Jamaica Day 4: Back to Christiana

Jamaica: Day 2. Christiana Street Style

Halfway Tree, Kingston: Crowd's Reaction to Bolt, Blake, and Wier sweeping the 200 meter race in London (Olympics)

Jamaica: Yam Country Day 1

It’s almost midnight here at what should be a quiet mountaintop in Wait-a-bit, Trelawney, known to the world as the yam growing hometown of Usain Bolt. But, as I lay here typing, the steady bass from a nearby dancehall invading my room is likely to last all night. Perhaps it’s the leftover nationalistic pride from Monday’s 50^th independence anniversary or the excitement from watching Shelly Ann grab her 2^nd medal in the 200 meter or maybe it’s just Wednesday.

Wait-a-bit, a town that should win a gold medal for its name alone, is a little farming community miles high up in the Jamaican mountains. Travelers are almost guaranteed to find religion before getting here; the 2 hour drive upwards along a winding, treacherously narrow road full of blind spots and cliff-edge turns without barricades will make an atheist find Jesus quick. Here in Wait-a-bit it’s harvesting season and the only thing anyone seems to have business with is the Olympics and yam. The world’s supply of Jamaican yam comes from right here, and since Usain credited it for his record breaking run in Beijing four years ago, it seems to be in high demand. Walk down the uneven winding roads and all you see is yam: donkeys carrying yam, people weighing yam, machetes chopping yam. And with all this yam you would think the town would be whipping around faster than NYC but no, things move maddeningly delightfully slow here.

Born and partially raised in Falmouth, Montego Bay, I can tell you that the mountains and the rest of Jamaica are as different as Manhattan is to Kentucky. The pace is slower here, we don’t eat the same foods; things like red beans and rice are rare thing to come by and you might be blessed to see rice on Sunday, the air is clean and cold here while the rest of Jamaica is muggy and hot and the patrois here is a mumble and a drawl opposed the quick sharp tongue of the city slickers down at sea level—but these are just my Americanized observations.

Two weeks in wine yam country visiting my grandma. What’s a buji Americanized girl to do? Eat and blog! I’ve decided to do what everyone else not occupied with yam is doing, drink my time away at a rum bar and keep up with the races. Jamaican rum bars are everywhere. You can’t throw a stone in Jamaica without hitting a little shack with a red stripe sign on the door. So today I decided to “go up a shop,” or walk to my uncles rum bar, to rub elbows with the locals, catch some Olympic events, and polish up my rusting patrois.

The rum bar campaign was a success. I quickly turned from patron to bartender, churning out the moonshine rum with a flourish and a smile, rum so strong it practically eats a hole through the counter when you spill it. It was easy to get into the rhythm of bartending; the patrons mainly asked for moonshine, a cigarette, or a phone card (probably to call a ‘wurl of girls’ as the billboard suggests). I may have gotten a little bit ahead of myself by asking for tips. The idea of tipping a bartender hasn’t reached Wait-a-bit  yet. But, after getting a few sharp (woman I’ll kill you) looks, a few of the patrons got into the spirit and I left with $200 Jamaican in tips tonight…too bad that can only buy me a red stripe and pack of gum, but hey, baby steps. Tomorrow I’ll make enough to call a "wurl of girls" for sure. ;) 

Alright sleep for me! The hamsters churning the internet wheel are getting tired and so am I.

I leave you with the best damn Jamaican commercial I’ve seen so far:

Enjoy

What Happened in Vegas

I wasn't planning on blogging about my adventures in Las Vegas. After all, there's a Vegas code... BUT, today I got an ego-boosting request for an update on my gloriously nonsensical life from a reader that made my day. So, without further ado I bring you: What Happend in Vegas.

Vegas was never on my bucket list of places to visit. I've never understood it's appeal. With it's bars, hotels, clubs and casinos, It's where people who haven't been to South Beach go to experience what my mum jokingly calls "dutty life". Not that I had any plans of living la vida "dutty". I was there on business to attend Cosmoprof and introduce a new product called INCEPTION, NOT gamble away my imaginary inheritance and indulge my hedonistic urges while a portrait of me rots in the attic.

Cosmoprof was a success. It was such a pleasure networking with the big wigs behind some of my favorite beauty brands and discovering some new and innovative products. My favorite meet-cute was meeting owner and creator behind Besame Cosmetics, the makeup behind movies and shows like The Artist and Mad Men, Gabrielle Hernandez, a woman who looks as if she just stepped out of a fabulous 1940's movie.

I have to take a moment thank the lovely models: Joyce Jones and Nataesha who, besides stopping traffic lanes of international business men in suits with their...ehem...charm, made working the convention so much fun.--And makeup artist/hair stylist Kaye Dash who transformed the girls into runway divas each morning (I definitely have to get her secret to getting those curls).

For a city named sin my trip was pretty tame. I spent the majority of it either working or having way too much fun riding the sideways-moving elevators in my pyramid hotel. But I did get to do some-sightseeing; the Venetian, Cosmopolitan and Caesar's Palace were okay but they had nothing on the blown glass ceilings, the whimsically themed gardens, and the dancing waterfall at Bellagio.

Being in Vegas was like being inside of an 80's arcade with no tokens left. I can't say it's on my the top of the list of places I've been; the novelty had definitely worn off by day 3, but it was a nice change and who can complain about staying in a pyramid (unless, of course, you're a mummy).  Model Joyce Jones put it all perspective with her insight: "If you don't sin a little, you'll explode!" to which I could only reply, "now that is what I call convention-al wisdom."

Models: Cool Blue Talent
Hotel: The Luxor
Hair by: Kaye Dash

NYC on Business: 50 Shades of Cray

The Misadventures of a Blogger in NYC

Warning: This entry is NOT about how I met some strange, mercurial, billionare who took me down a kinky rabbit hole of whips and chains. And how we all listened to Rihanna's "S&M" song for the whole ideal. This trip to NYC was for business, not reenactments of 50 Shades of Grey. Ha! The closest I got to Christian Grey this week was meeting a young lawyer at a bar who has no idea J and I have created an entirely twisted backstory for him involving a sad childhood, deviant predilections, and yes, a red playroom. Poor Fiddy Esq

NYC P1: There's No Walk Of Shame on Madison Ave.

As I sit in West Harlem reflecting over the past couple days, I cannot bring myself to regret the past 48 hours, or decisions that led me to sitting here, rendered an invalid for all intents and purposes, and salving the pain of my now crippled feet by stuffing my face with $50 Parisian cookies from Maison Laduree. Last night I dined like a queen in Union Square with Wall Street investors, analysts, and the like. Today I'm eating like Marie Antoinete. I ask myself, "Who funds these exquisite overtures?" Do I have some Park Ave. residing patroness of my Blog who sprinkles fairy dust into my wallet for the sole purpose of amusing herself with my later recantings? Or will the vikings of Chase bank be at my door at any moment. Because I sure don't have any explanation for how these trips/excursions keep popping up.

Last night I dined at Casa Mono, a tapas restaurant. Tapas is the Spaniard's version of an expensive practical joke in which waiters serve one single pea on a plate to a large table given heaps of champagne and red wine, and proceed to watch their patrons fight with knives and forks to the death over the last morsel. It's kinda like Hunger Games, only I didnt read that book and have no idea if that reference is even close. The only way to keep from killing your friends is to order 3-4 plates per person and pretend to be civilized as your date goes for the last bite of fried bunny.

As for the food, no expense is spared. Every wild game imaginable is on the menu: rabbit, ox, fox--whatever. My entirely middle class self tried things like rabbit, quale egg with truffles, and something called 'sweet breads' for the first time and I loved it so much, my next boyfriend will probably have to be some ax weilding huntsman able to supply me with an endless supply of wild game.

"You Girls Watch Too Much TV"

A Day in Harlem

What To Wear While Touring Europe

Whilst conducting some highly technical analysis (sarcasm alert) on my blog, I noticed a common keyword phrase along the lines of "What to wear when traveling in Europe" popping up for some unknown reason. So... now there's a reason for it.

Planning a trip abroad? No clue what to pack? Here are some fashion tips for touring Europe without screaming, "tourist".

Italy: If a coin falls in Rome and no pop-star is there to see it, did it make a sound?

Last Entry to my Eurotrip Blog:

My tour group and I arrived in Italy a completely unified and bonded family unit, with the knowledge looming over us that Rome was my last stop. And although most of the tour would be continuing on to Eastern Europe, I know that they were devastated about losing me. (Deny it all you want. You know Bratislava wasn’t the same without me!)

With movies like Three Coins in a Fountain, Under the Tuscan Sun, and yes, even the Lizzy Macguire movie on the brain, I was more excited for Italy than anywhere else. Not to mention the historian in me was ready to be let loose onto the streets, like raging bull. The Vatican, the Trevi fountain, and freakin’ Florence, the birthplace of the Renaissance—I was traipsing about Italy, looking happier than a “Make a Wish Foundation” winner the entire time.

Tuscany:

Manhattan in Mourning

NYC, what can I say that hasn’t already been written about, sung about? I could hyperbole myself to death just attempting to convey just one grain of this wily pastiche of grit, dirt, glass, and brick, rich and poor. So I’ll just break into song: “NYC, what is it about you? You’re big. You’re tough. You’re rough!”

Last weekend I discovered that my aunt, who I’ve never actually met but if I had, would have loved inexplicably, had died of cancer. There I was, feet still died with grapes from the vineyard, learning that I was to fly to New York, post haste.

I’ve been over it and around it, but I’ve never actually been to Manhattan. But now was my chance to finally go! I was in mourning but… really how long can someone stay in mourning when they’re surrounded by the city lights, sipping coffee at Bryant Park, and eating Pizza on Broadway?

Switzerland is like the Garden of Eden with Chocolate… and Psychos.

I’m not a nature girl; I don’t like dirt, grass, creatures, or water that’s not in a bottle. So when we arrived in the little region of Lauterbrunnen, tucked away in the picturesque Swiss Alps, my response was, “Yeah whatever. Can we go back to Paris?”

But I got over that fast. With it’s pointy roofed, Hansel and Gretel, houses, colorful tulips, and cows grazing around with bells around their necks like happy cows in California don’t know what they’re talking about, all set against a backdrop of massive snow capped alps, Switzerland was like stepping into a fairytale. I wanted to put on a white gown and go running through the fields of flowers singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of music.” Context be damned!

Paris! Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves --and the European sex ring

Paris! *Sighs wistfully*

I’m not boy crazy, I’m American. I’ve been raised by American cinema constantly telling me that if I travel abroad, I’ll fall into the arms of a prince, an eccentric artist, or an Italian pop-star. I blame Disney, really--and the Olsen Twins.

Our group mostly consisted of Aussies who didn’t understand this sensibility, but fortunately there were two other American girls on our tour just as moon-eyed over Paris as I was.

My first night in Paris was perhaps the most terrifying and yet the most magical night of the trip. How could a night than began with almost getting traded into a sex ring end with champagne and romantic kisses on the Champs Elysees!?!

We arrived at our hotel and to my disappointed we weren’t situated on the romantic streets of Paris overlooking the Eiffel; we were in de hood, du ghetto, du projects de Paris! To give you an idea of how rough it was, our Hotel needed a bouncer to stand outside to keep the gypsies, tramps, and thieves from drifting into our lobby.

Literally ten minutes after we got off  of the coach, gypsies accosted us, and my friend was almost robbed in front of me. No lie, I caught a random guy with his hand in her purse and shoed him off.

Crossing the street to our restaurant was like playing football. We had to clutch our wallets, fake left of African peddlers, and pull a Heisman move on gypsies simultaneously. It was exhausting, but, at least the restaurant didn’t disappointed. Snails, baguettes, red wine and beef were our French faire for the night and it was delicious!

While the rest of our tour went to bed early, claiming exhaustion, we American’s weren’t letting a minute in Paris go to waste. We promptly decided it was time to check out of the ghetto and check in to the Parisian night scene, getting “sick and sexy-fied” for the discotheque.


The receptionist informed us, in French, that the best place to go was a club on the Champs Elysees called “Queen”. Why we didn’t realize it was a gay club from the name, I cannot explain.

We thanked him and we set off into the night, foolishly thinking that that 3 American girls could safely prance around the ghetto in Paris and ride the metro after midnight.

Bad choice. If the streets were dangerous in the daytime, they were downright nefarious at night. We caught the attention of every scoundrel lurking in the shadows, and when we got to the metro we wished we hadn’t. It was dark and vacant, and it looked like the perfect place for a mugging/rape. Increasingly worried for our safety in de hood, we decided to book it back to our hotel and scratch our plans entirely.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get far. Two steps out of the metro and we were accosted by a group of Somalian pirates out for our booty and herded into an ally. We were completely surrounded; I was spinning around frantically to find only leering faces speaking harsh French rapidly. We realized this was not just how the Parisian men tell a girl she’s pretty and started trying to force our way out of the narrowing rape circle.

Near a street light, I spotted two guys watching calmly as this happened and tried to plead with them, using the international language of, “Help, please. Don’t let these thugs trade us into a sex ring like Taken” to no avail. One of them looked me in the eye, shrugged, and made a gesture as if to say, “Not my problem”, then looked away, allowing the men to have their way with us. It was becoming clear to me that if I didn’t act fast, we’d be living La vie en chains and black leather.

Luckily in times of peril I morph (anime style) into my alternate persona, who is also from the hood and speaks the international language of gangsta. I opened my mouth and made them feel the power of an angry black woman who’s watched at least 3 Madea movies and is well trained in figure waving, eye rolling, and extreme lip pursing. They were no match for the endless stream of threatening expletives spewing from my mouth. They backed off instantly. One of them doubled over and began bleeding from the ears. At least that’s what I’m assuming he was screaming in French. The only words I understood were, “American, crazy, and bitch.” The circle widened enough for us to weasel through and we ran, faster than Usain Bolt, to our hotel.

Did we learn our lesson? If the lesson was to take a cab to the club instead, then I guess so. After convincing the hotel bouncer that we weren’t gypsies we went to our rooms, changed into more conservative club wear, and headed off to the club in a cab. Shout out to our cab driver, Kamel from Morocco. If you’re ever in a taxi in Paris and the driver’s name is Kamel, tell him those 3 crazy American girls said hello. He’ll remember us. Trust me. 

We didn’t go to Queen. Instead we got flagged into a really fun club called 67 by a bunch of French male models moonlighting as club promoters and given a complementary bottle of Champagne. One bottle of champagne and many shots of Tequila later, the three of us were showing the club how we Americans dance: like whores.

It was an exciting night. One of us took all our passports and went off with a Parisian guy without telling anyone where she went (You know who you are)! Some of us made out with French boys and got told, “This is why they call it a French kiss”. Some of us flirted shamelessly but remained faithful to our boyfriends back home. I won’t tell who because, as a beautiful male model informed me on the Champs Elysees, “Qui passer en Paris, rester en Paris.”

Paris is a beautiful city--nothing like London. It’s like a sugary little confection. Though much of its monuments were built to commemorate war, you look at them and you immediately get swept away with romance. The city didn’t disappoint. Streets lined with bakeries and bistros, Parisians styled impeccably, gypsies charming you out of your money, and men who say things like, “I would very much like to make love with you,” made me see this vie in rose everyone’s always talking about. By the time we had to leave, I was seriously considering becoming a gypsy and never leaving those beautiful, tree lined streets.

Oh, and it’s important to note: Don't go to a bar in Latin Quarter and order the largest beer they have; you somehow get a giant penis. I’m not sure if it was just my bad French or something got lost in translation but that’s just a head’s up.



London: “Where is London Bridge?" "We’re ON London Bridge.”

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve always wanted one thing: to travel to Europe. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been drawn to movies and literature set abroad and I’ve always fantasized about strolling down the rues of Paris and sipping wine under the Tuscan sun. When I grew up I was drawn to its history, culture and art.

Finally, I decided to do something about it. I worked hard, saved, and just booked it. No one else could go with me at the time and since I’ve seen Hostel 1 and 2 as well as Taken, I wasn’t gong to backpack through Europe alone. I decided on a tour group that catered to young 20/30somethings.

The Mission: 5 countries in 2 weeks. London, Paris, Lauterbrunnen (Switzerland), the French Riviera: Nice and Monaco, and Italy.

The Agency: Topdeck “Western Spirit” tour.

Artillery: Passport, about 1000 Euro spending money, and a Global SimCard