Dominica - chapter 4 - the return

I think I'm allergic to New York.

I realized that on the plane ride home, the first thing I ate was also the first processed food I had in 2 weeks. It never would have bothered me before, but I was deathly insulted that American Airlines would pass out a bag of Lay's potato chips as a snack. "If you want to eat, and therefore, survive, you will support the fattening of our children," is how I read it.

My reaction to The States hardly got better as I got back to normal life: I felt sick with anything I ate and had to start consciously eating "better," resorting to a niçoise salad for lunch, 14 days in a row. My skin started itching and little red bumps appeared on my forearms. I would call it Overall Malaise.

The only reason I could come up with is that my body was in shock after getting used to fresh squeezed juices, eating fish that was caught from a spot you can see from your table, and not getting angry at a slow walker.

Dominica is the most beautiful society I have ever witnessed. And, what is more outstanding is that it's a beautiful black society. It might be wrong for a white kid to be surprised by this, but growing up mostly in LA and NY, I tend to think the worst about any demographic. Truthfully, before this trip I would have thought that kind of total harmony would have been impossible for people of any race, including my own.

I sit now on my balcony in Brooklyn hearing the ice-cream-truck melody mixed with reggaeton and try to think back on my stint in Dominica. Images of waterfalls and trails through the rainforest, rastas and juice, chasing rainbows and liquid sunshine, street cricket, pastries and honking hello, blinks before me. It is a fantastic place to visit, but an even better place to take home.

The moral: You don't have to be dread to be rasta.

here are all the pics.