The Other Side of the Ocean

What would it be like? The perfect winter day in Wisconsin: solid snow cover (no dirt patches in sight). The sun would be out, full blast. The temperature – a little above freezing. Not enough to create slush, but enough to keep you, well, warm.





It cannot be a work day. You don’t notice much when you spend so many daylight hours indoors. Oh, and you cannot have a dental appointment. You’re basically free. How often does this happen?






Some years – never.





This year – oh, without doubt – today.





It brought out the child in Ed (admittedly, not too buried to begin with),





…and the sun loving side of me…





But mainly it brought out an appreciation for that speck of beauty that lays buried in the winter months of the northern Midwest.





We were not the only ones at Indian Lake Park. An Italian family of sledders…





…a celestial slope of angels…





…there to throw out the arms and say – what a beautiful day!

Two things my dentist said today stayed with me. First, he thanked me for encouraging him to write. He has become an impassioned chronicler of life (his life) and I should think this is a good thing, though it could be that his family feels otherwise.

The second (and related) comment was more somber – it’s hard to make life interesting when you’re older, he said to me.





A quick interpretation would be that this is just him. Me, you – our lives are an amazing grab bag of riches! (Admitting to the mundane is hard.)

But if you think about it – if you work, if you clean your house and cook your food, if you exercise and go to your dentist fairly regularly – you will most certainly use up your interesting hours. And if you (like him?) find your work only mildly interesting (perhaps filling teeth is less interesting than teaching, though maybe he feels otherwise), then it becomes hard to create a life that, on balance, is remarkably interesting.

Of course, “interesting” need not be a worthy goal. Being hardworking, creative, respectful, nurturing – any these would form a rich life. And, interesting need not be found in the positive. Interesting can be born of tragedy. Who wants that!

Still, I go back to my dentist’s words and I see his point: for the ordinary, for us -- making an average day interesting – I have to admit it -- it can be a challenge.

Draaaaaaag myself home. No great bounce here... Suuuuch a long day.

Maybe your work is all fun and games. You would be the exception.

BUT… there is not a work problem (except unemployment) that cannot be addressed with equanimity and a smile. So, in the weeks ahead, I shall proceed in such a fashion.

Today? Well, I hadn't time to take even a coffee break. But, late in the day, I looked up and thought – this is nice. A tree. In shades of gold. Very lovely. Let me remember it: a day can be made better by a tree.

Even on bright days, the colors outside are monochromatic.





In February, I have often gone to the orchid greenhouses (just a few minutes from where I live) for the much needed splash of color. This year, I could not wait until February.





As always, I walked away with an addition to my wee collection. I fret about these babies all year long. Because they understand the pain of living here, up north, in the winter. And each January and February – the most ridiculously cold months of the year, they reward me with this:





In an interview, President Obama joked that the DC schools closed today because there was an inch of snow in DC. His daughters reminded him that in Chicago, schools never closed. In the meantime, Shelby, a blogger and commenter from Alabama, sent me this. It’s funny because, with only minor tweaking, it’s true (note my tweaks in brackets):


Wisconsin Winter Habits

60 above zero: Wisconsinites plant gardens. [ed: actually, we do it in colder temps]

50 above zero: People are sunbathing in Green Bay [ed: and elsewhere in the state]

40 above zero: Wisconsinites drive with the sunroof open [ed: of course!]

32 above zero: The water in Hayward gets thicker.

20 above zero: Wisconsinites throw on a flannel shirt [ed: the less hardy types]

15 above zero: People in Wisconsin have one last cookout before it gets cold [ed: I guess…]

Zero: Wisconsinites close the windows [not true: many NEVER close the windows; something about fresh air, bla bla bla]

10 below zero: Wisconsinites dig their winter coats out of storage [ed: about right]

25 below zero: Girl Scouts in Wisconsin still selling cookies door to door [ed: absolutely!]

40 below zero: People in Wisconsin let their dogs sleep indoors

100 below zero: Wisconsinites get upset because the Mini-Van won't start.

460 below zero: ALL atomic motion stops (absolute zero on the Kelvin scale). People in Wisconsin can be heard to say, "Cold 'nuff fer ya?"

500 below zero: Hell freezes over. Wisconsin public schools open 2 hours late [ed: except for UW]

In the morning, I wait at the bus stop and I think 1. It’s really cold... can we have a break? Just below freezing would be really nice for a while; 2. I am staring at the lot where the Westside Community Farmers Market sets up in better times.





You may think that this is a depressing thought. But no. Think of it: in three months, the market will replace the snow pile. Not bad!


In my office now.

I look out and I notice a tent out on Bascom Hill.





Oh! It’s taunting me! Na na, you just agreed to camp in the cold in Scotland! Look, look – does this look like fun?

Eh, it’s a coincidence. I know this tent is probably an ad for something.

I go out to look around. From every side it looks like – a tent. No ads.





Do you suppose it’s a warning?

Ridiculous. I need a good night’s sleep.

In my nightmarish scenario, the IRS and various bill collectors will be chasing after me, clamoring after my nonexistent funds and I’ll turn to them and say – sorry, I have a plane to catch.

If I wasn’t born restless, I most assuredly became this way very early in life. I was the family go-to girl when trips needed to be planned and motels booked. I was all of 8 years old.


Ed and I are in the process of negotiating our spring and/or summer travels. As usual, I am strictly bound to a work schedule and he is not. He cares about one thing: if it has to be across the ocean, what’s the cheapest place we can get to?

I spend time searching. Bizarre: it’s Scotland. Half the price of any other destination.
My occasional traveling companion is enthused. Let’s hike in Scotland! With a tent!

I know Scotland to have finicky (that’s being kind) weather. I lived there in the Fall of ’77 with my then partner, soon to be husband. We were graduate students and we put many a shilling piece into coin heaters to take the chill out of an interior. Memories of those quick-to appear clouds stay with you. And now, almost 35 years later, I’m to go back -- to camp?

It’s rare to see Ed positively chirping about Europe and so I find myself weakening. I look at trails through the highlands. I can do this. We purchase his ticket.

Only, I need to get there as well. I’ll be coming from the south and I’ll have a handful of days to kill before he shows up. I could, in the interim, take (the very cheap) Ryan Air to Sardinia…

You’re going to Sardinia? I want to go to Sardinia. Fly down from Edinburgh. Why am I going to Edinburgh if on the same day I am to fly down to Sardinia? Because it’s cheap and you like cheap. Will you camp in Sardinia? Maybe we should go to Barcelona instead. You hate cities! I’ll fly to Sardinia and wait there until you can join me and then we’ll both fly to Edinburgh and camp in the highlands. And then go home, right? Sure, only we have to stop in Paris overnight on the way back, because otherwise we’ll surely miss our connection. Just one night in Paris, correct? Actually two. The airfare returning a day later is way cheaper…

Outside, the winter continues to hit below the waist. The news on the economy is bad, the work for the weeks ahead is daunting.




But hey. Sometime in May or June, I’ll be pitching a tent as the sudden dark clouds explode with torrential rain and the winds gust with such force that they close the bridge on the return from the Isle of Skye. Our food supplies will be low and we’ll have to make our way to the nearest pub and eat whatever they have. Blood sausage maybe. And I’ll say – aren’t you sorry that you yawned when I suggested a gentle hike along the coast of the Mediterranean? Yeah, that’s what I’ll say.

The whirl of a good week-end. The super spin of a good week. The tiredness of Sunday, at the tail-end of it all.

I leave you with a photo from the Inaugural Ball last night. Three images: the host (Ian), the superhero (Barack) and the local hero (Tammy).

Thinking about the need to refinance my condo makes my brow furrow. It’s as if everything worth complaining about right now is, in one way or another, linked to that process of refinancing. I know, in the scheme of things, a mortgage is only a mortgage, but as I said – many strings of worry can be pulled from this one little pile and by the time you’d pull on most of them, you’d admit that I have myself a nice bundle.

It’s not as if I am made snarly or grumpy by this – not like this guy at the café, whose brow is even more furrowed, or the bull that’s positively fuming…





…but I am more than slightly preoccupied with the idea that I should be more careful in the way I proceed in life.


I have, today, a diversion and it is getting myself and Ed to an Inaugural Ball (not official, not even in DC, but large and formal nonetheless). When I downsized a few years back, I gave away all that I could not imagine ever using again. However I envisioned my life, it was not with formalwear. What formalwear I had (one glittery sweater) found its way to Goodwill.

Still, I can fake formal by slipping into something black and short. Ed, however, presents a problem.

If you want to go, you must dress up, I tell him. So, do you want to go? Do you want me to go? You don’t have to go. But you’re going? Yes, I am. So do you want me to go?

We have had some version of this conversation on and off for the past several weeks. Today we finally reached the end: So are you going? Okay.

And now we are on round two: can you please wear your black turtleneck? (Ed does own a tie: he never took the price tag off of it: $3.99. I love beautiful ties. This is not one of them. ) The black turtleneck? The one without the ridges. Why not the one with ridges? Because that one has little rips and the color black has faded to a streaky gray. I’ll have to see if the other is clean. I’m near the bottom of my clean clothes so it may be unavailable. Let’s make it available. And no jeans please. Should I wear a jacket? (This is a leftover from a funeral.) Yes please. It has cat hairs. Get rid of the cat hairs. You sure I should go?

Living in Madison shifts your attention from concerns with how clothes look to concern with how warm they are. Spending time with Ed erases preoccupation with appearance even more. He tells me “you look wonderful” randomly. When he thinks he needs to score points.

But I miss thinking about style. I like looking up and thinking – wow, her shirt matches the painting. Nice.





We leave the café. Down the road, we pass an empty train, standing, waiting, looking sort of magnificent against the blue snow of the late afternoon. You’re going to let that photo go? It’s too cold to get out. Really?

I get out and take the photo. An endless line of empty cars. Beautiful.





It’s good to have diversions from concerns about refinancing.

To those not from Wisconsin – I am sure you have noticed the string of photos on Ocean: all snowcovered and slippery. Many times this past week I have been thinking back to Alex (a Tobagonian) and his response to my brag about how cold it gets up here (wow, people live like that?).

The thing is, most people who do not live like this (by “like this,” I mean where the cold starts early in November and lasts ‘til early April and then continues to threaten until it’s laid to rest forever in mid-May), think that we, northerners either like it or are used to it.

In fact, so many of us alternate between enduring it and feeling repulsed by it. Oh, there’s the occasional cold but sunny day that feels robust and great, or the snowstorm that makes everything look so pretty the day after – but these are mere moments in a parade of cold and bitterly unpleasant days. And if you think that’s just my take on things – listen to our local news and weather reporters: the purveyors of doom, always looking for the hope of spring, exhausted with the onslaught of cold spells (minutes ago: it’s windy and nasty…).


Ed and I went to Trader Joe’s to restock in cheap wine and ginger snaps. A dog was tied to the rail just outside the entrance. He seemed livid at being left there, even though he had a blanket to sit on (supplied by the store) and a sweater to take the chill off. I felt for him, in spite of his most unpleasant yap and snarl.





But really, for dogs, it’s not about the weather – it’s about companionship and freedom to romp and food dumped into a dish on a regular basis. Me, I may have companionship and freedom to romp and food dumped into a dish on a regular basis (okay, maybe not the last), and still, I long for that day when it will not feel cold outside.

Maybe I don’t want a dog’s life. Maybe I just want a dog’s attitude.

In Tobago, the public cemetery had small tombstones with dates of the birth and death marked as a time of sunrise and sunset. I passed this cemetery daily and over time, I became very familiar with the engraved sunrises and sunsets.

People who vacation on the islands love sunsets. I saw a couple standing on their balcony, camera in hand, photographing every inch of the descent of the sinking sun.

I think sunrises are so much prettier. More gentle. Especially on a misty winter morning.

Thursdays are especially full days for me and so I am up very early, early enough to watch the dark night turn into misty pink sunrise.











The day is warm, considering. Almost reaches freezing. So after my morning class, I take a walk to the lake. Supremely lovely. Misty lovely.





I ask the ice fishermen about the day’s catch. Not nearly as lucky as the Tobago fishermen. Still there for you! They tell me. Nothing wrong with hamburgers for dinner!





Later, the busride home is just a little past the sunset hour. As I leave the bus and walk the few steps to the condo, I think – nice, this is nice.





But sunrise is better.

Ah, life. I work, I work out, I work on cooking up another stew that’ll be around for several days.

Late, Ed and I walk down to see Defiance (Sundance Theater is a mere five minute stroll from home) – another movie reminding me of how a short period in time can change everything about your life. From normal to nearly impossible.


I leave you with just two photos. In one, I see nothing more than winter and the loneliness of coping.





In the other, I see this person across the street and something about the way she looks makes me think I haven’t been in Poland for a long while.

Sometimes you don't even fully understand the stress that you're feeling until the moment when it is removed and you say to yourself -- wow! So that's what that was all about!

I lived in Poland at a time when not many of us had faith in the political leadership. I'm used to that. Some people are motivated to challenge what is thrust upon them and some people withdraw and concentrate on other worlds. (I belong to the latter group.) I have always wondered if art flourished at a time when so many artistically inclined felt themselves to be politically apathetic and disenchanted. Poets, after all, write when they are unhappy. That's what I've been told.

I never fully grasped how disconnected I felt from politics in the last years until the presidency passed today from one person to the next. And how happy I am to once again follow the political discourse (not to worry, not here, not on Ocean).

So let me at least recognize my own thrill at listening to the inaugural address today. As I would recognize the birthday of a daughter, or the funny comment made by my occasional traveling companion, Ed. [And there was such a comment, just this morning. Sensing I was about to start my yearly nag on the matter of Valentine's Day -- he wont observe it, nor any other holiday -- he preempted me by saying: so, I bought us the bus tickets you wanted so that we can visit your friend at the end of February. Happy Valentine's Day!]

And so, even though the day proceeded in the most normal fashion (yes, we are a town of many clothing styles)...





... and I taught classes and rode the bus home as I would any normal day, this day was not normal. It was thrilling.

Notable, too, was the light on my ride home. Last semester, I would travel back in the dark of a winter evening. Today, the bus driver shielded his eyes from the glare of the beautiful, fantastic sun. Sure, my last class ended a bit earlier. Or maybe it's because we're moving closer to spring?





In the evening, I went to the gym in my “Obama makes history” t-shirt.

This day, a holiday and, for many, a day of service is, for me, a day of work. You cannot take off a day just before the semester starts. And tomorrow our Spring Semester (how poorly named!) begins.

And, while millions milled around the monument to Mr. Abe, out by the DC Reflecting Pool, I milled around this rendition of the same person, though our President Abe had a dusting of white snow in his lap:





While the DC Capitol was readied for the big day tomorrow, I had my own view of the white dome just up State Street:





Much of my day was spent at Law School, empty today, nice and quiet for a person who needed her quiet:






Late in the afternoon, I put aside my papers and returned home. My building has a new tenant on the ground floor: a fitness center. And while many residents have been grousing about the sudden presence of the young and fit in our elevators (something about the sweat quotient), I am completely enthusiastic about this ready access to exercise space. Since my return, I have put in solid hours there. If Obama can find the time to work out daily, so can I! (This is my motto.)

Going to the gym is not in itself a very interesting topic for Ocean. But I had today my very first in my life session with a personal trainer (it’s free for new gym goers in the hope that we’ll get addicted to having trainers; believe me, my budget already said “no you can’t!”).

The man whipped me around a host of exercises as if I were a young cadet. Every time I protested, he slapped on a dozen more pushups, rope jumps or what have you.

At the end, Jessie the trainer said – pushing yourself to stay fit is all in the head. And I think what’s in your head is pretty near to what’s in the head of the young woman (she was in her twenties) I just trained.

Jessie cracks jokes as rapidly as he cracks the workout whip, but I think it was meant as a compliment.


I am especially mindful of what is in the head of twenty-four year olds, as my little one celebrates her 24th birthday today. As she revels in this memorable day and in the day ahead (as it happens – she is in D.C., with her sister and friends), I can’t help but think how wonderful it must be to be “in her head” right now! Her fantastic, spirited, ever-concerned about others head. Happy happy birthday, little one! I love you more than all the sweet smelling flowers on all the tables of the world!

The sun was out this morning. It was a good challenge to the piercing wind and the bitter cold air. Still, it stayed around 6 degrees (F). With winds that kicked things around and made everything appear even colder.

Let’s go! – I say to Ed. I am on a “keep moving” kick. So that we don’t become permanently glued to a couch this winter. Ice sculptures. We can take a look at them.

I don’t really know that there are ice sculptures, but it seems that each year at around this time I’ve seen them just south of the Capitol. We head downtown.

No ice sculptures.

Just our capitol. And piles of snow.




We walk toward the Monona shorefront. Oddly enough, I quite like being out on the lakes now, during the bright, biting cold days of winter. Sun on face, toes losing it to the bitter cold, nose long gone, fingers hangin’ in there. It’s all sort of wonderful. For a not too lengthy walk on the snow-covered ice.









I once biked across the lake in winter – Ed tells me. Do you want to hike over to the other shore? He likes to remind me of the bigger challenges, the ones I wont consider.





I'll stick with the small steps. This was my significant nod to winter. Hello, bitter cold day.

And now I need a few days to warm myself, inside and out. Meantime, the monsters can have their romp.





In the evening, it snowed.

[In response to a blog comment:] Barry, you know I cannot fudge the photos – my rule is this: it goes up if it was taken in the last 24 hours. Unless it’s a scan of some childhood memory. So, unfortunately, I must plod on and deal with the reality of this day. Which had no Caribbean bougainville, nor flocks of green parrots flapping noisily toward the forest, nor turquoise seas and ripening green bananas. I suppose I could include a bunch of green bananas. I picked some up at Trader Joe’s today.

No, all you get is this:





It was a day of bits and pieces. Of scattered thoughts and wisps of conversation.

Did you know that if Chicago got the Olympics in 2016, Madison may then get the bicycle races?
But what are the odds?
Significant, according to some.
Fantastic!
Not at all. I’m outta here if that happens.


Did you like the movie?
Clint Eastwood played his part well.
Ah, Clint Eastwood. He has a house on Tobago. On a hill, close to where the hummingbirds congregate. But it’s not Clint Eastwood that I think about when I watch Gran Torino. It’s the scene in the barber shop when guy talk happens. Take away the swears, the racism, the guns, beer and cigarettes, and I think I have myself an occasional traveling companion who would fit right into the movie set. Ed does guy talk very very well and it isn’t a performance.

We eat one of the many soups I have cooked this season in the comfortable silence of knowing that odds are in our favor. Our lives, at the moment, are wonderfully uncomplicated.

Somewhere in this photo, there is a house, right?





Not my house, but still, a house.

Somewhere in this pile of hours there is a life and I remember it – well lived (or well enough) just days ago, on an island off the coast of Venezuela.

Buried now. Pulverized and scattered in banks of chin-high snow.

How I miss my hours in the sun!

Tuesday. My last day here. I’m tracking weather patterns back home. As long as there are no storm systems, I wont complain. I live in Madison. In the winter, my town is cold. I tell this to Alex, who basically earns a living taking people out on the warm waters of the Caribbean. How cold? I answer in both Centigrade and Fahrenheit. He shudders. You live like that?

Yes. I have always lived like that. This is the warmest winter week I have ever had in my entire life.


I have thus far avoided the southern tip of Tobago. It’s the tourist center: most of the hotels and eateries are grouped there. But I’m thinking I should at least see it. The reefs are here. And the white sand beaches. Quintessentially Caribbean, no?


My last walk from Bacolet to Scarborough. Sob.





Tomorrow I’ll be doing mind games to feel warm.

I take the bus to Pigeon Point (at the southern tip of the island) and head toward the water. The strip of sand is almost empty. One child, bathing, as her mother sells hand crafts on the road.





Up the beach, I come across a man cleaning fish. Such colors! Do we eat these?? They seem like something out of an aquarium at the dentist’s office.





Still further, I see the boats. Birds are limin’ there now, but these are the boats of fishermen.





Indeed, I see that the catch is being cleaned and bartered just off the beach. Red snapper, grouper… Big grouper! Huge grouper!
You want the grouper?
That’s a grouper for twenty.
We can grill it right here! Have some wine with it… He’s playing to my foreigness. Who the hell drinks wine here? It’s rum and beer country.
Next time. With beer.




Did I say next time? I often read guest book comments in inns and b&bs and there is always the (empty?) promise of a next time. We will come again! How many do come again? Will I come again? Which is better – to go back, or to try something new?





I find Alex on the beach, next to a handful of boats. Can someone take me to Nylon Pool? – I ask.

It’s an offshore spot. An underwater sandbank creates an unusually shallow area of water. The sea here is so clear that Princess Margaret claimed it’s as sheer as her nylons. The name stuck, but it’s a curious choice. I don’t think anyone wears nylons in these parts (lucky them). What for?

Alex tells me that the fastest and best way to get there is by ski jet. Will it disturb the reef? I know little about underwater life, but this is one of the top spots anywhere for reefs and I know that they have been damaged by people poking around.
No, we’ll fly over the surface of the water. But, can you go out like this? – he’s looking dubiously at my sundress.
Sure. I don’t mind getting wet.

He hides my camera to keep it dry and I climb up behind him.

We take off. Man, it is a thrilling ride!
Hold on! – Alex shouts. The wind is strong!

In ten minutes we are there. I jump down. My dress billows out in the water in significantly unfashionable ways. I can't be bothered by any of that. I am in turquoise heaven.





Alex urges me to find more shallow spots, but I am too content. I am lapped by gentle waves of a warm and salty sea.





And then we race back. I’m in a hurry now. There is a small wedding back at the Bacolet Beach Club. I don’t want to be late.

Except that I lost my bus ticket. The bus is insanely unpredictable, but I saw it a minute ago rounding the bend. I poke into the nearest shop.
Do you sell any bus tickets?
I don’t sell them, but you can have some of mine.
Thank you, thank you. I toss the money and run to catch the departing bus.


Last walk from Scarborough to Bacolet. I pass an old woman sitting on a stone ledge.
G’d afternoon! Saw you walkin’ by early! That would have been more than four hours ago! Has she been up and elsewhere since then?
And always the friendly advice: pull down your dress a bit. Where your bag is.

She’s right. The dress is almost dry, but it rides up a few inches where the back pack hangs down. I grin and do as I am told. She nods, satisfied. I can be sent out into the world again.


The wedding. An American pair with their two year old, the bride's mom and step dad. That’s it. (I’m there taking photos for them.) They want to exchange vows on the beach. Of course, these full moon days, there is very little beach. The priest person looks skeptical. His shoes are spiffy and undamaged. He finds a ledge to stand on.

The words of the priest person are terribly predictable but the sea holds back on the big waves. The sun dips down and the little boy throws fallen almonds at the waves. By the time it’s over, I feel a spray of misty wetness on my face and it’s not from the Caribbean or the Atlantic.





In the evening, I eat at the Beach Club. I order a rum mojito and fish soup.


At five the next morning, Beardy drives me to the airport.

Hello, Wisconsin.

Is there such a spot? Where the Atlantic becomes the Caribbean? They say there is. Here, on Tobago: at Pigeon Point.

I’m traveling back all day Wednesday and so my post will be rather late. But if you want to know how it is that I found myself submerged in the middle of the sea, or maybe it was ocean, in a billowing sundress, come back later.

And now, I reel back, away from the warm seas, back to my frozen state.

Bacolet (my home for the week) is on the Atlantic coast of Tobago. The two fishing villages I visited – Castara (with Beardy) and Charlottesville (alone) – are on the Caribbean side.

I had this idea today that I should take the bus to the Caribbean side (Plymouth, for example) and then walk back across the island, using country backroads where possible.

As the crow flies, it’s nothing. Four miles maybe. But, the crow does not take backroads, nor does it slow down when there’s an incline. I’m not sure in the end how many miles I covered. But it took me well over three hours to walk home.

It was a magnificent walk. Let me post a photo from the tail end, as I neared Scarborough:





A few days back, I asked a well traveled British pair here, at Beach Club (we shared the computer room pushing on midnight many a time) – so what do you like best about Tobago? She thought for a minute and said – in the end, it’s all about the people, isn’t it?

She is so right. You can find a land beautiful and never want to go back because you sense hostility. And, you can forgive a lot in a country where the people naturally, instinctively, take your hand and lead you to where you want to be. Tobagonians want to help even when you think yourself to be managing well enough. This is not your bus. Wait for another.

People here are curious. Where are you goin’ girl? I’m taking a walk. Oh, okay. Sometimes, the quick conversations leave me no good line to throw back and so I just laugh.
Where is your companion?
At home. He decided not to travel this time.
Why?
He likes home.
Yea? Anyway, you have to have a Black one.
This was not come on, it was a tease, a friendly statement, tossed from the front yard, where the man was working along with two others.

I am the only hiker on these roads. People get rides. Where there is space in a car, people often pull over. You walkin,’ boy? (I’m in a sundress; the gender thing is sheer play.) Oh, okay.

Sometimes, I get lost. I know how to stop a car – I’ve seen it done: arm out at slight angle, hand flaps a few times. Good morning. Does this road lead to the Providence Road? Sure does. I learn also not to get the time of day wrong. Good morning until noon. Good day or good afternoon until five. Good night thereafter. If I’m wrong – good morning! (it’s just past noon), afternoon, they remind me. And then later, a car pulls over – G'day! You get to your place alright? Remember? You asked me directions back on the road.



But let me go back a little. Because first there was the bus ride. I want to get off near Plymouth. The idea is to hike from there to the Arnos Vale Beach. It’s by an old resort and I hear there are birds and gardens worth stopping for. And a nice, Caribbean side beach. With snorkeling. A half a dozen people on the bus tell me where to get off and how to proceed.

I walk past farming country. So different than Wisconsin. For one thing, they grow cucumbers in January.










After a few minutes I come to the secluded Arnos Vale Beach. It’s lovely!










But somehow, I’m not ready to plop down for the day. I bought some reading, but not enough to keep me here for hours. I don’t want to snorkel. Water seems rough. I may be the only person on the planet who actually gets seasick snorkeling in bouncy waters.

I take it in, dip a toe and turn around. But the plant life here is truly beautiful.










Really stunning.

I hit the road. At first, it’s rainforest. And very empty. Someone emerges from a riverbank and for a while walks behind me. I am aware of the two of us, walking through a forest, with birds screeching. But at some moment, he disappears and now I am very much alone. Except for the occasional car. Honk! Window down. Thank you, but it’s a beautiful day for a walk.

Eventually, the forest recedes. A cow grazes, a bird keeps her company. Makes me smile at the mismatch of sizes. And then, round a few more ends, another cow with a companion.





Coincidence. Or is it? Further still, another pair…





…and then another:





Some cows are without birds, but where there is a companion bird, it is always only one.

But I see far more goats than cows on the island.





One, maybe two at a time. I asked Beardy – what are they used for – milk? He said yes, that, but it is also tradition to have a goat. Every home needs a goat. And so there are goats.

The day is, as usual, beautifully warm, partly cloudy. The landscape is, in my mind, perfectly Caribbean.










Occasionally, a cloud will pass and sprinkle warm drops of rain. Seconds later, it will be gone.

In a small village, I pass a food hut. Bananas on the tree, bananas in the hut. And now bananas in my small day pack.










Village life. It always surprises me when places just a mile or two from the sea, lose their connection to the water. I remember this from Brittany: along the shore, everything focused on the ocean – the food, holiday homes, fisheries. A few steps in and you may as well be in the center of France. Here, too, the villages seem removed from shore life. It’s as if you must hear the sound of the ocean before you build your life with it in mind.





And now I'm in Scarborough. Busy, people filled (thank God) Scarborough. Where, I admit, I have been hanging out occasionally at a café that serves the best, indeed, the only espresso in town.





Very late in the afternoon, the beach is again overcome by waves. I hoist a chair up, (mostly) out of harm’s way and read.

Okay, it’s not a banana tree. It’s a something else. Bush maybe? Bananas do not grow on trees. (Thanks, Ed.)





Sunday. It is a day of work, a day of waiting for the computer go-to person who was to work on Internet issues at the Beach Club but decided, instead, to go to church (by his own account), and of spending an indulgent afternoon on the beach. Where I learned a bunch of things.

First, there is the matter of the waves. If it is low tide, that does not mean that the beach would not be flooded. Suddenly. A fellow beacher noted my pain as a my chair was put suddenly substantially underwater. It is the moon, she tells me. It draws the ocean to the land.





The waves, too, are significant today – or at least large enough to give bodysurfing a serious try. I really do not know anything about bodysurfing except that Obama does it well, but I have learned most things in life without lessons and so why not make a fool of myself right there on Bacolet Bay. In fact, it’s not that hard to catch for a fleeting moment the crest of a wave. (Admittedly, half the time I am submerged under it, but let’s focus on the positive.)

Some good soul offered to take this photo and I let her, thinking I may look majestic if I succeed, but of course the big wave did not come and what did come I managed to make little good use of.





It is very humbling to fail in front of a small audience.



In the late afternoon, feeling completely perked and rinsed out by the ocean waters, I decide to walk to town to the Botanical Gardens. Parks on a Sunday are, for me, a happy destination and ones that specialize in tropical plants should be a treat.

These Gardens, however, are rather a sad lot and I must suppose that with such lush flowers and trees growing without fuss everywhere across the island, it becomes less important to put resources into the town Gardens.

Indeed, at Bacolet, I am in full view of this each day:





And on my walk to Scarborough, I am enchanted with these colors:





At the Gardens, by contrast, nothing really catches the eye. All I can offer you is this tree, almost ending its season of bloom:





…and a very pretty plant with two toned leaves (no, there are no tags to help you identify the variety):





I pass on photographing the rest of the rather tame plant life, or the odd assortment of strung Christmas lights in random places.

It does not help to see Scarborough so completely deserted by the locals on Sunday and overrun by the boat people (referred to as such by Tobagonians) who are here for the afternoon. I realize (as I watch the slightly pink but basically white people in their pale white cruise shorts and shirts) that Scarborough never seemed so bland before because Tobagonians bring with them a wallop of color. Red shirts, yellow scarves, multicolored caps and headbands. Rich black and Indian brown skin tone (Trinidad is 40 % African heritage and 40% Indian, but Tobago is 90% African). Long black hair among men (dreads are extremely common here) and always intricately styled hair (sometimes with very red highlights, sometimes done in braids, dreads, curls, or carefully clipped) among women. Without its people, the town seems listless and parched. I must make do with photographing the ubiquitous rooster. Roosters and chickens don’t take Sundays off.






I walk back at sunset along the route that I have come to like so much, past the public cemetery…





… past the church and school, with no children today, just chickens, and the sounds of singing from the congregation. Oh Little Town of Bethlehem...

…past the bend in the road that offers the view of the water, with its ship, waiting for its pink people…





…past the fire station, a shop or two and various agencies providing services (for example, the Coterie of Social Workers of T&T Inc., with the slogan: “Let us lift as we climb and give the best or nothing”), and finally homes, small ones, but with lush vegetation and sounds of birds and barking dogs to greet you as you go by.



And now it is dark and time to head out with Beardy (we are on a first name basis by now) to Sunday School.

It’s an event, an island tradition, to head out to Buccoo Bay and party on Sunday night. I don’t want to stay long, but I want the street foods and the sounds of the steel band to pull me in.

I get one but not the other. With Carnival approaching, the musicians take a break from performing here. But, there is loud soca blaring and the food stalls have grills with chicken and sea foods and as I stroll and people-watch, I am thinking that this, not the Gardens is the great Sunday outing. Tobago does not do quiet time well. Tobago pulses with music and spicy food. A great backdrop for the ultimate limin'.

Roasted chicken and salads and a cold beer. A fine way to top off the weekend.

wah g’wan?

You’re asking what’s going on? Well, it depends where you find yourself.

In Charlottesville, at the most northern tip of Tobago, man-o-wah (man of war) birds swoop down and take fish from the sea.





A man is gutting fish. He throws the remains into the water. You would think that the birds would swoop for these, but no. They continue to circle and dive for the live catch.





The local bus that brought me to this fishing village left Scarborough so on time – promptly at 9 – that I began to doubt all that talk about there being “island time.”

It’s not a large bus (indeed, the roads north could not accommodate a large bus), but it does fill, at least at the starting point. The men, women and children of Tobago and me.

In many countries (including my native Poland), tight rides on a hot day are bad news for the sensitive nose. Not here. As the woman next to me settles comfortably, so that we form one integral body mass across the expanse of the small seats, I can’t help but take in how cool and fresh she is. And indeed, the same could be said for all. A bus full of fresh and (likely) honest people.

If anyone is to sweat, that would be me. The road, twisting sharply around the mountainous coastline, would be been terrifying had I a chance to look out. But, the custom is to close the curtain if the sun is out. My stomach notes what my eyes cannot see.

Finally, at 10:15, we are at the last stop and I disembark. Right in front of the Charlottesville fish cooperative.





Some people mind the smell of fish markets, and the sight of freshly caught fish can be equally distressing. I can understand that. But, for some reason, I am drawn to watching and photographing people who fish (longtime Ocean readers will have noted my photos of ice-fishermen in Madison). The bravery, the patience, and here – the speed and physical strength required for a successful catch are fascinating to watch, perhaps because I am not especially adept at any of them.

And so I watch. And after plenty of chat with the fishermen about when, how often, at what point and whom I am allowed to photograph, I am given a tentative go-ahead to take some photos.




















The day’s catch? You’re seeing here mostly Wahoo fish. At other times, I am sure you would see more variety (Charlottesville fishermen supply 60% of the island’s fish). Today, what I see comes off of these small boats:





Every ten or fifteen minutes, a boat pulls up, men steady it and someone runs the fish up to the co-op. And so it continues.


leh wee lime

You’ll have noted the men sitting at the edge of the coop? They are responding to the national call: we should lime (hang out).

Men do this especially well, but women are fully engaged in it as well. Everywhere, there is liming.





I take the trail at the northern end of town toward Pirate’s Beach. I am told it is quite beautiful. Indeed. Secluded, with only a path leading to it, with the rainforest spilling down to the water's edge.










And, oddly enough (this being their high season and a week-end) – quite deserted.





There is one threesome at the edge of it – an older man, a local, and two women. Eventually the man comes over to chat. He quickly finds out where I am from and how cold it is back there right now (I revel in saying it, it always astonishes). He asks if I am a professional photographer and when I tell him no, just a serious amateur, he thinks a bit and then humbly admits to placing himself just under that. (Usually, at this point, people tell me about the perfect photo they missed taking because they failed to have their camera along. So, carry your cameras!)

Why so empty here? -- I ask him.
Oh, probably because of the elections. Meetings and rallies, that sort of thing. But you know this is one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world?
Ah, rankings. What would we do without them! I do not inquire about the methodology, but admit that it is, indeed, stunning. According to me.

After idling away a few minutes, I ask where he likes to eat in the village. Jabba’s – he says. You know, like the basketball player.

I spend a little more times wooshing my feet in the water and then retreat in search of food. Jabba’s is not easy to find, especially since as I am no basketball whizz and so I have managed to forget the name.

Two women are limin’ by the gate and I go up and try out a few name choices. Do you know where the food shop Sabba’s is? Or maybe it's Rabba’s? After they ponder the possibilities they hit on the correct name and, laughing, they point me to it. And when Tobago women laugh, it is with full use of their lung capacity. Oh, to laugh like that back home! To explode at the hilarity of life! To bellow out mirth! I smile at the unlikeliness of it (cursed northern sensibilities) and walk to Jabba's.

The cook shop (the word used for a food place that is less than a restaurant but more than a food stall) actually has no name painted on the outside. Indeed, Jabba is only a nick name for Irwin Hercules. Peace maker, he tells me. I don’t know why they call me that! But he says it with a grin. One senses modesty here.





What should I eat? -- I ask. Vegetable soup. I am a vegetarian and so I have made vegetable soup.

Perfect. I am not a vegetarian, but to me, soups with unknown animal parts in them can be scary. I have grown conservative in that way as my travel orbit has extended beyond the predictable.

I watch him fill a bowl, the size of which, I should think, would hold enough to feed a family of four. Not too much! He smiles: I will put in more liquid. Thick liquid, where breadfruit, plantain, yellow chickpeas, yucca and potatoes have made the line between liquid and solids rather blurry.





I take my bowl to a table perched by the water. My eating companion (the rooster) watches as I manage to eat (almost) the whole thing. This, to me, is the perfect cheap food. The peace maker knows his vegetables and spices. I use thyme, garlic, and our favorite – what you call coriander. And basil. And salt. And I add celery and spinach. (Now wait a minute! You can’t have spinach too! That’s a cold weather vegetable!) Yea, I take what people around here grow in their back yards. So who taught you to cook? – I ask, but I know the answer. It’s always like that. Oh, my grandmother!


meh deh deh

It turns out that when I have been answering (the car greetings) with “I’m good, thanks for asking,” I have been revealing my utter ignorance of local custom. The proper way to say this in TT (a common way to speak of Trinidad & Tobago) chat is to toss out a “meh deh deh.”

I learn this from chatting to Keisha (not her real name, but she is from Tobago and this name is as typical here as you can get).

That I should have a long and bonding conversation with Keisha, is entirely thanks to the Tobago Department of Transport.

Naturally, I had asked back in Scarborough about the return bus.
You have to remember that there is a bus at 12:30.
From Charlottesville? (seems on the early side for me.)
No. From here. You must calculate from this the return. (Curious, since the road, though difficult, is not with much traffic and therefore, rather predictable.) Probably, it will then leave Charlottesville at 2:00, but just in case, you should be at the stop by 1:30.

I am at the stop at 1:25. Along with a German pair, waiting since 11 (they just missed the bus I came on), and Keisha, who had been on my bus. She recognized me. Of course.

The German pair is nervous. What if it will not come? Should we pay the locals (asking price $100) to take us back? We have a flight at 6.

I laugh my newly acquired hearty Tobago laugh. Like clockwork! Of course, living in Heidelberg as they do, they should take that metaphysically, but momentarily, they are reassured.

Keisha knows better. She was raised here and only after a choppy love life did she, at the age of 19, leave for New York. Only to return 12 years later to marry her childhood sweetheart from Trinidad – where she now lives. She is thus an amalgam of cultures. All in conflict with the other.

I could not live here anymore. See those people, limin' on the bench? They have been there since we came.

For reasons that are known only to the driver and possibly his friends, the bus arrives terribly late. And when it arrives, the driver gets off and walks away. The German pair is greatly distressed by this and they wonder if their premature exuberance at the sight of his arrival may have ticked him off (their joy was off the charts visible). Keisha reassures them that he would not have been disturbed. His mind was on the limin' just around the bend.

Keisha stretches in the sun. She missed this greatly back in New York. But she wishes the customer (of buses, in stores) was treated with greater respect here. Wassup. You good? Trinidad -- I can handle Trinidad. Tobago -- I come here to remember, and to see family. Man, this place is too slow for me!

Not for me. Not for the days I am here. (I say this because the bus did come after all, and I did not have to spend the night at the curbside.)

At the beach, the waves reach for my chair again. The leaves of the almond tree provide a partial shade and as the late afternoon sun moves slowly toward the ocean, I think about what I should read. I am enjoying the relative quiet (in Tobago, so often there is the sound of music, sometimes distant, sometimes not that distant). My morning was quiet too – I spent it working – but in the early afternoon I was in Scarborough (the nearest town). Scarborough always feels like you have to have your senses sharp and ready. The sidewalks are erratic and the traffic in the daytime is intense. I am on edge.

The town, in my mind, functions with the idea that you have to get by. You want aesthetic pleasure? Look beyond it. Here, you buy your necessities, take care of your business, pick up your roti and move on. It’s not awful, it’s not even hugely unpleasant. It just is.

I went there in the afternoon because Friday and Saturday are commerce days. The market stalls fill, people come out to do their buying. Watching people engage in the act of purchasing stuff for home, especially fresh produce, is always kind of fun.

It’s a little less fun if you choose to go as I did, in the heat of the day. It’s good to remind yourself that this weather, year-round, can be daunting (though maybe less daunting than what I read of Madison’s weather: the day after I return next week the high is to be 2 F). I watch women carrying their small children and the women are not smiling. Not until they put the kid down.

Perhaps not surprisingly, therefore, I see very few very young children. And no strollers. This little girl, looking at the pumpkin and okra, stood out.





At the market, I am cautious. Vendors are serious here. They need to sell. This isn’t the place for liming: people come, pick out something, leave.















I pause by a banana stand. Can I buy just two small, ripe bananas? I’m hungry for them. And may I take a photo? Yea, go ahead. The women carefully pick out two ripe ones. How much? Oh, just take them. They wave me on with a grin. I leave them with what I think may be the cost of two small bananas, but what do I know...





At another stand, a vendor watches me approach. I can tell he would rather I be a shopper. No one is buying at his end of the market. I move past him. There are only so many small bananas I can eat.

By 2 though, I am hungry for real food. Sure, I had scrambled eggs with pumpkin and onions for breakfast and I heaped my bowl with papaya, but that was then.

I go to Eddie’s because it is Friday and Friday is crab and dumplin’ day.

Eddie greets me the minute I crack the door.





Beardy said you’d stop by. Ah. Beardy gets around. To the server behind the counter -- Give the girl crab and dumplin’! To me – you want some Gatorade with it? (I say okay, but when I see the very green color of it, I decide to stay thirsty.)

I sit down among the many who have stopped by. Mostly men, mostly eating alone. But here’s the question – how do you tackle pieces of hardshell crab? Floating in a sea of thick, spicy curry sauce? On top of three fat, doughy dumplings?





We all eat quietly, to the sound of the TV playing reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. I do the best that I can with my hands and the little plastic spoon which, in reverse, serves as a good scooper for the hard to reach pockets of crab. At the end, I am a mess. Six hours later, my hands will still smell of crab and curry. I close the Styrofoam lid on the leftover dumplings (too much!), thank Eddie for his wonderfully spiced foods and leave.

The walk home is routine now. Past schools, houses, banana trees.










I’m used to being honked at all the time, even as I never will understand which honk I’m getting. Most cars that pass me do honk, many drivers will also wave, some will ask – “you good?” (the common greeting here). All these gestures have many interpretations. People honk greetings to each other all the time. I know this man! Honk! Yea, you good?!

It also means – careful, girl, move to the side. And it means – do you want a ride? Everyone’s used to grabbing rides from each other.

For me, it also sometimes means can I show you a good time? Indeed, those words are sometimes thrown about in one form or another. Of course, this too is subject to interpretation. Mostly, I am clueless as to what the honk or wave or words mean and so I wave and say “I’m good!” and walk on.

Past the colors of the Caribbean.





At the beach, I stuff my backpack when the sun starts to disappear behind this small hill.





On my way up, I pause at the pool, do a few laps, then retreat to do more work.

It is clear as anything to me that I love mornings and late afternoons here best. And that by late evening, my northern sensibilities set in. I lose the Tobago vibe. I get impatient. The Internet connection here is miserable (and it is a short hike from my quarters) and I spend listless minutes, indeed, hours for access to a line and then for it to actually link me to the world.

And there is still the matter of food that I haven’t come to terms with. Good, inexpensive food is hard to find. Scarborough is not a great place to go searching for it. Most Bacolet guests (who are British and God knows, therefore, not fussy about what they ingest) eat either here, at the Beach Club, or they take a cab to a more remote but interesting eating destination. I have avoided both, but I’m weakening. Cabdriver, take me to…

Tomorrow I’m determined to figure out the buses that sort of sometimes criss cross the island. If I champion public transportation back home, then I should learn to use it here. Even if it means I may spend the night at the roadside. I hear they cancel buses in much the same way we cancel flights out of Madison. Frequently and without explanation.

Introduction:

Caribbean colors



Corrections:

1. The Bacolet Beach Club (my home for the week) is the brand new wing of an older, family inn – once called the Old Donkey Cart (morphed eventually into the Half Moon Blue; each name has a story, but that’s probably not what you want to read here. Of more general interest is the fact that you can get good rates because things are still so new. And they know that once you come, you’ll be addicted, like the humming bird that keeps coming to this place for the sugar water because it cannot find it anywhere else).





2. Tobago is not a cruise ship destination. Until the 60s, it wasn’t much of a tourist destination either. But, the hurricane came and destroyed much of the agricultural base. They rebuilt, but with an emphasis now on eco tourism and longer-stay guests. A cruise ship will dock about once a week and it is an event, heralded up and down the island: “the cruise boat is in today!” People brace for it.

3. Tobago, especially on the more populated end of things, is safe, even for solo women travelers. The angry man of last night appears to be a tolerated town crazy. Harmless, I am told. Knife in pocket notwithstanding. Just a little angry, that’s all.


How do I know all this? And so much more? I spent the morning hours in the company of Mr. Stafford “Beardy” Taylor.






Text:


If yesterday was the orientation, today was immersion. Reflecting back on my first day here, I decided I needed time with a local person who knew the island and was willing to answer my many, many questions about it. Mr. Beardy. You need Mr. Beardy – I am told.

I chatted with him late in the day and told him what I would like to see in the space of about five hours (I know he charges for his time and I know what I can afford). He listened and said – I’ll pick you up at 7:30 in the morning.


And so we loop the southern half of the island, Mr. Beardy and I. And, except for a few pauses for soca music and cell calls from a needy aunt plus a handful of friends (yea, Pundin, wha’ happenin’…), we talk. By early afternoon, when I am dropped back at Bacolet, I know a lot about him and quite a bit about Tobago, and he knows a lot about my views on God, ghosts, children, men who wear pants halfway down their rear ends, ecotourism, and food.


We are on our way to Fort King George (so many invaders!). Mr. Beardy talks about the way traffic moves here. An old man told me two things, he says. Always try to make people like you. We toss this around for a bit. What’s the second thing? Don’t get hungry.

He means hungry for a confrontation. On the road, Mr. Beardy drives with an attitude of benevolence. Yea, man! - he’ll shout with a wide grin out the window to the car he just let through on a tight stretch.

So, in the towns, why are there two parallel green (or red) lights on an intersection? I ask. In case one burns out! It may take a while to repair. In the meantime, you have the other one!

From the Fort, we get the views toward Scarborough and, on the other side, to the coastline beyond.





We’re back on the road now. We pass a hospital, schools, more schools. I get a lecture on each one. A clinic in every town. There, see that? A school for the average students. With average teachers. 90% of parents would not want their child to go there. In all of Tobago, free books, buses and lunches for students. And so on. Tobago isn’t hurting for services. At least, not for another several years, Mr. Beardy says. When the price of oil drops below $40 per barrel, we’re in trouble (Trinidad is the one island in the Caribbean that has a refinery).

Scenically, what stands out on this drive is the lushness of the hilly landscape. Outside the tiny towns and villages, the vegetation is over the top gorgeous. Forests and flowers.




And the fruits -- what's in season now? -- I ask. Now we are finishing with oranges and we have ripe watermelon, papaya and banana. You lucky people. I want to say we have hoop spinach in Wisconsin year round, but I think he wont be impressed. What’s the coldest it gets here? Oh, we can get down in the middle of winter nights. All the way to 26 C (that would be 73.5 F). I tell him our January high can be 26. In Fahrenheit.

Mr Beardy knows that I want to see the birds that are so much part of Tobago’s sound system (I don’t know which is louder – the local Cocrico…





… or the beat of soca music.)

We head to the Grafton Estate, where his friend Sampson gives nature walks for birdwatchers. We don’t hike on this day, but even a few minutes here are rewarding. The blue gray tenager makes a repeat appearance and I am tickled to see these yellow breasted sugar eaters, because they are my breakfast companions back at the Inn, even as my occasional traveling companion has chosen to sit this one out.





…and to their surprise, we get a real friendly visit from the gorgeous blue crown mot mot.





I could do a post on the birds of this place and nothing more (there are so many!)…





… but someone dear to me has rolled her eyes at my recent obsession with spotting birds and so I’ll move on to the next stop – Plymouth. From here, you can see the beaches where the huge leatherback turtles lay their eggs in spring.





…and Mr. Beardy, liking my legal training and incorrectly assuming that this makes one clever with puzzles (Mr. Beardy’s dad was a lawyer and Mr. Beardy has a high regard for the profession), throws a local legend at me as we stand by the grave of a young lass of 24. How can this be, he asks me, pointing to the inscription on the tombstone?

She was a mother without knowing it and a wife without letting her husband know it except by her kind indulgences to him.

Turns out she had spells of amnesia and died in childbirth and he had spells of drunkenness which messed with his memory and no, I did not guess instantly, only after I’d been given hints of such telling force that a lightbulb finally went off for me. [He was a sailor! What do sailors do?? – Mr. Beardy asks, surprised that a lawyer should not know all. Fish? Go away? Get sick? Have other women? Hoist sails and get beaned by the mast? Oh, right! Get drunk! Of course.]

Out of Plymouth now. We drive up to another place – a home of a man who loves the birds that migrate through this island. The (passing through) hummingbirds come in from the forest to feed in his yard. As we pull up, two large dogs lope toward us.

Dogs here do not like Black people, Mr. Beardy tells me.
You’re joking. Aren’t dogs colorblind?
No, they really do not like us. You watch.

We get out of the car. The dogs bark and growl at him. Me? They run over wagging and whining to get my attention. I give a quick rub behind their ears.

It’s because white people like you treat them so well – like they’re important. (He says this as I offer sweet words of friendliness to the pooches.) We just treat them like dogs.

You’d think I would feel all happy with the idea that dogs like me, the visitor, the interloper. But in the evening, as I stroll the streets of Scarborough looking for street food (more on that later), a stray mutt circles me and follows closely and I am cursing my whiteness. Strays, in my mind, are, in many countries, more dangerous to the passerby than street bums and muggers. And here I am, with the cruise ship gone and if you take Mr. Beardy’s word – the only possible dog pal out and about. A helpful group of (liming) girls make banging noises at the dog and eventually the bitch wanders off.



We look for the humming birds. They are here alright. And they are breathtakingly beautiful.

You come at a good time, Mr. Beardy says. They just appeared again this month.










And now we are on a winding road that cuts through the edge of the rainforest. We’re along the opposite shore, where the pace is even quieter, gentler.










Mr. Beardy is having a wonderful time being gracious to buses and cars that appear to face us head on as we spiral our way around the hills.

And here’s the thing – these hills, green as anything, are also alive with the splash of color of blooming trees. We have more blooming trees than any other Caribbean island! – Mr. Beardy says this confidently so that I actually believe him. And I’m seeing them – bright orange and gorgeous. That’s the Immortal tree. Parrots eat their flowers. And up at Plymouth? That was the Flamboyant. It just finished its blooming period.





We round the corner and I see a village by the sea. Castora.





Someone told me that Castora is especially pretty. Even more laid back. A wider stretch of sand, gentle Caribbean waves. A place where fishing brings in more money than tourism. At the fishing coop, the men wait for the boats to come in.





Smell that pot? I nod. Is it illegal? Yes, but police don’t arrest for smoking. And the smoker will show some respect when the police come by and put out the pot. And you know, we are not really a nation of smokers, he says. And it’s true. I rarely see anyone smoking cigarettes.

Mr. Beardy gives me time to stroll (and get my pants wet in the warm, gentle waves) and grab a coffee. Okay, I cannot resist. And papaya pineapple juice. And an egg sandwich.





I am smiling. And relaxed. I am also late for my meet up with Mr. Beardy. I have found the Tobago pace.



Up the mountain we go now, crossing the rainforest, through quiet villages…





...wait, why are we stopping? I always stop here if I pass by. It is Tobago’s best bakery. I pick up a coconut drop (they look like our scones, but they are more delicate).





Of course, one is not possible. We pick up several and I head back home (with a request for another meet-up Sunday evening: more on that later).


Having blown my day’s sums of TT dollars on the morning spin, I am left with street food for dinner. Doubles (fried bara breads with chickpea curry and spicy chutney) from one man's van, sugar juice from here:





...and finally, oddly enough, Italian ice cream from a tiny little café in town.

I’m not sure if this really constituted a meal, but if I want to try Tobago’s snack food, this is one way to do it. Cheap and tasty does not mean light and insignificant. It is curious to me that men here tend to be tall and gaunt and women tend to be large. Mr. Beardy noted this too as we passed yet another handful, liming by the side of the road. They have a baby and then they eat too much, he told me. I asked him if maybe the ideal type here was differently drawn than, say, in the States. He shook his head. It’s not good and our foods are good but heavy, he said, reaching into the bag for another bit of the coconut drop.

This morning, in the internet café (which is actually part of the inn), I plug in my computer and half listen to the conversation of two British guests. One is trying to print a boarding pass (why? ...there is but one small plane that flies in and out…) and he can’t do it. Deciding that the island is full of stoned people who are clueless in the matter of printing his boarding pass, he walks out.

It is true that if you want a quick solution to your technology issues here, you are going to be frustrated. The pace is on one relaxed ride -- so vastly different than what most of us have back home! But it can hit you in the gut if you're on a schedule and hate detours.

The also British girlfriend is less flustered. She talks of her favorite spots on Tobago and ends in this delightfully upbeat way – really, it was all good.

The other guy, also waiting for the communal computer (I type away on my own), is interested in mountain biking and windsurfing. That is it. He is here to do both and he wants wind. So far, he is satisfied.

I'm thinking -- have no expectations and you will not be disappointed.

But, I do have expectations: I want warm weather and I want a chance to feel and to shift to the Tobago pace!


At the breakfast terrace, I see the nod to the British tourist: there is porridge. I like porridge. Especially with chunks of fresh mango.










I walk to Scarborough – the main island town. Some twenty minutes down the road. Past the colors of the Caribbean winter.










I ask a pair of liming dudes -- who in this town is the best roti maker (the favored street food here – an Indian type bread wrap with stuff inside)? They tell me it’s Rena’s. But a woman who pours forth laughter with the force of a tidal wave claims that I should go to Eddie’s. I can’t find Eddie’s. I ask another woman for directions. She takes my arm and leads me to it.

Eddie's is a take-out or sit down place, with a tight kitchen to the side. I watch the women roll, pull and cook. And serve.










After lots of miscommunication about what it is that I actually want to eat, I sit down with a roti wrap of spicy steamed vegetables. Cheap and delicious.





A local guy joins me at the table. A friend comes over. They exchange small comments. When local people talk to each other, they lapse into a speech that is almost completely incomprehensible to me. When they direct things to me, I get 80% of what they say.





Scarborough. What's it like? I pass a few food stalls (okra, pumpkin, bananas, pineapple), and clothing stalls, and combination clothing and food stalls.















This isn’t a big commerce day here. But, people shop. And chat.





Just down the road, a boat is tossing in the choppy waters. Not too many boats in this little port.





One cruise ship comes in today and leaves in the early afternoon. There is also a ferry that pulls in from Trinidad, but it docks further south. I am told that on these bouncy seas, the five hour ride is brutal.

On my walk back, I watch kids play outside during school recess. I have my big lens camera. They see me. They come toward me and we engage in a mutual waving session.






I Skype (computer phone) Ed and he tells me he hears birds in the background. Yes, everywhere there is the sound of birds.


In the late afternoon, I'm down by the water, stretching in the shade of the large trees that line the beach just below the Bacolet Beach Club. I drink a cold local beer (less frightening at this time of day than their rum beverages) and flick off the occasional spider that appears from nowhere. Earlier, I listened to the British guests complain about the mosquitoes and sand flies in New Zealand and on other Caribbean Islands. I have found neither here.

I plow through only a quarter of what I brought down to read. I'm too busy watching waves wash close to the edge of the chair.





And when I can't stand it anymore (the water is so warm!), I plunge in and pretend to body surf. Sort of. Not really.





The guy in charge of the inn tells me that it just opened two weeks ago. I’m one of the first guests? Fantastic! I hope I will be one of their regular guests. Up the coast of Tobago, there is a little island called Goat Island, where Ian Fleming hung out. Writers’ paradise!


But I am too distracted outside to write. And so I retreat for the evening up to my white room overlooking the water.


...Until it's time for dinner. I am going to a real ma and pa place (the Blue Crab), in that the pa cooks and the ma serves and they present you with whatever they've prepared. It's local and fresh and very very good. You have to let them know in advance if you want to come for dinner. On this night, only two tables are occupied. We eat okra soup, and Trinidad shrimp with pumpkin and please let me not neglect the rum punch, because we're in rum land here.

















Our cook is one of nine brothers -- all of them great cooks. His wife sits down with us and chats about the forthcoming Tobago elections, about Obama, her travels to America, Obama, her visit to England and her encounter with the queen, Obama's wife and family, Caroline Kennedy's ascent to the senate, Obama's trip to Kenya... and so the evening continues until it is time to kiss and go.





The walk home: this is not a good part of my day here. It's quite dark between the Beach Club and the town. Tonight I walked home along the empty road behind a guy who was markedly upset at the world. I could not tell if he would be upset at me as well if I passed him and so I lagged behind in much the same way I would lag behind any angry guy on a dark street back home. No more solo walks on dark roads.


It's midnight now. My sleeveless shirt and summer skirt feel perfect in the cooler night breeze. The summer sweater is still in my suitcase. May it stay there until next week.

I admit it: I do not like Wisconsin winters. Too cold, too long, too difficult to navigate. Yes, there are brilliant days of snow and sunshine. But you have to understand – very often, the landscape looks like this (on the approach to Detroit Tuesday morning; granted – not Wisconsin, but close enough):





So why Tobago? Well, it’s 87 F right now in Tobago.

Yes, but why Tobago? Why not, for instance, Miami, which on the approach, looks way better than Detroit, and it requires half the time on an airplane?





Okay, so here is how Tobago came to be my first major travel destination of 09:

We’re back in October, in Wisconsin. Stunning and colorful and then pffft! It’s gone. So there I am, reading the Sunday NYTimes and the author of a travel piece is trying to tell me that there are 37 reasons to travel to the Caribbean this year.

Eh. I’m not a Caribbean person. Something about sprawling resorts amidst an impoverished indigenous population that doesn’t make me happy. But, I glance at the Times list anyway, just to see if there is a convincing argument there.

And I toss it aside. I mean, their suggestions are expensive! If you’re going to offer reasons to go anywhere at the cusp of 2008, you better argue that it’s a bargain or else you’re speaking to a very small audience.

But one item stands out: at the end of their list, I read that someone took it upon herself to convert a small old place in Tobago into a new and funky cool beach hotel. We are talking about exotic, diverse, musical, lush, self-sustaining, delicious Tobago. And the weather? Trinidad and Tobago are just off the Venezuelan coast. You can actually see the South American continent if you stand still long enough on the southern tip of Trinidad. So it is damn warm. Year round. No sweater needed.

I make my case. Ed balks. It’s a long trip – as long as to Europe. But half the price! – I nudge him. We wont eat out! (He doesn’t believe me.) I’ll pay for everything! (He especially doesn’t believe me. Too many of my cappuccinos in Italy accidentally appeared on his credit card I guess.)

The trouble is, Ed would like our travels to spontaneously fall into place when both of us are feeling like thumbing our way to wherever. Me, I’m rigorously tied to a work schedule. I have a few days in January when I can be elsewhere. Let’s go.

I leaf through books on the island: coral reefs, tropical fish, exotic birds. The birthplace of calypso and the steel pan. A literate (99.9%) rather than impoverished island that grows its own food. Creole cooking, flat breads with curried mush, papaya, mango, crab and dumplin’. And a love of liming (hanging out).

Still, to lay out a chunk of travel funds so early in the year… Ed, who knows every path to frugality there is, suggests that I beg for a rate for the impoverished budget and the hotel answers back with a super discounted winter deal. And so I book a room at the old but new Bacolet Beach Club. I’m leaving Ed behind, but I have work, I have my computer, my camera and a ratty pair of rubber slippers, just like Obama’s.

I’m off.


It is a four flight (two very long, two very short) trip, the final one on a little turbo prop that hops over from Port of Spain in Trinidad to Tobago. The kind of plane where you can’t mess with the air vents because they’re all broken. (It’s a $24 flight, what do you want...)

I arrive late at night. The air is moist and very warm. My room looks out over the sea (I can’t see it yet, but I hear it) and there are bougainvillea petals all over the bed. The WiFi doesn’t work, but who can complain. The women at the desk call me darling and dear and everyone says good night even though they’re not going anywhere and neither are you. And their accent is crisp and uniquely their own.





I sit down in the lobby with the funky chairs and sip a Carib beer. I can do this for a week. I can get warmed up here. See you next week, cold town of mine.

P.S. In the morning, I confirm what I heard last night. My sweet white room looks out on this:

In flight. All day long. Lots of time to read, work, and watch the weather change outside from freezing to, I hope, sunny and warm.

Outside, they say that the temperatures reached the twenties. I don’t know. My feeling is that they didn’t reach high enough. I finished a huge work project and then ran errands. And in between, I complained to Ed that there wasn’t enough “travel” in his “companionship.” (I'm leaving tomorrow. He's staying home.)

It felt cold outside. Or maybe I was convincing myself that my trip south is a good idea after all, even though I will have to take work, and I will be traveling alone, and it will take me 15 hours of obscure connections to get to where I want to be.

But consider these landscapes! They are mine for so many winter weeks! This is what I see when I leave my condo:





And from the roof -- even at sunset, the dominant color is -- blaaah.





And so early in the morning, I’m off. With jubilation. Where to? Oh, Tobago. Why Tobago? I’ll let you know once I get there. Be patient please. I may or may not arrive at a place from where I can post right away.

You hear a lot of this now: transition. Transition team. Movement. In the Chicago Tribune yesterday: First Family, on the move!

I understand those words. Me, I'm in my second day of transitioning. From family, from holidays, from last year, to the next chapter. Or at least paragraph.

I said good bye to my other daughter – right there at the O’Hare terminal, from which, presumably, many are leaving to create that other transition in DC. She flew to the capital, I drove home.

I stopped only once – at Woodfield Mall (I know; such a poor way to conclude a holiday) – quickly, to pick up something. In this particular store, the soundtrack was giving forth music that I found quite lovely. A shopper, a guy, somewhat younger than me, was mouthing the words. What song is this? Who is the singer? It’s the group Keane – he tells me enthusiastically. You know, there are only two instruments there -- drums and a piano.


Along I 90, heading north, I watch the sun do its final retreat. In Illinois, the snow has almost completely melted. Now, in the early hours of dusk, the landscape is honey gold.





But, it's dark by the time I pull up to my Madison condo. Though not dark enough to conceal the ice that has taken over this city’s streets and sidewalks.






Ed and I make a pot of soup for dinner (perhaps that’s on the optimistic side; more accurately, Ed and I shop for soup ingredients and then the soup is made by one of us, the one who likes to eat fresh and honest home made soup in the winter).

It’s not late yet, not by my holiday schedule of late dinners and even later postings. Ed’s dozing because that is what he does after dinners of hot soup and bread. I download the Keane song and listen to the lyrics about “everybody’s changing…”

I am entering a five day period of transition:

Day one (today):

One daughter leaves for her east coast home. The other remains in Chicago and so I stay here as well. For one more day.

Day two:

Tomorrow, other daughter leaves Chicago for her east coast home (along with Obama – but she wouldn't have known that, initially...) and I leave for my Madison home (no one of note is speeding north on I 90 along with me).

Day three:

On Monday, I deliver finished work to the Law School and pick up the next stack of papers for the week ahead. At home, I finish unpacking. And then I pack again.

Day four:

Early on Tuesday, I take my work, my camera, but not my occasional traveling companion (who thinks traveling within four weeks of the last trip is weird) and I head really really south, to where it is warm.

Day five

If the skies remain friendly and I make my four connections, I will get there! – a place where I hope to pick up enough warmth (in the space of a week) to sustain me for the remaining 65 days of winter. But that’s running too much ahead of myself. Let’s get back to this day.


Day one, revisited:

I had wanted to get work done (the old semester has to be wrapped up and the new one is just two weeks away), but instead, I spent the morning chasing down Chicago police. Catching up with a squad car, I asked them to follow me back to this spot:





I wanted them to acknowledge the terrible parking wrong that had befallen me here. I was being fined? Huge sums? For what reason??? (Note street sign is blank. Whited out. So no parking restrictions, correct?)

Still, it being Chicago, no one would tear up the ill-written ticket for me. Ah well. I will participate in the silly appeals process. Forgive me if I sound cynical. Unfairly issued parking tickets, car towings, failed appeals, hours wasted on documenting my side of the parking story -- these have happened to me before here.

I feel that I am ready for week in the south.

Ocean is five years old today. Five years – that’s not exactly a generation, but it is a big chunk of life. For example, five years ago, I thought and wrote like a person just entering her fifties. Now I think and write like a person who thinks fifty is on the childish side of things.

People talk a lot about finding your writing voice. Yawn... But I’ll admit this much: when you write publicly, everyday, for five years, you get into a mindset – for me, an Ocean mindset – and it is there every time you think about your next post and the next. The mood varies, but the mindset stays.


It’s never easy to post daily. When traveling, stories throw themselves at me, but time pressures and Internet issues are huge. On a work day, I often do not sit down to post until after dinner. I fight tiredness. If I hadn’t thought of a story yet, or taken an okay photo, I feel defeated.

It’s good to challenge yourself. To try to improve, do better stuff, to think of ways to tell a story. But every story lives not only because of the teller, but because there is a person who listens.

Thank you for being there, for listening.


A P.S. on this day – daughters and I went downtown…





…to see if the world was really on sale, 75% off. It was. I survived, sure, I did, but I think the best moment was at the end, as the evening seeped in and we settled for a while at a Rush Street bar. I watched and half listened as the two of them laughed and bantered about years past and the weeks ahead. And the city lights outside sparkled and the air inside was warm and life felt pretty damn good.

Sweet, lovely day, you New Year day, you. Unscathed, not marred by anything. Pure and simple. Requiring nothing from you. Not even quarters in the parking meter (I realized this after I dumped a bagful; ah well – happy New Year, city of Evanston!).

We tried to imagine a perfect meal for the morning after New Year’s Eve. [How was dinner last night? A blur of heaven. We rode in a cab at breakneck speed…





.. and settled in for an evening of eating. As anticipated. Superb.]


So what do you want for breakfast after a big night out? Someone threw out the idea that we should do as Olivia Dukakis did in Moonstruck.



eggs in bread baskets

There you have it. The morning after. And now the year begins.