I went up to Deck 9 for breakfast, got a full view of this island laid out before me, and immediately started laughing. In that “Where the hell am I, what the hell am I doing, how can I possibly be here” kind of way.
But I quickly shook it off, because I was on a mission today – to go to the shop of “That Yoda Guy”. Yes, in the pamphlet listing all of the places to visit in St. Maarten, nestled among all of the gemstone shops (which, by the way, gave me a horrible, icky feeling, thinking about all the native labor abuse that was undoubtedly taking place in order to bring those sparkly baubles to the hordes of unknowing, or uncaring, Caucasian clientele), was a shop purporting to be the place where one could meet one of the creators of Yoda. YODA. And not the b.s. c.g.i. Yoda travesty, either – we’re talking the Yoda here. I was positively giddy.
So I headed out, ready to let my geek flag fly. I walk into port, my first contact with a Caribbean Island
At any rate, I pushed past my disgust and started walking to the downtown area. I was in a suspiciously friendly mood, so I ventured smiles at everyone I passed. And not one of them was returned. (I even had a “Hey, my eyes are up here, buddy” moment when one guy I was trying to coax a smile from couldn’t drag his eyes away from … my tattoo. That incorrigible attention whore. It actually made me think, “Ah, so this must be what it’s like to have breasts.”) Finally I realized that the reason I wasn’t getting any responses to my social advances was because I was wearing my Goofy Chinese Restaurant Hat with the brim pulled down to my nose. Nobody could tell that I was looking at them. Duh.
I eventually found That Yoda Guy, after wandering down all the wrong streets, through all the wrong construction, taking sad notice of the KFC and Burger King, and mortifying myself when I saw a Shell sign and felt the pull to go in and buy something to drink (because it was familiar, shame on me).
So as I said, I found the place … by literally backing into it. I was standing on the sidewalk trying to get my bearings when I heard this pre-recorded voice start talking to my back. I turned around, and lo and behold. A makeshift museum dedicated to this guy and his story. Seemed pretty self-serving, actually, which initially turned me off, but once I went upstairs and met the guy, it was all gravy. Primarily because, and I had to ask him about this … ahem … he was ANTI-CGI YODA, THANK YOU VERY FREAKING MUCH. All y’all neo-Star Wars-phytes can suck it. I win.
Of course, my sci-fi street cred was ruined when he showed me a photo of one of the original Yoda models in a deteriorated state, and I said what a shame that was, and he said we all have to deteriorate sometime, and I said - quite cleverly, I thought - “But we don’t all make it to 300” (attempting to reference Yoda’s age at the time of his death, yuk yuk), and he was kind enough to laugh, but then I quickly remembered that Yoda was 900, not 300 when he died, and so then I said, “I mean 900”, and f’ed the whole thing up. Nothing worse than a geek who screws up an inside reference. Tut tut.
Went back outside, shamefacedly, my time at St. Maarten’s complete as far as I was concerned, but then I figured that while I was here I may as well check out this whole “ocean” thing. So I walked along the beach with my shoes off and my pants not quite rolled up enough (because I hadn’t shaved my legs in weeks, an upside to being single), collected seashells for my sister, and mused, as I sloshed through the beautiful water, that prior to this, I’d always considered “tepid” a bad thing.
As an aside, did you know that there’s a Ben & Jerry’s Caribbean knockoff called Ben & Marco’s? I didn’t. Same font and color scheme and everything.
After an hour or so, I started heading back to the ship. Now, on the way into town I’d seen a store called the Adult Toy Box. Very intriguing, I thought, wondering if Caribbean adult toys would be any different from American adult toys. Naturally, on the way out of town, I had to see for myself. I walked up the steps, opened the door … and walked right into it. No exposition, no foreplay … just dildos. I’m pretty sure I said “Whoa” out loud. And as open-minded and bold as I may be, I immediately felt uncomfortable, because it was just the woman behind the counter and me, with nowhere to hide. I couldn’t simply scurry away now. No, now I was committed to “looking around”. Which I did, feigning interest in this or that item, trying to determine which section I’d be looking in if I were actually looking for something, while at the same time trying to figure out how much time I needed to spend in there before I could safely excuse myself … and then that damn woman asked me if there was anything specific I was looking for. I tried to work out how to answer that safely, but quickly realized that my brain had gleefully decided to throw wooden shoes into my machinery, because I couldn’t for the life of me come up with any non-double entendre response to that question. So I simply said “No, I just came in”, and left it at that. Then I accidentally kicked over Adam’s Cock as I was examining the Pin The Macho On The Man game, and decided to call it a day.
And that is when I stepped out into the glaring sunlight, in plain view of some passing fellow cruisers, who wouldn’t have known who the shit I was if it weren’t for this DAMN ATTENTION GRABBING TATTOO.
Ahem.
Back on the boat that night I forced myself to stay up late, because I was going to go dancing at the club before I left this ship, by god, and although the music was good this time, the crowd was non-existent. Apart from a handful of black people, who cared not a whit that they were the only ones on the floor, and who, upon seeing me bobbing around near the perimeter, wanting to dance but too white to enter the dance floor unafraid, beckoned me onto the floor with them. I dutifully obeyed. And let me tell you - it was just the best. Because: a) they got me to dance, and b) didn’t make me dance with them.
The best, Jerry, the best.
So it was just me and them for song after song, they taught me some of the new line dances I’m woefully unfamiliar with, and then it was time for them to go. As they passed me on their way out, one of the women thanked me for sharing her birthday with her and another told me I was a fun dance partner and that they’d be there again the next night. And it made me think of the time I went dancing by myself while I was living in Alamogordo, New Mexico, for three months, and a black man came up to me and said “You take the party with you, don’t you”.
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