottom, and the attire-Nazi
settled for half a loaf.
Our turn
came and we passed through without issue.
As I was sitting on a bench re-tying my sneakers and re-bagging the
computer, a TSA guy came up to me and said, “Are you Mr. London?” Uh, oh. I
admitted I was and he said, “Good, here are your boarding passes which you left
behind at the x-ray machine.”
We arrived
at our villa in good shape. Remarkably, Winair actually shipped our luggage on
the same plane we traveled on. That
happens but once in five trips. Ah, the
joys of travelling before the “high season.”
By the time
we unpacked, dunked in the pool, it was Tanqueray-and-tonic time. The sunset, viewed from the front porch was
sensational. Even got to see a bit of
green flash at the very last moment when the top of the penny disappeared below
the horizon. Should have taken a
picture, but the alcohol haze was numbing. Just like it should be.
Monday was
chore day, with a 4 PM trip to Flamands Beach.
I set up our chair so we faced both the sun and a twenty-something naked
person lying on her back, (no, not the woman from the airport), put my feet in
the warm sand, opened my Kindle from which I read a whole paragraph before
lapsing into a rem nap. Alas, both the
sun and the sun bather were gone when I awoke.
Problems in
Paradise? Well, the roof leaks (the guy
who built the roof blames the architect, who does not respond because he is
dead), the refrigerator needs work (after all, it is more than a year old), our
mattress has decomposed-- it is like sleeping on a large kitchen sponge, (the
guy who sold it to us blamed heat and humidity—heat and humidity in St.
Barths,--who woulda thunk it?), the outside of the villa needs a paint job, the
seat belts in the new Kawasaki Mule are placed so that mine comes across my
upper arm, while Pinks’ hits her in the neck, and so far I can not find a
single person on this island to make an offer on my 2006 Jeep.
So is it all
worth it? Of course, not even a close
question. This is not Obama v.
Whats-his-name, (you know, the candidate who Carl Rove nominated in the
election following the McCain/Palin ticket.
This vote is more like FDR v Hoover, or Johnson v Goldwater).
In case
there was any doubt where the balance lies, Pinks went to the gym this morning
where she, once again, enrolled both of us. I tend to go once a week, while she
goes 4-5 times a week, and lots of our serious conversations consist of her
encouragement that I go more often (some negative types, not me, would call it
nagging).
But carrying
coals to Newcastle, Pinks put her thumb on the scale and reported to me that
after her workout at the gym this morning, she paused at the big glass doors to the dance-class
room and was startled to see twenty or thirty young women wearing skimpy tight
shorts and sports bras working hard at a pole
dancing class. Gotta check the
schedule.
Hey, maybe
I’ll even go more often to gym in our NYC apartment house and stumble onto
something surprising. Right, just after
I win the Powerball lottery.
Bottom line,
I seriously regret we scheduled this trip for only ten days before the long stay
starting in January. Hey, into each life
a little rain…..
Hey, come on
down, I’ve got a Jeep you will love.
A bientot.