Category Archives: Caribbean Living

The Magic Window

This is me, conjuring up the mighty powers of the Magic Window:

Window of Magick

This enchanted window, with powers easily trumping C.S. Lewis’ wardrobe, is the only place in my entire house where I can send a text or make a call.  Its perfect alignment under Jupiter, the Pleiades and Orion means that it a veritable mitochondria of cell reception power, quite possibly the best reception on the island.

Ah yes,  I remember the days when I could safely make a phone call whilst riding in a car.  The likelihood of losing the person on the line being nearly zilch, I would bang on without a care in the world as Chris toted me hither and thither to whereither.

Not so on the island.  Telecommunication to the outside world exists in three states of being (ranked in order of  “most likely to succeed” to “most likely to fail and possibly piss off the person on the phone:”)

1) At the Magic Window.  Foolproof.  The only down side of using the magic window is that you open a portal to other worlds, and sometimes–  not often, but occasionally– otherworldy beings enter through that open portal and into our world.  In fact, I do believe that is how the mongoose came to reside in Saint Croix.

Riki Tiki Tavi, Mere Minutes after Coming Through the Portal

2)  While waiting in the car at one of the good cell reception locations.  These include but are not limited to: Sunny Isle, Golden Rock plaza, Gallow’s Bay, and generally the Plaza grocery stores.  Does not include anything around Cane Bay in my cell-seeking experience.

3)  If, after assessing the nature of my call,  the average chattiness of the person I need to speak with, and achieving a fairly good understanding of the cell reception abilities on the road we are on, I might try to have a conversation while the vehicle is in motion.  This often leads to dropped calls, but could  be convenient for those people who tend to chat way beyond the topic’s expiration date.

One day I will figure out how to harness the powers of the Island Rooster:

In Christiansted, about to lose his shit.

Those guys must be communicating messages other than that of the mere sunrise, since they can be found whooping it up without provocation all day long.  I think we must be kindred souls.

The Fact of the Matter

Is that we live on a crumb, burped up from the bowels of the sea.

If I think too much about this fact, I start to itch.  I know that the island, however small, can’t just sink into the sea (I did in fact research this to be sure ha), but still.

Sometimes I will catch my tiny arrow manifestation on Google Latitude and realize that my entire life exists right there on that slip of land.  And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it can be a little disconcerting.

At night, Chris and I drag out the blankets and pillows onto the porch and gaze up at the meteor showers with hands clenched tight in celestial reverence.  It is impossible not to take note of the passing clouds, which are not only huge– with no real land mass to break them up– but also quick.  It is like clouds you might see while out in a tiny boat in the middle of nowhere; your combined mass of no real consequence to the natural world.

Except nearly everything of consequence to me exists right under those blithe travelers: little people throwing cups, trucks and themselves onto the floor in protest, learning A from B and dogs from cats.  The same way they did in their overgrown homeland of Texas (where everything is bigger).

And when they go to bed, I still have the same person’s hand to clench tight as I laugh, cry and bitch about my day.

Same play, different theatre.