The One in Barbados

Ever since I saw the episode of ‘Friends’ appropriately titled, “The One in Barbados,” I’ve always wanted to go. Even though they never really were on location in Barbados and spent their entire trip indoors due to the rainy season, it just sounded like such an obscure and unlikely land that many people didn’t get to travel to, but lusted after. Lucky for me, my mom was one of the people that decided to go (relocate there) and in turn, gave me a reason to travel to this place.

As fate would have it, the first day we were here, it stormed. So far, my trip was identical as my beloved ‘Friends’ episode. My friend & travel pal Hether had been keeping a keen eye on 24-hour weather and was convinced that our entire trip would be wet. After all, it is the beginning of hurricane season. Being from the Pacific Northwest, I’ve come to ignore any weather predictions as the weather is like a woman. Unpredictable. She may feel a certain way one moment, then change her mind the next. It is called Mother Nature, yes?

It did sporadically rain on our trip, but the rain is so refreshing here because it is warm water and the air is incredibly humid. It’s comparable to being in a sauna (which may not sound appealing, but trust) and your skin feels fantastic. And, if you can't take it, the pool is 20 feet outside your door.

In my two week journey of Barbados I was lucky enough to dip my toes in the Caribbean and Atlantic waters, dance & eat with the locals at their annual weekend celebration at Oistin’s Fish Fry, experiment with driving and getting lost all while operating on the wrong side of the road, walk the streets in St. Lawrence Gap and pop into a reggae bar/80’s bar/Calypso bar, eat fresh seafood which included “dolphin” (actual fish=Mahi-Mahi), see the amazing blowholes on the North coast, and take in one of the best views of Barbados from Cherry Hill.

[Speightstown. West Coast]

The Bajan people are one of the friendliest collective groups of people I’ve ever come into contact with. Whether while driving or dining, the locals appreciate their tourists and recognize that if it wasn’t for us coming in to peer into their lifestyle, their country would not prosper. This seems logical right? You give me income, therefore, I respect you. However, I have been to many a cities where even if you are bringing in the bread, the locals loathe you and have no interest in your presence (I’m looking at you NYC & Paris). Our tour guide reiterated this and expressed his deep appreciation for our travels to his home and told us to come back and bring our friends. So I’m telling you friends, you should go.

My last full day of vacation happened to be Independence Day. And for reasons unbeknownst to me, I woke up with the battle cry “The British are Coming! The British are Coming!” in my head. [Quick Sarah Palin, who said these words??]

It was a bit odd to spend the 4^th of July in a British territory. No fireworks, no Old Glory waving in the wind (except at the local casino), no passing by underdressed women in makeshift flag shirts celebrating their "American spirit" and apparently their freedom to be half-naked. I didn't eat a hot dog or apple pie or have a block party with the neighbors. In fact, I had only met about five other Americans in the two weeks I spent here.

We spent our Fourth of July inches from the Caribbean eating Tapas at a bar called, wait for it, ‘Tapas,’ showing our love for our homeland in the form of red and blue cocktails and in festive attire and appreciating the spectacular view. Compromises.

I'm about to board a plane and head back to the great United States. I still awe at the fact that I can wake up somewhere between the Caribbean Sea and Atlantic Ocean and find my feet firmly on the Pacific coast come dusk in the place where I can appreciate my bed, unquestionable ground beef, and the fresh air of the Pacific Northwest. Sometimes spending a little time in a different place can give you a newfound appreciation for the one you go home to.

Cheers Barbados. You've been nothing but lovely.

Keep Left, Keep Left.

Today Hether and I took the island by auto. Her on scooter and me in what is the equivalent to a smart car. Barbadians, since they are a British nation and all, drive on the left side of the road. Being a passenger and sitting in the “driver’s seat” sufficiently freaked me out for the first week of being here, but today we wanted to get out and see the East coast of the island that borders the Atlantic. I had no choice.

Anderson, our cab driver, gave me the best advice: “Just keep repeating ‘Keep Left, Keep Left’ to yourself and you’ll be fine.”

I cannot count the number of times I said this to myself today.

It did help that the Bajans are by far the nicest drivers I’ve ever witnessed in the entire world. Or at least the “world” I’ve traveled in. When a driver has the right-of-way, they will actually STOP and let drivers from side roads into the flow of traffic on the regular. Mind blowing.

They also use their horns as an actual communication device; mostly to say hi to their passing friends and to let you into traffic if you are waiting on a side road. Unlike us Americans who usually use it when a douchebag cuts us off in traffic and sometimes we even accompany said horn with a visual emblem of one of our ten-digits to really illustrate our affection. Not the Barbadians. I actually cut someone off today (by accident) and they waved me on. No blast of the horn or inappropriate finger waving.

What the what? I can’t possibly get used to this or I’ll never get anywhere when I get home. And I’m also sure I’ll be telling myself “Keep Right, Keep Right.”

It was all worth it when we got to see this:

And this:

SEA > MIA > BGI

In theory, I love airports. I love airports because when I find myself in one, I am usually heading out into the world.

In reality, most airports disgust me. Their hard cold linoleum or concrete floors with infected children carrying millions of germs, wiping their snotty noses then touching the people mover rail that I will inevitably touch 10 minutes later.

It’s just a cess pool for bacteria.

Except PDX. It’s carpeted and clean. And I like to think of Oregonians as being clean individuals. [Although a trip to Hawthorne or Old Town would prove that the unwashed lurk here as well.]

I did not receive the warm fuzzy feelings I usually do at PDX walking into Sea-Tac. No Turquoise carpet; no large skylighted windows letting in the sun under its thick cloud cover. It just seemed stale with its concrete floors.

I knew my trip would be interesting when I fell into line at the Alaska ticket counter behind a woman who exhibited some very questionable behavior. She scratched her nails underneath her neck, her arms, and her hat. She wore a mysterious wrap over her wrist area which I refuse to believe was for arthritis and was probably concealing track marks.

A confused clerk answered Jitter’s questions while a security guard looked on. Apparently he shared my similar intuition and I guess has the authority to approach individuals who look like they are undergoing crack withdrawals. As I walked by them, I heard Jitters tell the security guard that she was suffering from asthma and hadn’t taken her meds.

For the record, she was breathing fine. And correct me if I’m wrong, but itching is not a side effect if you forget your inhaler. I think it’s more along the lines of wheezing and your breathing subsiding.

With Jitters out of the way and with the great line luck I was having, a very large family (in members, not in weight) had just beat me to the security line. They seemed to be saying goodbye, but all members of the family entered the line. One of the daughters of the clan asked if I would take a picture. I do. We move another 20 feet and I’m preparing for the usual security rundown. My passport is in my mouth, quart size bag full of liquids in my right hand, my purse is slung over my shoulder as I dig into it with my free hand to find my ticket when a voice asks me, “will you take another picture?”

Really? This isn’t Disneyland and it would appear that I am busy.

I don't say anything, take the smart phone, and snap another picture. This time, I didn't bother to give them a countdown.

It isn’t until about 2 minutes later that I realize they are saying goodbye to their dad. They have gifted him a homemade fun-size candy bar necklace that he is now wearing in public to show that he really does love his kids. It was probably for Father’s Day. He is wearing sunglasses to hide his tears from his 4 children but the telltale mouth quiver gives him away.

I want to offer to take another picture.

I make it through security and am awaiting my bags on the other side of the X-Ray. I see my first container come into view that holds my laptop and as I go to reach for it, a man throws his tattered Van’s shoe on top of it.

Did you really just throw your shoe on my MacBookPro?

I turn to find the owner of the tired shoe standing beside me. He looks up at me, realizing that he has no laptop and there was no reason for him to throw his shoe into any container post-X-ray screening. He feigns any understanding for the English language and giggles at me upon seeing his mistake. This is not an appropriate response for throwing your shoe on my laptop, buddy.

I post up in the Alaska lounge (brewery, not airline) to await my friend Hether's arrival from Portland. While sitting in the restaurant, I see two very familiar, although burnt faces, walking down the terminal. It’s the best friend and her fiancée and shortly after, her sis and her boyfriend. This sighting elates me as seeing anyone in an airport is exciting. They leave shortly after and almost without a lull, I hear Hether shout "You are literally right here!" Apparently her gate was closer than she had thought and this pleases her greatly.

She is anything but subtle.

And we're off. Next stop Miami.