Dominica - chapter 2 - Why so blue, Panda Bear?
“The Fort Young is the nicest hotel in Roseau,” Dominica Tourism reassured me, “You’ll be right next door.”
The Garraway is supremely adequate and just around the corner from my hotel, I discover the perfect pastry shop. Normally that's the sort of thing you figure out on the way back to the airport, but I had plenty of time to sicken myself of its delights. Some fantastic banana bread and some Local Juice, mmm... passion fruit (slightly too sweet, but I'm a positive person).
The weather is hazy all over the island so I get to know my guide, Clem. Educated at Cambridge, he has almost no Caribbean accent, but bumps it up when talking to the street, much like I would probably convert “sure” to “sho” when talking to a black guy, we all want to fit in.
I later realize that he studied in Cambridge, not at Cambridge, but he’s still a very smart bloke.
The island is amazing to explore, but the best part of the day comes at lunchtime in the Botanical Garden. After a huge shower forces us to cut the tour short and make a run for the restaurant, a fantastic Callaloo soup makes it all better like mommy would.
The day with Clem ends uneventfully as the light wasn’t great and I haven’t found my groove yet. I take a walk around town solo and pick a shady pool bar to wait for sunset. Quickly I figure out that "shady" does not exist here. What would be thugs at home are teddy bears here. The people of Dominica are friendly and welcoming, even when a white man landing on a foreign island usually means the locals will have to convert religions and learn a new language.
“Those are the greatest jeans ever! I would have taken you for a 31!” is something a Dominican would never say. I leave the Creole restaurant before ordering, but after drinking a glass of water, assuring myself that not all Americans are like that. How could I even let that bother me in this Post 9/11 world?
There are fewer tourists in the Chinese restaurant, but that’s probably just because it’s empty. The fried rice is terrible, the shrimp is whatevs, the Kubuli is warming quickly, the salad was stupid, but the egg rolls are to die for.
I don’t want a cigarette.
The Garraway is supremely adequate and just around the corner from my hotel, I discover the perfect pastry shop. Normally that's the sort of thing you figure out on the way back to the airport, but I had plenty of time to sicken myself of its delights. Some fantastic banana bread and some Local Juice, mmm... passion fruit (slightly too sweet, but I'm a positive person).
The weather is hazy all over the island so I get to know my guide, Clem. Educated at Cambridge, he has almost no Caribbean accent, but bumps it up when talking to the street, much like I would probably convert “sure” to “sho” when talking to a black guy, we all want to fit in.
I later realize that he studied in Cambridge, not at Cambridge, but he’s still a very smart bloke.
The island is amazing to explore, but the best part of the day comes at lunchtime in the Botanical Garden. After a huge shower forces us to cut the tour short and make a run for the restaurant, a fantastic Callaloo soup makes it all better like mommy would.
The day with Clem ends uneventfully as the light wasn’t great and I haven’t found my groove yet. I take a walk around town solo and pick a shady pool bar to wait for sunset. Quickly I figure out that "shady" does not exist here. What would be thugs at home are teddy bears here. The people of Dominica are friendly and welcoming, even when a white man landing on a foreign island usually means the locals will have to convert religions and learn a new language.
“Those are the greatest jeans ever! I would have taken you for a 31!” is something a Dominican would never say. I leave the Creole restaurant before ordering, but after drinking a glass of water, assuring myself that not all Americans are like that. How could I even let that bother me in this Post 9/11 world?
There are fewer tourists in the Chinese restaurant, but that’s probably just because it’s empty. The fried rice is terrible, the shrimp is whatevs, the Kubuli is warming quickly, the salad was stupid, but the egg rolls are to die for.
I don’t want a cigarette.
posted by euroskip at 6:27 PM
3 Comments:
What's the name of that Pink flower?
I believe that's the Idontknowicas Moronicus.
thanks for this blog homie...your stories and fun easygoing writing style is a pleasent break from the bullshit news I seem to be reading/hearing/fealing these days.
keep on writing...thanks for stealing my blog idea and making yours cooler...
you chomping down on any frank steaks lately? man do I miss those BBQ's and our swimming pool with the godfather playing down below.
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