Strong Hand

Public transportation can be described best as it's called by the locals, a "safari". That's right, your local bus from here to anywhere on the island is named after an American-invented word where rich people hunt close to extinct animals to hang on their walls to any scare anyone under the age of 17.

But it is properly named. Imagine a Ford 550 but instead of the bed of the truck, they've place 4 to 5 bench seats and covered the roof with a clusterfuck of tin and scrape metal. It's amazing.

The safari travels in only direction in a large loop around the island but costs just one dollar to anywhere unless you go downtown by the port where most of the shopping and hospital are located, then it's a shocking $2.

Yesterday I borded the safari to go to the hospital (nothing was wrong with me, besides my nerves. See post below) A few minutes into my safari, a young, large girl with an extremely tight purple top climbed aboard.

"Good morning everyone," she shouted cheerfully. There were about 8 people on board and one blessed soul said good morning back.

"Do you like movies?" she asked no one in particular. "because dey showcase how everyone who fornicates is going to hell." Shit just got real.

I had to look back because as much as I love eavesdropping, I love getting a good look at a young girl who doesn't like to have sex and is willing to tell a safari full of strangers about it.

And then shit got weird. She was missing a hand. Everything below her left wrist was gone. This passionate anti-sex haver had just one hand. A hand similar to a "strong hand" that my sorority sisters found really freaks the shit out of me and would wake me in the middle of the night, clawing me with a strong hand screaming, "Take it! Take my strong hand!" but sorority love torture is for another book. 

I continued to listen to the ranting and raving about how movies glorify sex and will send us all to an early grave until my stop at the hospital.

An hour later, once I was done pooing in a container (again, please see below. I just don't poo in a plastic vial for no reason.) I climbed back onto the safari and a few seconds into the ride, I heard "Do you like movies? You know they break all the 10 commandments, right?! They'll send you to an early grave."

Cool hand Luke was at it again.

So Official

A book could and should be written about the USVI St. Thomas health department.

In an attempt to profit off seasonal employees from the states, USVI state law requires most employees to have Food Handlers Certificate. Even if you have nothing to do with food, if you're around it, you have to have it. Normally, I wouldn't mind the disorderly fashion a subpar government building takes on when dealing with assinine documents. I did live in Italy where I had to elbow two elderly gents just to get to the head of the post office line. However, this certificate really is shitty. 

Shitty in the most literal sense. The topical paradise of the USVI requires a stool sample in order to obtain the Food Handlers Certificate. Not as in some odd bar stool carving competition where the most unique design wins. Stool as in poop, doo doo, dookie, ca ca, shit.

What in God's green earth is in my poop that's not in my blood, urine or saliva?!

You would think the kind souls at the health department would make this process easy for you: you're secreting yesterday's yummy goodness. They have to have some decency about it, right? Wrong. They are she devils, or he devils, I just happened to see only females during this humiliation process.

This is the cup they give you to collect your precious nugget. My hand isn't that giant.

I'll spare you the details of the collecting process, unless you really want to know, then I'll tell you all about it. But it wasn't as traumatizing as I thought it could be.

I had to give the sample before 10:30 am but had to come back at 1:00 pm to get the results and my certificate. Feeling proud of myself for overcoming my extreme aversion to poo, I ventured to Red Hook to buy Christmas gifts for my mom and sister.

One o'clock came and I returned to the hospital to pay $30 for the card and to be told I was parasite free. What a relief. And the final product is....

I'm so official, all I need is a whistle.

Good Morning

In the research I've conducted (that would be Google searches, let's get real) I've picked up a valuable lesson of saying Good Morning, Good Afternoon or Good Evening to every St. Thomasian. They prefer it over hi or hello. Easy enough.

An older kitchen worker sat down next to me at lunch today.

"Good morning," I cheerfully said to her.

Without looking up from her rice and beans, she spat out "you know you already said that, right!?"

No, actually I didn't. But you can't have someone sit next to you while you're both eating at your place of work and just not say anything. Maybe I am southern.

"We can say it twice, can't we?" I asked.

She went back to eating. I went back to listening to my Peruvian roommates speak Spanish.

Good morning, Bitch.

At least this is where I had lunch.

How Do I Get Myself In These Situations?

Sitting next to someone on plane is always awkward for me. Social circumstances require you say hello or good morning but that's all that is required. Nothing more. Why is it that everytime i fly, with my headphones in, my book open, my distinct "don't talk to me" scowl is placed on my face, that people love to chat me up?

Francisco was a lovely man, besides his nostril hair protruding out of his nose, he lived in St. Thomas for 25 years and had good tips about where to go and what to see. But i shouldn't have asked home about where to get good food. Because this happened.

Nose hairs:" have you got any friends or family on the island?"

Me:"no."

Nose Hairs: "then we should get dinner together!"

Me: "oh, how kind of you but i ha e orientation tonight."

A lie, i wanted to sleep.

And then he stopped talking. So i took pictures. Enjoy.

The Inventor of Ear Plugs is a God

Im writing this from the lobby of the hotel Im living and working at. I safely made it to the island and then to the hotel. I might have been asked out by a 70 year old, hairy, tire importer, but that's for another story.
If you know anything about me, it should be that i love sleep. I love laying down, i love dreaming, i love the drool that seeps out of my gaping mouth. Love is an understatement.

I've been known to leave places early, show up late, be in a horrible mood because i haven't met my daily 10 hour quota.

If there was a noble peace prize in sleeping, id win.

So, when my roommate last night ate fruit and watched The Big Bang theory until 11 pm and then woke up at 7 am giving kisses to her boyfriend on the phone, i wanted to shove the pineapple down her throat.

I had been up since 5 am, with a short drool-induced nap on the plane to Puerto Rico, and still recovering from a weekend in Miami. Her chomping and love noises were worse than hearing my parents do it.

Luckly, for her, she's extremely sweet and Im currently waiting for her to accompany me on a mandatory drug test mission.

Here's hoping the gift store sells ear plugs.

Just When I Thought It Was All OK

Yesterday marked one week until my departure and how fitting that the resort called to screw up my whole "I'm finally ok with this whole moving thing."

Human Resources: "We just want to get on the same page as you, can you answer a few questions?"

Me: "Of course!" Thinking they'd ask if I prefer a suite overlooking the ocean or the bay.

HR: "You know you'll mostly be a 'moment maker' here at the resort: making sure the guests are happy, asking if you can refill drinks, organizing games, that stuff, right?"

Me: long pause "No, I was under the assumption that that would be 1/3 of my duties." 

My insecurities about being shy started to bubble up. My stutter became quite apparent. Flashbacks of sorority recruitment returned when I was given the position of floater: the girl would who rescue a sister when a potential new sister couldn't stop talking about her one summer at band camp and I would swoop in to rescue the sister, because I can talk to a wall. Even though I can ask anyone questions about themselves until we both feel like I know you on a seriously personal level, I hate to do it to people I don't know or care about.  

Me: "Ideally, I'd like to work in Marketing," I finally mustered.

HR: "hhmm, well, we can discuss that once you get here, see how it all fits. And what about housing, what were you told?"

Me: and there goes my dreams of living on the resort, "I was told it would be provided for the entire 6 months I was there. Including three meals a day."

HR: "Housing is usually temporary."

long pause. Have you seen the rates for rentals in St. Thomas? Get ready for this: 1 bedroom... $1,195 a month. I didn't put extra numbers on there, check my references. It's Craig's List, it's always Craig's List. 

 

Me: "But that was the main reason I decided to accept the job. There's no way I can afford to live on this salary and manage to live there."

HR: "Hhmm, well you're only here for 6 months, so we can discuss it once you're here."

Me: "Ookkkk. What about scheduling, shifts? Who would be my boss?"

HR: "We're looking for a Director of Entertainment right now. They'd set the schedule, shifts, get acts together, that sort."

Jackpot. I was still trying to digest the housing situation but after we awkwardly ended the phone call, I realized I should gun it for this Director of Entertainment gig. HR got a lovely email from me shortly after.

Me: "Right. Ok then, see you on Tuesday!"

As chipper as I might have sounded on the phone, the conversation provided me with slight introductions into a full-blown panic attack. What if I get to the resort, I'm asked to walk around and make sure guests are having a good time, while secretly making fun of their Tevas and sunburns, hating myself for doing so, getting paid minimum wage and living in a place I can't afford?

Then I'll have a good story. 

Things I Will Do as a Jungle Princess of St Thomas

•    Become buddies with the chefs at the resort and learn how to cook like a real Caribbean queen
•    Rent a Jeep and drive around with the top down like the Barbie Jeep pro I am
•    Dress up for Carnival
•    Participate in the International Rolex Regatta 2012
•    Snorkel with sea turtles
•    Kiteboard in the British Virgin Islands
•    Surf Hull Bay
•    Take the ferry to as many islands as possible  
•    Swim in the bioluminescent bay in Puerto Rico
•    Seat in Drake’s Seat
•    Climb St Peter Mountain
•    Take the ferry to St John’s and go on day long hikes to find secret beaches
•    Have my own Tour de Caribbean with a Bike tour on Water   Island  
•    Unleash my inner Martha Stewart on a Historic Homes Tour
•    Climb the 99 steps
•    Pretend to be a pirate in Blackbeard’s and Bluebeard’s Castles
•    Visit my favorite artist, Pissarro’s childhood home
•    Be super pretentious and accomplish everything listed in the recent New York Times review of 36 hours in St John

I'm a big To-Do list and goal person but this list is solely based on my close, personal relationship with Google, can you think of anything I'm missing?

Two Week's Notice

This scenario plays out in my head over a billion times, it keeps me sane, it provides entertainment, it’s probably kept me at my job longer than I should have stayed: the fantasy of quitting.

Telling my boss to suck a fat one and walk out the door in a blaze of glory, to forever be remembered as the co-worker who literally told her boss to eat shit and slammed the door in her face. No matter how viciously delicious my quitting fantasies are, I have a professional reputation to up hold (ha!) and don’t want to burn bridges (no matter how shitty, crumbly those bridges might be)
 

I’ve been known to lose sleep about upsetting people, and isn’t quitting a job a sure sign that the person who signs your paycheck might hate you for leaving her? but I slept a solid 10 hours the night before I was to give the blessed news and only got the nervous stomach flip when I drove up to work (oh, have I not mentioned that our office is a converted old house and my personal office is an old bedroom? How’s that for professional?)

While my boss lady told me that we’d have off the day before Christmas (like that was our gift) I took a deep breath and told her I wouldn’t be here. My last day would be in two weeks because I’ve been offered an amazing opportunity to work in St Thomas.

“oh. Well. Isn’t that cool?” Boss lady's grim reaper’s grin spread across her face, like she was trying to hold in a lethal punch aimed right at my throat.

“Yep. Yes, it is really cool,” I replied. 

Boss lady picked up the phone to tell everyone via intercom, “Al-Stef-Jess-Market… Sarah! Sarah is leaving! That is all.” 

Next time, try not to sound too excited. and remember my name. 

So the quitting fantasy wasn't as spectacular as I had imagined, instead it was filled with a tense two weeks of my co-worker's whispering, "You're so lucky" and my boss lady giving a butt-out hug on my last day.

Free Spirit

I’m not one to bask in compliments: they make me uncomfortable and awkward and get my brain to spit out an insincere compliment back to them (oh, well.. I think your shoes are really pretty too!)


But when I ran into a kindred, free spirit while in Key West and spilled my plans to move to St. Thomas to work at a hotel, including all the gaping holes and incomplete details in my plan, she said, “I’m proud of you.” 
 

Coming from a similar free spirit: a girl I met while in lifeguard training classes 7 years ago; the first person to get me drunk after my high school boyfriend broke my heart; a girl who moved to Key West to work on boats: it felt genuine and inspiring. 

Who hasn't wanted to quit their job, move to a tropical land where it's a constant 72 degrees and your "other" outfit is a bathing suit? Who hasn't daydreamed about leaving their desk jobs to work in sun: where clouds are few and smiles are plenty? I've spent a ridiculous amount of time thinking about snorkeling when I should have been updating website content.  But it's the very few that actually peruse those dreams. 

It's the bravehearts, the trailblazers, the individual thinkers who decide they deserve better and move away from a place they once called home. It's an elite club who can say they've lived in a foreign land: a club who is blessed with a number of people who care about them and want to see them succeed. I couldn't have even begin to start thinking about moving abroad without the constant love and support from my mom. 

She figured she was dealt a seriously independent-minded child once I went to school and at 5-years-old told her I no longer needed or wanted to go because "I taught myself how to read" in one day at kindergarten.

I can only hope to continue to make her and every other free spirit who's been brave enough to move abroad, proud. (cue Drake's cheesy yet completely lovable, 'Make Me Proud')  

me circa 5 years old, being sassy per usual.

Take Me Back to the Start

I’m a big believer in signs.  When Coldplay’s “The Scientist” played on my Pandora station while I randomly looked at a friend’s photos of his life in the US Virgin Islands, I gave the big G-o-d a proverbial nod. Someone, somewhere was trying to tell me something. And I’m pretty sure it was “Quit your job, sell your car and move to St Thomas” so I am. 

I’m writing this from a job I will soon quit, a job that I like (mostly because my co-workers are just as inappropriate as I am and I can get away with almost anything in my own office) A job that a lot of people might give their left foot for (I write: I write emails, I write status updates, I write blogs, I write brochures on why our DJs would make your next corporate event a real party) but I’ve had this awesome voice inside my head quietly telling me each time I sat down at my double monitored desk “This isn’t it” Michael Jackson got it wrong. Even after living in Italy for a year and a half, I’m not done, there’s lingering need-for-adventure still coursing through my veins. An urging for the unknown, the uncertain. 

I’m not running from anything: there’s no heart-wrenching break up I’m reeling from, no family drama I’m trying to escape, no lawless activity that would warrant an escape to a tropical island. In fact, I’ve run away from these problems before and found them just hanging out on my new, foreign doorstep once the thrill of moving to a foreign country had faded. But that’s for my book, not this blog.