Last Post Of The "Aught's"

Tonight I was reminded of the New Year's Eve I spent housesitting in Santa Fe.  I was previously unaware of New Mexico tradition on a holiday such as this, so imagine my reaction when midnight came, and all the guns started going off.

At the turn of the century.

Essentially, it went something like this:

"Holy f***.  HOLY F***ING F***! The Y2K conspiracy-theorists were right!  It's f***ing Thunderdome out there!!!"

After that, being alone in a strange house has lost its ability to frighten me.

When midnight hit tonight, there was no ball drop on the television to mark the occasion.  But when I opened the balcony doors I could clearly hear people shouting the countdown from across the water, and that was good enough for me.  Then everyone started setting off their own personal stash of fireworks (legal here), and I spent the next half hour scuttling from one side of the apartment to the other, trying to catch the view from both sides.  Soon the air was filled with smoke and that wonderful smell that accompanies the lighting of a match.

At one point a huge one went off right next door and I jammed the camera up to my face just in time to capture a great shot.

So that was midnight my time.  Then, an hour later, I flipped on the telly to ring in the New Year with my East Coast brethren, and was lucky enough to catch a few precious moments of J.Lo in that dreadful unitard.  I hope to god I wasn't the only one watching that travesty with mouth agape.  I don't normally care about stuff like that, but this was just ... I mean ... how did this outfit get past her stylists?

I'm serious.  Can someone explain this to me?

Then the "ball" dropped - by the way, can I just tell you how anti-climactic the whole thing is now that they've switched to that digital l.e.d. bullshit - and I felt compelled to snap a few pics that I felt represented the moment.

First there was the smooching scene that would've made me feel sorry for myself if it wasn't for the saving grace of Glaring Corporate Greed:

Then there was the genuinely touching moment that also could've made me feel sorry for myself ... if I was a selfish narcissistic brat who didn't recognize that she at least had her health (such as it is):

 

Finally, I ended the night with another local tradition:  Trinidad Fruit Cake.  This, unlike its American counterpart, actually tastes good.  Extremely moist dark chocolate cake, loaded with the assorted dried fruits and spices one would expect, and then soaked in Angostura rum and a dash of bitters.

So, again, not the way I would've wanted to celebrate the holiday, but again, could've been a lot worse.

Boxing Day, eh?

So today was a new holiday for me:  Boxing Day.   Being only vaguely familiar with the holiday I wasn't sure if I was supposed to celebrate by packing up my shit or punching somebody in the face.

So I did neither.

Instead, I learned about the holiday via the wonder that is Wikipedia.  Here's what I found out:

Boxing Day is a bank and public holiday in the U.K., Australia, Canada, Ghana, Switzerland, Germany, Greenland, The Netherlands, New Zealand, Hong Kong, Nigeria, Guyana, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica and countries in the Commonwealth of Nations with a primarily Christian population.

There are several theories as to the etymology of the name.  Some think it derives from an old English tradition, where, in exchange for ensuring that wealthy landowners' Christmases ran smoothly, their servants were allowed to take the 26th off to visit their families. The employers gave each servant a box containing gifts and bonuses, and sometimes leftover food.  Because of this the gentry would eat cold cuts in a buffet-style feast prepared by the servants in advance.  Several families still celebrate the holiday with this kind of a meal.

Another theory stems from the nineteenth century Victorian tradition in the U.K., where, on the day after Christmas, tradesmen collected their "Christmas boxes", or gifts, in return for good and reliable service throughout the year.

Another possibility is that it comes from the tradition, started in the 1800s, where churches opened their alms boxes and distributed the contents to the poor on this day.  Consequently, the traditional celebration has long included giving money and gifts to the needy and those in service positions.

In Canada, New Zealand, the United Kingdom, and some states of Australia, Boxing Day is now considered a shopping holiday, similar to "Black Friday" in the U.S.

Thus endeth today's Wiki-history lesson.

Yeah Yeah, It's Christmas, I know

This is the first Christmas I've spent completely alone.  Completely.  I've spent Christmas away from loved ones before, but I've never been this out of touch.  (I spent one year alone and pregnant in Salt Lake City, and another year sick in bed in a hotel room in Las Vegas.)  So in the weeks leading up to Christmas I'd tried to keep the holiday out of the forefront of my thoughts, worried that if I paid too much attention to it I would miss it more than I would be able to handle.  Out of sight, out of mind, I figured.  It's not my normal mode of operation, but I made an exception in this case, figuring if it works for other people, it might just work for me, just this once.

The problem is, Christmas is my absolute favorite holiday and I didn't want to get to December 26th and regret that I now had to wait another 364 days before I could celebrate it again.  So today I decided to take a risk and celebrate the only way I could - by glutting myself on back-to-back Christmas movie faves (most of which are Rankin/Bass classics).

I also made myself some homemade hot chocolate using shavings of Caribbean drinking chocolate.  And let me tell you this:  if the only kind of hot chocolate you've ever drunk came from a packet, you simply must try the homemade version.  It's an entirely different world.  It's like the difference in taste between anything 'strawberry-flavored', and the flavor of real strawberries.

Now if only I'd had a candy cane to dip into my hot chocolate, the whole thing would have been complete. 

At the end of the day I felt good, because I'd decided I wasn't going to wallow in self-pity, and I succeeded.  I recognize that this was a part of the choice I made when I decided to come to Trinidad.  On top of that, I reminded myself that there are a lot, a lot of people in the world that are a lot worse off than me right now.  And anyway, I surely wasn't the only one spending Christmas alone when they'd rather be with loved ones.

All in all, not such a bad day.

P.S.  I forgot to mention a bit of hilarity from the other day.  At the mall I heard some music on the radio that I vaguely recognized, and it took me a minute before I figured out that it was a muzak version of the Peanuts theme song.

It was all I could do not to break out in my best impression of the twins' dance.  :)

The Lucky Salamander

As I walked past my roommate's bedroom today I saw a salamander scurrying across the floor.

Due in part to the fact that my roommate had told me she'd seen salamanders on the balcony before, I was completely unphased.  I just said, "Huh", and made myself something to eat. 

And I wondered if I was remembering it right that seeing a salamander was considered to be a lucky omen.

Ive decided to believe that it is.

The great thing is that now I won't be spending Christmas alone.

Of course, my roommate might not think it's so great when she comes home to find a salamander wandering around her bedroom.

Huh.

Finding The Beauty In The Mundane

A couple of quirky occurrences that broke up the monotony of otherwise uneventful days this past summer:

*  Before I left for Trinidad I was living in what one would call an 'urban' city.

Women sold themselves for money at the end of my street.

So imagine my surprise when, a few days after the death of The King of Pop, I pulled into the driveway of my urban apartment and heard, coming from my neighbor's car-littered, dog-barking, Spanish-music-blaring backyard, the strains of ... Billie Jean.

Now, whatever your (or my) feelings about Michael Jackson, you have to love a moment like that.  Hearing Billie Jean coming from that house was just ... everything.  It was touching, it was endearing, it was completely incongruous ... it was perfect.  Billie Jean is one of my less favorite Michael Jackson songs, but that night I sat in my car listening to, and loving, every note of it.

*  One day I was in a CVS getting my passport photo taken in preparation for the big trip.  While I was in line I saw a woman coming towards me with a mini-doberman in her handbag.  Now, I have no love for mini-dogs.  They're too breakable.  I like my dogs pony-sized and easy to wrestle with.  But I have even less love for the women who treat these dogs as accessories and carry them around in their purses.

This day, however, I found myself in love with both the dog and its owner.  What I saw coming towards me this day was a woman carrying a tiny dog in her purse, yes, but what made this duo different was that this dog was wearing what looked to be a Shriner's cap - made out of a dixie cup.

If you asked me at that moment, I would've told you that I'd never seen anything funnier in my life.

Never ever.

Motorcycle Musings

So anyone who knows me knows how much I dislike my 'home state' of Connecticut.

For more reasons than I care to expend my energy on right now.

Anyone who knows me also knows that I'm an avid motorcyclist.  How do these two relate, you may ask?  Well, I learned to ride when I lived in New Mexico.  This means that my first experiences on a motorcycle occurred in what is essentially god's country for motorcyclists.  Three hundred days of sunshine a year; long stretches of road through vast, wide open spaces, breathtaking landscapes that inspired the phrase, "purple mountains majesty"; 75 mph speed limit and no cars (or cops) around for miles and miles and miles ...

Yeah.  I got spoiled.

Compare this to Connecticut, on the other hand:  Long, bitter winters; summers so humid it's impossible to function outside in shorts and a tank top, let alone covered in gear; rain for weeks on end; congested, vicious, suicidal highway driving ...

In other words, the suckiest of motorcycling conditions.

But this past summer, I had a moment on my bike that surprised me.  I was riding one of the less-traveled state roads, curving past farms and meadows, really enjoying the ride, when it hit me - this is something you don't get in the great wide open.  Winding down country roads under a canopy of trees, passing fields and pastures along the way.

Fried dough, steamed cheeseburgers, and quaint back roads.  This state may not have much else to offer, but I can admit that it does at least have that.

Miscellaneous Sharings Part Deux

Today's episode is about Surreal Cosmic Experiences:

*  A few months ago I went to the post office during my lunch break.  As usual, I had NPR on the radio. 

Honestly, I don't even know if my radio is capable of playing any other station.

At any rate, when I got out of the car, I noticed that I could still hear the program I'd been listening to.  My first thought was that I'd had a stroke (my standard go-to assumption, now that I've gotten over the whole aneurysm thing).
 
After I determined that I could still feel both sides of my face, I discovered that the sound was coming from the car next to mine.  A skinny, 30-something chick with long, dark hair and wearing glasses was sitting in the driver's seat listening to the same thing I was.  For a nanosecond I wondered if hallucinations were a side effect of strokes, or if I was having an out-of-body experience.  I wanted to say something to my doppleganger but I was afraid the encounter might cause a rip in the space-time continuum.  So I just smiled to myself (me, not the other me), and went on my way.

*  Years ago, when I was living in Santa Fe, New Mexico, I drove up to Taos, a beautiful town known for its amazing skiing and even more amazing colony of artists.  As I wandered the streets I came across a beautiful old tree in front of a quirky art store.  When I got close up, I noticed an un-smoked, hand-rolled cigarette tucked into one of its nooks.  I was intrigued.  By the time I'd left the store I'd decided that, despite the fact that I don't smoke, the Universe had left this mystery cigarette there just for me.

So I took it.

When I got home I set up a lawn chair outside my bedroom window.  Over the course of the next few days, I engaged in a wonderful little ritual.  I'd sit on my chair, take a few puffs (stopping when I felt that newbie buzz, and saving the rest for later), and then dopily watch the amazing New Mexico sunset. 

I'll never know who rolled it or who left it there, but I do know this:  My Taos Mystery Cigarette was, indeed, a gift.

A Change Of Pace

Not much to say about Trinidad right now so I'm going to tell some other stories for the next few days.  Funny stuff that happened to me in my past.

I will start with a few Public Service Announcements:

How long has it been since you've jumped on your bed?  By this I mean a full-on, running start, launch-yourself-five-feet-into-the-air-before-belly-flopping-onto-the-mattress kind of jump.  If you have not done this in years, I suggest you try it.  I guarantee it'll brighten your mood quicker than you can say "I'm too old for this."

PSA Number Two:  If you see an unattended car with its lights on, TELL SOMEONE.  Twice over the summer my car battery died.  Both times it was because I'd left the lights on (they were gray days), and both times when I got back to the car, a friendly neighbor came over to tell me he'd seen the lights on, but hadn't said anything.  This happened twice.  In two different locations.  With two different neighbors.  Folks, if you ever find yourself in that position, be pro-active, will you please?  Don't just assume the driver has chosen to run the battery down.  And if you don't tell the driver about it before, definitely don't tell the driver about it after.  Telling the driver after the fact only kicks that person when he or she is down, and makes him or her wonder what your parents did to you to make you such a lazy, sadistic sociopath.

And finally, PSA Number Three:  If you're drunk in a public place and find yourself having to pee, find a bush.  A couple of years ago, the Ex-Boyfriend/Current Douchebag and I were at Stop and Shop.  At the time I still owned my 1977 Cadillac Sedan deVille (a beautiful blue tank that I loved dearly).

When we came out of the store, we discovered a man standing with his pants around his ankles, swaying, and PEEING ON MY PASSENGER DOOR.  When he noticed us standing there, he asked if this was our car.  When we said yes, he apologized and awkwardly tried to pull his pants up, informing us that this was a bad moment for him.  E.B/C.D actually had a few choice words for the guy, which surprised me, because he was pathologically non-confrontational.

I guess seeing a guy peeing on your girlfriend's car in the middle of a parking lot will do that to a person.

God Bless Technology

I had my first Skype video conversation today.  My nephew from Connecticut 'called' (or, more accurately, 'VoIP'ed), and we talked for two hours.  For FREE.

As if that wasn't enough, we got to see each other as we talked, like we were having a face to face conversation.  (This is a nice addition for people as animated as the two of us, where ridiculous facial expressions and hand gestures get lost over the phone.)

As if that wasn't enough, during the conversation, when we wanted to share something, we'd simply tell each other to pull up a particular website on our respective computers and suddenly we'd be looking at the same thing.

I could even take video snapshots of him while we talked.

Now, as much as of a neo-ludite as I'd like to be, I have to admit that this type of outrageous real-time technology enhances communication to the umpteenth degree.  Two thousand miles away and it was like I was hanging out in his living room with him.

And who wouldn't want to hang out with this:

Today's Trinidad Impression:  I've already remarked about the blatant sexism I've encountered during my job search here.   Well, it turns out the rules about not being allowed to hire someone based on religious affiliation aren't quite as stringent here, either.  Yesterday I ran across an ad that read, simply, "Taxi Driver, preferably Christian".

The Baddest Santa

Okay, remember what I said yesterday about people being the same the world over?  Don't believe me?  Read on:

As I passed by the guard shack on my way to the mall today, I stopped to ask the guard how one goes about mailing something out of the country, without going through Fedex or UPS.

Where the hell is the frigging post office around here, is what I was really asking.

Anyway, as we talked, I heard a familiar strain of music coming from inside the shack.  I recognized it but I couldn't place it.  I leaned in and saw that he was watching Bad Santa, one of my top five Christmas movies.  Possibly in the top three.  I got all excited and told him how much I looooooooooooooove this movie, and he laughingly told me I couldn't possibly love it as much as he does.  He told me he thinks it's Billy Bob Thornton's greatest flick, to which I wholeheartedly and enthusiastically agreed, then introduced myself and challenged him to a quote-off in the near future.

You know what I'm saying?  Trini, American, no matter.  Bad Santa is just Bad Santa.  Goddamn.

Oh, yet another freaky Community of Women similarity:  found out tonight that our neighbor used to be an aspiring ballerina as well.

And p.s.  Those ever-present ants?  They're called Sugar Ants.

Ah.  No wonder.

A Taste Of Trini Christmas

The complex held their annual Christmas party tonight and our neighbor invited me to go with her.  I was excited to be a bit (a bit, mind you) social, and maybe even a bit excited at the prospect of being around members of the opposite sex.

When the Resident Evil Elevator doors opened on the first floor, however, I was in for a shock.  My first thought upon seeing the party-goers was, "Oh my god, I had no idea I was living in a nursing home".

Now, I say this without any judgment.  I knew I was living in an over-40 complex, I just didn't know how over 40 some of my neighbors were.  (One particularly spry man was 92, and there was an impressively-103-year-old woman there, too)  Not only that, but the vast majority of the party-goers were women.  And the vast majority of them were wearing sequins.  And the fact that their sequin-y outfits and short, permed, swept-back coifs made me feel like I was at a party with all my Italian-American aunts, made me realize that people are the same the world over.  I swear.

These sequin-clad ladies taught me something else, too:  You can't pin down the native Trini dialect in one neat little package.  There's the very thick, difficult to understand, slang-laden dialect that's spoken, in my limited experience, by African Trinis.  And then there's the more British-sounding dialect spoken, again in my limited experience, by the Indian Trinis.  I mean, it makes sense that an entire country couldn't be so easily homogenized, especially a country that, over the course of its long history, fell under the purview of so many other countries before gaining independence (Spain, France, Britain and the Netherlands, to name a few).  But it was still a good lesson for me.

Today's Impressions of Christmas in Trinidad:

Parang music:  nativity songs usually sung in Spanish (tonight they were sung in English), performed by a singer, an upright bassist, a mandolin player, a cuatro player, and a percussionist.  The percussionist first played the maracas, then switched to an older version of the steel drum - a set of 3 rows of steel cans, all tuned differently, and played with the same mallets used to play the steel drum.

Poncha Crema:  a dangerously delicious rum-soaked eggnog, with a touch of bitters added to it. 

Pastelle:  a Spanish-influenced cornflour patty filled with ground meat, olives and raisins, and cooked in a banana leaf.  I wasn't too crazy about this.  It didn't taste bad, it just didn't do it for me.

And that might have been the first time I'd tried a native food and not been nuts about it.

Alone Again

My roomie left to go home for the holidays this morning.  She had to leave at 3 a.m., which meant that I was able to see her off since I was still up.  So I have the place to myself for the next few weeks.  We'll see how that goes.  I'll probably alternate between gleefully prancing around in my undies, and ruefully banging my head against the wall, lamenting about how frigging lonely I am.

At the grocery today - oh wait, that's something else - supermarkets are called "groceries" here.  And if you say you're going to the "market", that's an entirely different thing:  an open air market where local vendors sell their produce, kind of like a farmer's market back home.

Where was I - oh yes, at the grocery today I realized I hadn't yet mentioned the ever-present security guards.  Either by choice or a lack of technology, places like banks, malls and groceries employ security guards instead of using video cameras.  It freaked my shit out at first when I walked into a bank and saw a guard standing there with an enormous automatic rifle hanging casually in his hand, but I'm kind of used to it by now.  Well, scratch that.  I'm used to seeing the security guards in their smart uniforms and cool-looking berets, but I'm not used to the guns.  It's really bizarre to be in such close proximity to something that dangerous, like they're casually walking around with a bunch of bombs or grenades or something equally death-bringy.

Today's Trinidad Impression:  Last night my roomie's driver was telling me how, when the economy first opened up several decades ago, and there were only a few companies that had their products on the shelves here, the resulting monopolies caused people to identify products by their brand names - laundry detergent was referred to as Breezy, bleach was referred to as Clorox, etc.  Kinda like Band-Aids, Kleenex and Roller Blades back home.  At any rate, almost as if to prove this point, today when my air conditioning was getting serviced, one of the workers asked me if I had any "Squeezy".  After asking her to repeat herself a couple times, I finally discovered that she meant dish detergent.

Lotsa Words And Junk

At an adorable little cafe in the mall today I overheard one Trini saying to another, "He up in Florida".  It wasn't the lack of verb that caught my ear, because I'm used to the dropping of the possessive "s" in every day speech here, it was the "up" part.  I'm so used to Florida being "down" in the States, it really threw me.

(I also noticed that when the waitresses walked to and from the kitchen they always went in and out the left-hand doors.  I seriously can't get over this phenomenon.)

Here They Say:

"Serious", instead of "Seriously".
"Excuse", instead of "Excuse me".
"Where it is?", instead of "Where is it?"  (Actually, I've noticed that "is" is never found in the sentence where I expect to hear it.  "When the party is", "Who that man is", "What his name is", etc.)  

Today's Trinidad Impression:  Apparently a popular breed of dog here is the "Pompek" - a mix between a Pomeranian and a Pekingese.

Hail The Recording Studio

Tonight I finally put the finishing touches on my 'recording studio' - a skinny closet with vented folding doors that, even when closed, kept it from being soundproof.

When I decided to turn this closet into a recording space I had to remove the giant box that my roomie had packed her enormous television in, to make room for me, two chairs, my mic and my laptop (which I have to prop up on top of an upside-down plastic dish cover, on top of three big books).  My roomie told me I could do whatever I wanted with the box, and thus began the process of cannibalization.  I started by cutting up the styrofoam and fitting the pieces Tetris-style against the doors.  When those ran out, I cut up a section of the box that wasn't being used to hold all the packing peanuts, or "ghost farts" as my roomie refers to them.  Then I moved on to the bubble wrap.

This was a long, laborious, satisfyingly obsessive process.  To hold everything together I used whatever I had around me.  I started with the first aid tape I'd brought to tape my fingers up when I drum.  When that ran out I moved on to scotch tape.  When that ran out I moved on to the mass of packing tape that was all tangled up in the packing material, yet still retained its stickiness.

Yup, I am one resourceful chippy.  I am outrageously pleased with the incredibly janky-looking result.  I think it does the whole process a world of justice.

Now I just need to get the damn microphone to stop hissing so I can start making hire-me-worthy voiceover tracks out of this twelfth-rate recording studio.

Making something beautiful from a pile of poop.  Seems to be a running theme.

 

 

The Terrible Triad

Tonight was another Ruby Tuesday's night.  Apparently our little Triad is making its mark on the place because as soon as we bellied up to the bar, the bartender came over, pointed at each one of us, and correctly called each of our drinks.

The fact that my drink was rightly identified as Coca Cola made me realize that, although I have been Dewless since I arrived (apart from that one slip-up at KFC a few weeks ago), I am still addicted to the carbonation factor and have merely substituted Coke for Dew.

But I'll deal with that later.  Got enough on my plate just trying to make this Trinidadian Lemonade of mine.

So on these Ruby's nights I brattily claim the middle seat between the other two women.  It cracks me up to intentionally screw up the translation as I relay the conversation from one to the other, and I delight in hearing our neighbor say something, then my roomie saying the exact same thing a few minutes later, not having heard our neighbor say it the first time.

Relax, it's all done in fun.  It cracks them up, too, so leave me alone.

At one point I realized that something had caught my roomie's eye and caused her to fade out of the conversation.  Fearing she had spotted another pair of ex-pats, I followed her line of sight.  When I saw what had captivated her, my eyes went wide.  One of the bartenders was pouring Hershey's syrup in a spiderweb pattern around the inside of two glasses.  Then he grabbed a creamy concoction and poured that on top of the syrup.  At this point I elbowed our neighbor and brought all of this to her attention, and the three of us watched this scene with mouths agape, drooling and groaning every time he added something new.  We hollered when he swirled some whip cream on top of the creamy concoction, and sighed when he topped it with a cherry.  All the waitstaff behind the bar were enjoying watching us enjoying watching him make the drinks.  I kept saying I wanted to see whomever ordered the drinks actually drink them.  When I declared that they must have been ordered by a young couple, the guy making them just smiled and said, "Actually, they're for two ladies", which made a lot more sense.

Then we asked what the drink was called.  "Tiger Eye", the man said.

The next time the Terrible Triad makes it back to Ruby's, there will be Tiger Eyes for Three.

Crystal Study

In the living room today I was struck by the way the sunlight was reflecting off the crystal in the display case and felt compelled to try to capture it.

Went a little crazy with the clicking.  I have to say, there's something to be said for cheapness and instant gratification, but I still remain a steadfast film-over-digital girl.

At any rate, here are a few of my favorites:

 

  

  

 

The "Not A Party"

Tonight our neighbor invited us to what we thought was a party at one of her Trini friend's houses.  After a long day at work, my roomie decided she wasn't up for it, so it was just our neighbor and me.  When we showed up, the woman was surprised to see us, but not as surprised as we were when we discovered that there was no party, just an invitation to come over and hang out.

After a lot of embarrassed apologies, we settled in to wine and cheese out on the back patio, where I was introduced to hot pepper jelly.  This, combined with cream cheese and spread on a cracker, made for a ridiculously delicious treat, and I made a spectacle of myself wolfing down as many as I could, stopping only when all the crackers were gone.

As I sat there enjoying the conversation immensely, I realized I was now a part of this community of independent women, all of whom had incredibly interesting stories (for example, I found out that our neighbor had grown up in Alaska, and this new woman used to be an airline attendant), and all of whom were looking out for each other.  It was very comforting.

Until I forced the former airline attendant to share her most terrifying flight story with me.

Morbid Fascination, I believe it's called.

Shameless Self-Promotion

As you know, I came to Trinidad with the intention of drumming.  But that's been put on hold for now as I search for gainful employment.  I've got my resume out all over the place, but due to a misunderstanding, the job situation is not as I expected it to be.  As such, I've been spending all my time working on the computer, writing and trying to get my voiceover career off the ground.

www.chooseavoice.com/gvecchitto

http://voice123.com/giovannavecchitto

http://www.voices.com/people/tbmpower4713

Also, I now have a Twitter account: 

http://twitter.com/tbmpower4713

It turns out it's been a blessing in disguise that I'm without a 'real' job right now, because it's allowing me the time to finally do all of this surprisingly time-consuming stuff.  This is the lemonade I've chosen to make out of these lemons.

But what's interesting to me is how much I still learn about the country simply by living in it, even if I'm not out touring the countryside.  Come January, I hope to have my feet underneath me enough to really be able to go out and explore.  In the meantime, this is what I can see from the front side of my apartment complex:

 

I don't even need to put my shoes on to see that.

I also discover all kinds of other fascinating things as I explore my Inner Space.  For example, Gmail has this frightening contextual ad program that automatically picks out key words from your e-mails, and then puts 'related' links on the sidebar.  This is as hilarious as it is terrifying.  I've now become obsessed with finding out what my e-mails are saying about my 'interests'.  My favorite so far stems from this ongoing, semi-argumentative e-mail exchange between myself and a friend back home.  Next to this one are links for "I'm sorry" cards and flowers, and a link about an infant bed.  I didn't understand that last one until I re-read the e-mail and saw that I'd made mention of being treated like a child.

I'd get a gmail account for this phenomenon alone.

Then there are the shocking daily discoveries of how deep the kinship between my roommate and I goes.  As I flipped through the telly tonight I found Total Recall.  I gasped, and before I could finish asking her if it was okay if we kept it on that, she told me she loves this shit.  Which sent me to squealing and clapping.

And she actually appreciated my quoting along with the movie, and never once threw anything at me to get me to shut up.

"That's for making me come to Mars.  You know how much I hate this f***ing planet."

How To Laugh At Oneself

Okay, so I mentioned before that my roommate is a former nurse.  Knowing this, I went to her with a medical question a couple days ago.

"Do you have a thermometer?", I ask.

"Why?", she asks.

"Because", I answer, "I've noticed over the past few days that my torso and thighs are really hot to the touch, like they get when I have a fever.  I mean, I don't feel like I have a fever ..."

"Wait", she asks, "What area's hot?"

"My torso", I reply, "and my thighs, you know, right where the laptop usually is ..."

And she gapes at me, silent for a moment, and then bursts out laughing.

And continues to laugh for the next several minutes.

Yes, my first thought when I felt how hot my skin was, was that I had some kind of low-grade symptom-less fever in a very specified area of my body.  It did not occur to me that perhaps the reason that area was scalding to the touch was because my computer (which is experiencing massive overheating issues, did I mention that?) can be found in my lap from the moment I open my eyes to the moment I close them. 

Yup.

And when I close my eyes, by the way, happens to be at 4 a.m. every day.  I have fallen into a graveyard shift pattern, going to sleep right as my roommate, on the morning shift, wakes up.  She actually came into my room the other day at the change of shifts and started laughing, saying, "You weren't kidding, were you?"

It turns out this pattern works really well for me.  This is the first time I've gotten eight hours of sleep every night (or day, as my roommate points out) in, well, ever.  See, I keep telling everyone I'm built to be a Night Owl.  Screw your Circadian Rhythms.  This schedule works better for me than any other has.

So stick it.

Phlbbt. 

Now the only problem, besides the fact that the building regulations aren't as stringent here and therefore electrical outlets are few and far between, is the ants.  The damn, freaking, ever-present ants.  It's not the apartment, it's Trinidad.  It's a known point of wisdom here that you don't leave any food out on the counter, at all, ever.  For example, tonight I got myself something to drink, put the glass down on the table, went to the sink, washed my hands, went back to the glass, and found FOUR ANTS in it.  One crawling on the side of the glass, and three swimming, or drowning, in the water.

It's amazing how inflamed and homicidal a tiny little bug can make me.

So yeah ... I'm killing insects left and right, I can't recycle, and there's no organic food in sight.  This is doing wonders for my evolution, I'll tell you what.

The Month Marker

Alright, before I say anything else, I have to share this:  Last night I saw a commercial for the Trojan Vibrating Mini.

Yup, it's exactly what you think it is.

I was in the bathroom when I heard the commercial come on, and I couldn't believe I was hearing it right.  I ran to the television, and sure enough, da da da daaaaa!  What's more, here are some of the exact words used in the "testimonials":  "Adorable".  "Cute".  "...makes me feel like a woman...".  "...gives me a burst of energy..."

And a few days prior to this I thought I'd seen it all when I saw a commercial for Chia Obama: https://www.chiaobama.com/flare/next

Sometimes I just love television.

By the way, speaking of television, is it just me or is Alfre Woodard simply incapable of aging?

Random Trini Facts:  There are lots of houses in the hills around here.  But unlike what you might expect, these houses are often occupied by the poorer populations, sometimes even squatters.  And the people who live in town are often the ones who have more money.

On an almost daily basis, both here in West Moorings (near Port of Spain, the capitol) and back in San Juan (where I lived for the first couple of weeks), you can hear people driving by with megaphones, spreading political or religious or medical messages.

Random Trini Ironies:  This apartment complex is one of the more upscale ones.  Hence the amenities and amazing view.  But there is an incongruity:  There's a beach right outside our apartment, sure, but it's filthy.  Covered in litter.  It's really sad.  What makes it even sadder is that we sometimes see Trinis sitting on the beach or swimming in the water. 

And then, a couple of weeks ago they held the biennial CHOGM (Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting) conference here, and the Queen of England was in town for about a week.

This week:  A Jehovah's Witness conference is in town.

From the Holy Mother to the Holy Father.  Hah!

P.S.  Have I really been here for only a month?  Seems longer than that.

Fried Green Oranges ... and Other Random Stuff

Question:  How many times does a person need to knock a glass off a shelf and hear it smash to smithereens before that person realizes she should probably put the damn thing somewhere else?  Answer:  Two.  And the second glass needs to be a special Coca-Cola glass that her roommate apparently got in Pakistan.

I went shopping again today and while I was looking for avocados I came across a bag of round green fruit.  My roommate told me that avocados look different here, so I thought I'd found them.  Until I saw the sign that read ... wait for it ... "oranges".

Is it wrong of me to expect the one fruit that's named after its color, to actually be that color?

In other news, my feet and legs are never going to be the same after this trip.

First of all, walking barefoot all the time is going to turn the soles of my feet permanently black.

Secondly, I have developed a callous on my left foot where the strap of my flip-flops, the only shoes I wear, has rubbed it raw.

And c)  that constellation of sandfly bites I got on Thanksgiving Day?  They're still there, and they still itch.  I found out that it's the same for my roommate, too.  What the hell.  Never had a bug bite that lasted this long before.  Our neighbor, who's been here for two-plus years, told us they usually crop-dust the freaking beaches with insecticide for just this reason.  Good lord.

Today's Trinidad Impression:  At the mall today I found another area where the whole left-centric way of thinking carries over.  I needed to use the escalators to get up to the second floor.  When I approached them, I automatically went to the right-hand one, and was brought up short when I realized the stairs were coming at me.  It was the "down" escalator.  That's another one of those things you don't think about until you're faced with the prospect of doing a faceplant on a jagged metal moving stairway.

Oh What A Night!

My roommate, her neighbor and I went to Ruby Tuesday's again tonight.  This time I ordered my burger "medium".

Apparently "medium" means "pink", too.

So we're gabbing away when, unbeknownst to me and our neighbor, my roommate spies a couple of ex-pats at a table across the way.  A walk to their table and twenty minutes later, she returned and informed us that we were to join the men.  Okaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyy...

I went to the bathroom to wash the ketchup off my hands because I refused to shake hands until I did.  While there I prepared myself to assume the role of Fifth Wheel.  I emerged and our neighbor and I walked to the table where the guys and my roommate were already sitting.  There were two seats open - one next to one of the guys and one at the end of the table.  I whispered to our neighbor that I call dibs on the end seat, and we sat down.

Now, although I was initially mortified at the idea of playing Odd Man Out, I quickly realized there was a lot less pressure on me that way, and it left me free to sit back, observe, and dip into whichever conversation I found more interesting.

One guy was from Louisiana, sporting a New Orleans Saints jersey and still high off the Saints win against the Redskins earlier in the day (bringing their record to 12-0 for the season), and the other was from South Texas, and believe it or not, plays the drums and rides a cherry 2009 Goldwing.

After a while our neighbor decided it was time for her to leave.  My first thought, was "Oh thank god, I don't have to be social anymore", and then I discovered that the plan was for her to leave, and my roommate and I to stay.  In my head I screamed, "No no no, take me with youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!", until I realized I couldn't just abandon my roommate with two strangers, nice as they may be.

F**k.

So now I'm trying to figure out how to be a fifth wheel when there's only four people.  As I'm pondering this, I realize the Saints Jersey guy has started talking to me more.  In my head I started to yell again, mentally clawing the walls of my cozy anti-social cave as I got dragged kicking and screaming into the limelight, but ultimately I accepted my role as my roommate's Wing Man.  Of course, I have no idea how to be this person, but that soon didn't matter, since the dynamic quickly turned to "Let's all gang up on Giovanna and see how much we can embarrass her", a game to which I'm very accustomed.

One of the running themes of the night was Try to Make Giovanna Drum, which I fought every step of the way, until it came time for Show and Tell.  Motorcycle Drummer guy showed us all a fairly complex rhythm.  Then Saints Jersey guy offered to show us a magic trick, said, "I'm going to make a drummer appear", and with a flourish, pointed at me.  Ha ha ha.  I finally relented when Motorcycle Drummer guy showed me a simple pattern that I followed while he put fill notes in.  Fine fine, whatever.

Then it was my roommate's turn and she told a hilarious joke in this frigging spot-on Irish accent that shocked the shit out of me.  I was completely impressed.

At one point Saints Jersey guy gave us a valuable piece of information he'd learned in his years working in Brazil, Mexico and Trinidad:  when trying to determine how long a project is going to take, the time ratio is 1:7.  Something that would take one hour (or one day, one week, one month) in the States will take seven hours (days, weeks, months) here.  It's the 1 to 7 Ratio Rule.

Wish I knew that before I got here.

At another point Motorcycle Drummer guy tried to quietly tell me, without his buddy hearing, that he'd seen Cher in concert in 2008.  But his friend overheard, and shockingly, immediately, without even blinking, said that he loved Cher.  These were two longtime buddies in their late 40's, early 50's, oil workers from the South, who'd just found out they both loved Cher.  I nearly died.  You honestly couldn't script this shit.

We closed the place out, refusing to leave before Saints Jersey guy finished making the origami bird he demanded he could make (out of an 8.5x11 piece of paper he bribed the waitress to find for us).  After several minutes of struggling, he ended up with a hilarious pile of messy folds that looked less like a bird and more like one of those paper fortune-telling games we all made our life decisions with when we were in middle school.  We of course tortured him about this until he was forced, in his embarrassment, to try again, with the same piece of paper.  The result was a more-recognizable pile of mangled folds, but still nothing like a bird.  He said this was the worst one he'd made since the 7th grade, and I asked him if that was because it was the only one he'd made since the 7th grade.  Then I demanded that I be allowed to take it home with me.

When we got to the car my roommate and I sat in the back, where we discovered two hard hats.  In unison, we each donned one.

And apparently put them on backwards.

On the way home we stopped at a convenience store and my roomie gained my eternal respect when she allowed us to convince her to go into the store still wearing hers.  I was so flipping proud of her.

The guys tried to get us to go to their sailboat and watch the sun rise with them, but I felt I'd done my part at this point and quickly assumed the role of Captain KillJoy.   A glut of coaxing ensued, but I would not be swayed.  I had reached my social saturation point.

When we got home, after a little girlfriend-deconstruction session, we each went to our rooms happy.  It was a great, unexpected night.  Then I decided I needed something to drink.  I opened the fridge and saw that in its zeal to keep our food fresh, the fridge had turned my pitcher of iced tea into iced tea.  Unthinkingly, I proceeded to violently shake the pitcher to clear the top layer of ice out of the way.

Do guess what happened next.

Yup.  Two seconds later there was iced tea dripping from my hair, my face, both forearms, the pitcher, my feet, and two square feet of floor around me.

Again, you couldn't script this shit.

Short and Salty

I was up until two o'clock stringing up popcorn garland last night, and consequently all my fingertips are sore.  Stupid pointy needles.  Also, I made way too much popcorn so I'm going to try to make popcorn balls with the leftovers.

Tonight for 'dinner' my roommate fried up piles and piles of crinkle-cut french fries, which we gorged on while watching romantic comedies.

Goddamn I've missed this shit.

Tales from the Complex

This afternoon:  I was the victim of sexism.

I called this place I'd found in the classifieds that was looking for a motorcycle mechanic trainee.  I figured I knew what the outcome would be, but I had to find out for sure.   Sure enough, after being asked if I was inquiring for myself, I was put on hold for a few minutes.  When the guy got back on the phone he apologized and told me that the "environment was more suited for a male".  I knew this would be the response because when I was looking for jobs I'd noticed several, plenty, ads specifically looking for either male or female employees.  Again, how much trouble would you get in if you did that in the States.  I mean, it's not that people don't do it in the States, it's just that you're not legally allowed to come right out and say it.

Tonight:  I was caught with my pants down.

Well, more accurately, with my shoes off.  There's a patch of lawn near the entrance to the apartment complex that sports the deepest, cushiest grass I have ever felt.  When you step on it your foot sinks down a good four inches, easy.  Of course, every time I pass it I have to take off my shoes and trot around.  It's a really small patch, so I end up walking around in circles, but no matter. 

Tonight, after I finished my little traipse I put my shoes back on and walked past the security gate, where the guard asked me if I'd lost something.  I was completely busted.  I had no idea the patch was in view of the guard shack, and he'd been watching me the entire time.  I was totally embarrassed, but thankfully, when I told him what I was really doing, he thought it was hilarious.   I laughingly informed him this wouldn't be the last time he'd see this, and continued on my way, waiting until I was out of sight before I shook my head and called myself an idiot.

Today's Trinidad Expression:  "Good Night", which is said as a greeting, as in "Good Evening".  Every time I hear someone say it, however, I think he or she is saying goodbye to me.  It's incredibly bizarre.

Today's Trinidad Impression:  Those liquid plug-in air freshener things seem to be everywhere.  They were in my drum instructor's house, they're in the apartment I'm living in now, and I've even seem them in stores at the mall.  Maybe they're just becoming ubiquitous, but I never saw them in the States before I left.

Going Native

Here's a question that just occurred to me.   How on earth have I gone this long as a Star Trek geek without calling at least one boyfriend "Imzadi"?  Shameful.

I hung out on the balcony overlooking the water and read tonight.  Definitely an "I'm a lucky ducky" moment.

So in an attempt to integrate into the culture, support the economy, and save some freaking money, I've been trying to buy local brands.  Tonight I had to buy some face wash.  (The stress of the move, and everything leading up to it, has ravaged my skin for the last few months.  So I was looking for something that could help a sister out in that respect.)  After a half hour of perusing the wares at the local pharmacy, I was left with two decisions:  Neutrogena, in all its chemical laden familiarity ... or Bartlett brand's "Mus' Go" Sulphur soap.  Ingredients:  Sulphur, Vitamin E, Aloe Vera, Glycerine.

Guess which one I bought.

I'll give you a hint:  My face smells like rotten eggs.

Today's Trinidad Impression:  Every single cell phone plan in the country has this amazing deal where you're only charged for outgoing calls.  Every single incoming call, from anywhere on the planet, is free for the receiver.  How cool is that.

Moving Day

Officially moved my stuff from my old place to my new place tonight.

 

Actually got a little sad packing up, and I was only there for two and a half weeks.  It's amazing how quickly some places can become "home".  And how other places never feel like home, no matter how long you live there.

Today's Trini Impression:  Malls close at 7:00 here, no exceptions.  They may celebrate Christmas in a big way, but it doesn't carry over to extended  holiday hours.  Additionally, Cold Stone, Cold Stone is all over the place here.  And let me tell you, they do the franchise proud.  Just like at home, you can smell that sweet creamy goodness miles, nay, kilometers, away.  Goddamn.

Today's Trini Expression:  "Hear what", meaning, "I'll tell you what".

Today's Trini Shock:  I found out that a person can survive (that's just surviving - rent, bills, food, transportation) on $24,000 TT a year.  That's $4,000 U.S.!!!  Can you imagine?

What day is it?

Losing track of the days.  Is it Monday the first, or Tuesday the second?  Or wait - Tuesday the first?  That doesn't sound right.

Spent five hours applying for jobs over the internet today.  I had It's A Wonderful Life playing in the background and when my roommate came back from work she walked in right at the moment that has me in tears every time.  That was, let's say, a 'bonding moment'.

Tonight we added more decorations to fill out our adorable little tree, and I bought some popcorn for us to pop and string around it.  I told my roomie that the history of our little tree has to be sped up over the next 3 weeks, because we don't have the luxury of the lifetime of ornament-accumulation one normally has with a Christmas tree.  So every day we have to add the symbolic equivalent of a year's worth of decorations.

Tomorrow, year 3:  The Year of the Popcorn Garland.

At the end of this we hope to have empty giftwrapped boxes under the tree, lights strung around the balcony railing, and paper snowflakes on the windows.

And then she goes home for Christmas ... and I remain here.

Where I shoot the back of my brains out.

I was in such a fury to get to Trinidad that it honestly completely escaped me that I'd be spending Christmas alone.

Precisely one year after the Ex-Boyfriend/Current Douchebag ended things.

Yup.  This was a good idea.

Blap.

Tonight, however, was wonderful.  Cheese and crackers, Carib Shandy's and So You Think You Can Dance.  Apparently I had to go all the way to Trinidad to find a girlfriend.  Good grief.

P.S.  Obama's "State of the War or Union or Something To That Effect" address was on when we flicked on the telly tonight and the sight surprised me and made me sad that I was so far out of touch that I had no idea he was even giving a speech.  It's been four weeks since I've listened to a peep of NPR and it depressed the hell out of me to know that if I were home I would have been sitting in front of the couch, avidly watching with a Dew in my hand and the phone turned off.

Which now brings the "What the hell am I doing" count up to 47.