THE TRAVEL

“A person isn’t measured by their success. Rather success is measured by the person and the path they took.” …Author Unknown

I couldn’t have imagined the life I have lived at this point had you asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. It’s better, more exotic and more adventurous than my wildest dreams could have conjured up at any juncture of time in my young life.
Encounters at odd times in strange places with people you couldn’t have imagined meeting in any other way. Casual conversations with a stranger that takes you in an entirely different direction than you were headed just a moment before. Subtle things that made a life a life and not just an existence that got me from point A to point B on some plan or timeline that, like most people’s, was not entirely of my own making to begin with.
Few have the courage to change directions quickly without seriously considering the positives and negatives of such a move or change in course. I can say that without hesitation the times I stopped to consider where I was headed were the very times in my life I was run over by an unseen bus, train or assassin (who knew old ladies with walkers also knew martial arts and had pissy attitudes). Needless to say I have somehow spent a great deal of time standing in crosswalks at all the wrong times. When I should have been walking…I was thinking with, more often than not, painful consequences. I now know sidewalks (or better yet coffee shops) are a much safer place to ponder such great things.
I’m not suggesting for a moment that all changes require such deep thought or consideration. Deciding on Chinese instead of Italian at the last minute should hardly require a debate before Congress or the Supreme Court before it takes place… unless were talking about my house these days.
I don’t drink coffee anymore. It messes with my meds and can cause me at times to look like a strung out junkie with a disturbing twitch so I stick to tea in small doses. I’m not much of a park bench sitter either I’ve discovered lately. Scottsdale is a disgustingly healthy place to live. By the time I’ve walked wherever it is I wanted to go with my cane I look a little tired as I park myself and watch the world go by. In no time at all I see more tight butts in spandex jog, bike or walk by than I can count. It looks like a pedestrian rush hour for the physically fit and like the old dog who used to chase cars and people I’m not sure I’d know what to do if I caught one these days either. I am quite positive I’ve had more impure thoughts than Bill Clinton during that time frame though. It’s better I stay out of harm’s way with that regard. So it would suffice to say I’m still seeking out a place to reflect on my new life other than the couch in the living room. An initially expansive universe of possibilities that shrinks in small increments every day as I test each new scenario and find it lacking in…something. Besides I’m not supposed to be wandering anywhere without supervision. Yet another thing to my list of “can’t do’s”.
I can out cook the majority of people I know (and a great many I don’t know) and have cooked lavish gourmet meals for dozens of friends and family but I can’t even think about opening a restaurant anymore. I can’t do real estate anymore and I can’t even be a Walmart greeter either because I can’t stand (or stay awake) long enough, Retail Clothing…same story.
When I traveled I was the world’s greatest non-tourist. I’d check into my hotel, put things away, grab my backpack filled with at least one camera, a sketch book, a journal a couple of pens and pencils to write with and a traveling paint set that was custom made for me by a friend many years ago. I never dressed like an American tourist either…I took (and still take) more clothes and shoes than most women. I’d hit the front door of the hotel and disappear into the town to see what trouble I could get into. No bus tours, no tourist attractions, no guides other than the occasional local I would befriend who was only too happy to show me the real side of wherever I was.
An example of such a trip happened several years ago in the Caribbean on an island called Guadeloupe. Lots of people go to the Caribbean every year for a variety of reasons. Jamaica is probably one of the more popular because of Hedo. A great place and probably one of my favorite islands of all the islands, many go to the Virgin Islands and hob knob with the jet/yacht set or to Bermuda for much the same reason. St. Martins and Orient Beach is a very close second but I’d rather go to Guadeloupe. Unpretentious, quiet when you want it to be and rockin’ when you don’t, and the people as warm as can possibly be. A French state of mostly Creole and French ex-Pat’s that just bursts with color, there are a few small islands just off shore and one in particular called Marie Gallant whose native inhabitants can only be described as the most seductively beautiful people on the planet. Golden brown skin, kinky/curly red hair with blonde streaks, with the body of an athlete and the features of a Nordic God or Goddess looking like they just jumped out of a book.
I have found myself frequenting the Club Med there. I’m not an “all inclusive” guy but they have one of the few really good nude beaches on the island and renting a house on Guadeloupe is usually more than I can afford. Parked near the town of St. Anne it’s picturesque in every way.
On my first visit to the island I wasn’t sure I’d like it or not. The ex-wife and I thought it would be the safest experience for our kids, which turned out to be true. (We were in the process of going through our divorce then)The towns are hardly postcard shots worth sending home (which is true of the majority of the towns in the Caribbean) and Guadeloupe is no exception to lacking quaint architectural buildings. Most of the “homes” are little more than square concrete bunkers with heavy steel hurricane shutters that can be bolted in a heartbeat. You can easily tell how wealthy a family is by how many cows are chained by the nose in the front yard. Every so many kilometers down the road would be a vendor with a couple of 55gal. drums turned into barbecues filled with chickens being cooked and a small table with condiments and napkins. I can tell you right now it’s the best grilled chicken you’ll ever eat in your life and it costs literally pennies. The closest you can find here in the states is here in Arizona at one of the Hispanic markets or barrios on Saturdays…FANTASTIC! A five star meal anyone would enjoy.
My first breakfast at Club Med that time was less than stellar. The food, as always was incredible. I love, love, love French food. I’m part French and am a closet Francophile much of the time except when it comes to wine and coffee. There are far too many places around the world these days that make as good or better wine than the French. French coffee sucks!!! In sooooo many ways it’s not funny. You’d have thought I had been banished to Siberia for a week rather than where I was based on just the coffee alone.
I sulked out of the food area and sat down at the bar looking dejected and ready for the worst culinary experience of my life If I had to drink that coffee all week. The kid behind the bar was quickly chatting with the other workers and a few of the other guests who had sat down for their morning Bloody Mary or whatever. Their banter in French was quick, lively and fun to hear. I had quickly discovered upon my arrival to the island that I’m quite good at reading French. Speaking it…not so much, after clearing customs and getting my passport stamped I asked a police officer standing nearby where the restroom was. The shocked, stern look on his face told me volumes about how bad my attempt at speaking French must have been as he leaned over and got nose to nose with me and asked in English “Why do you want to have sex with my grandmother?” and then he burst out laughing and told me where the restroom was. It was decided then and there I’d stick to English.
The kid behind the bar finally made his way to where I was sitting and asked me in French what I wanted to drink. I was about to ask for a beer when a familiar aroma hit my nose. Just over his shoulder was a single burner on a shelf with a restaurant carafe’ of “American coffee?” came this thick Texas drawl out of this kid’s head. Eric from Houston became my “go-to” guy and provider of life giving morning liquid for the rest of the week. He even improved my speaking French while I was there.
From that moment on I have made a point to make friends with the bartenders, chefs and the well researched concierge at whatever hotel I’m staying at. I say “well researched” because any good concierge can get you tickets to this that and the other thing. A spectacular one can change and/or rock your world in ways you can’t imagine. (You figure out how those ways might be) It’s like another form of social “gaydar” for someone like me. It becomes easy to tell who is and isn’t on my wavelength quickly.
On this particular trip Eric has gone on to bigger things somewhere and been replaced by Stephan. A congenial Frenchman with a love for Jazz, at his suggestion I would find a few new smoky clubs in St. Anne that treated the music with the respect and reverence often missing these days here in the States. The open air markets were filled to the rafters with fresh fruits, vegetables and local wines that weren’t too bad either. The staff didn’t mind me sneaking into the kitchen to borrow a knife and cut up my purchases (as long as I shared my wine and food) Paco the pastry chef would throw in a loaf of fresh baked bread and some cheese. We’d all sit like old friends around a prep table swapping stories, lies and recipes until everyone had to get back to work and I had to find a chair on the beach for the daily parade of merchants selling everything from jewelry, t-shirts, microscopic bathing suits no one ever wore (they were usually naked), sarongs, food, beverages and so on. The best malls in the world are on some strip of beach somewhere in the Caribbean filled with new or yet to be new found friends and lovers.
I can only hope that my newly appointed life still allows me to enjoy all of this and more for many years to come.
I don’t have a lot of pictures of me standing in front of some statue, building, amusement park or whatever. I have a lot of pictures of things I’ve seen, people I’ve met and things we have done together that probably never will show up in a travel magazine…maybe that’s just as well. The memories are mine. The experiences are mine. I didn’t do them to show someone else how to do them. Does that make me selfish, successful or none of the above? Does it really matter either way?


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