The Big Bamboo

Yeah, I'm back from my Caribbean vacay, and I'll tell you, the come down is killing me. To go from palm trees, sand, and bright blue ocean to nippy air, pushy people, and cold concrete is beyond painful. It's like waking up from a great dream, the kind of dream where you've won the lottery, where you're flying like a bird over the earth below, where you're shagging Sarah Shahi (say that 10 times fast), only to realize that NO, that's NOT how it is. How it is is that you're not rich, you haven't won the lottery, and you actually have to work for a living to scrape a few dollars together for the one or two weeks you get to play in the sun. And you can't fly. The only way you're going to fly anywhere is if you buy a ticket to get there and cram yourself into steerage with all the other cattle. Oh, and there's no Sarah Shahi at the end of that rainbow, hate to tell you. No, you're either bored, sleeping alone, or dabbling in something temporary and unsatisfying. Okay, maybe that's a little too harsh, but my point is, dreams are good. Reality pales. So waking up from a dream is cruel and unusual punishment.

And so it is for me this week. I've returned from the land of Oz with its ruby slippers, yellow brick road, and psychedelic scarecrows and tin men, to the land of conflict and turmoil. Israel is bombing the shit out of the Palestinians after the Palestinians shot rockets at Israel; the economy still sucks; and it's the middle of winter. Why did I come back again? More than once on my trip I looked around and thought: Why can't I live here? I could do it. I could pull a Tom Cruise in Cocktail, buy myself a catamaran and sail tourists around for a living. Why not? How hard can it be? Sure, I'd have to deal with douchey, self-important tourists, but it'd be worth it with all the sun and clean air and green trees I'd get, and just LOOK at how goddamn BLUE that ocean is!!

Aw lawwwdy what a nice, peaceful, relaxing life it could be. That's what I said to myself when I was still dreaming.

This Rastafarian with long dreads and gold teeth came up to me on the beach in Antigua and told me I was burning in the sun and needed to buy some of his aloe. I said, what aloe, and he held up this 4 fingered plant. What the hell is that, I asked him. He then proceeded to scrape off a Gatorade's bottle worth of aloe off of a single frond right in front of me. "Not like that processed shit they sell up where you are, mon." He guessed that I was from New York; I asked him how did he know that (perhaps my pale, burning skin hinted at my Northeast origins), had he ever been to New York? He said he'd never been off the island. I couldn't believe it. Couldn't imagine never leaving such a small place, even for a ferry ride. Then I thought, if I lived here, why would I want to leave?

One of the highlights of my trip was a 3-hour catamaran ride I took on St. Lucia. I didn't know anyone on the boat - my family was off doing something else that day - but by the end of the day I'd talked to a few people, had a few drinks, went swimming, and bought myself a turtle souvenir from another Rasta who wanted to sweeten the deal by selling me some pot (oh, I was sorely tempted). As we sailed back to the port, the 140 proof rum was flowing and people were singing and dancing to this hilarious song, a Calypso favorite, sung here by Horace Peterkin, which will forever remind me of this awesome trip and how important it is to stop the clock, stop the insanity, and break away from life every once in awhile.

(Just listen and ignore the moronic video - it was the only one I could find on YouTube)



Ah....