Hey, Lindsay!

Someone recently asked why it was I stopped writing fiction (I completed my first novel in college, and my second (which is not totally finished) in law school)…

and I’d love to say, “I’m too busy!” but the truth is to write a novel, you have to create characters–characters you come to know intimately. They become friends and when the book is over you let them go, or worse, in the course of the book, they die (and you actually mourn their loss).

Sometimes I’ll find myself thinking about my characters, as though they are people I once knew. and I’ll miss them, ever so slightly.

“I dreamed you into life” carries meaning…

Though now that I’m on this island and my friend count is: 0.

Perhaps it’s time I get back to writing.

Find me a brochure—any brochure— for St. Maarten and it will spell out in bold letters ST. MAARTEN IS DUTY-FREE!

It’s such a “selling” point– Hey Tourists! Come to St. Maarten to avoid paying tax on designer sunglasses, cigarettes and booze!

Except this island isn’t really tax free. I mean, yes–when you go to the register there are no surprises: no percentage of tax is added at check out. If you only have $2 and something is listed on the shelf for $2, it really does ring up as just $2…

However, everyone (and I do mean everyone) wants—expects a tip. a $1 or more tip.

If you go to a store–any store, there is a “bag boy” and he wants a tip. Even if you only buy a $2 bottle of soda. and nothing else. he wants a tip.

Just try to go to one of these advertised duty-free liquor stores–those bag boys make bank!

and then there are the bartender that take out their own tip. That’s right. He tells you its $13, you hand him a $20 and you get $2 back. Well, gee, can I tip myself that much?

So while you may not pay the Caribbean Uncle Sam, you certainly pay his worker bees.

I’ll just go ahead and put it out there that I’m a nudist.

My sister finds that liberating. My parents find it embarassing. And my husband finds it frustrating.

If you’ve met me in real life, you’ve probably seen me naked. and I apologize for that.

As long as I can remember I’ve never wanted to wear clothes (and I’m positive I probably never did until I was 4 years old-just ask to see my  baby pictures!) and even when I was 4, and all those years that followed, I was stripped down to a bare minimum whenever possible. I went commando often in High School and College because there is something really liberating about not wearing panties. I still only wear thongs, which aren’t really much of anything and bras? Well it was a sad-yet joyful day-when I finally had boobs big enough that required a bra.

My husband is the sheer opposite. He will not go with me to a nude beach, citing no one wants to see him naked. I tried to explain that no one is really scoping out other people at nude beaches (and that, truthfully, most people at nude beaches are not people you’d want to see nude anyway) but I digress–the prude won’t go to nude beaches…YET I barely have a foot in the sand when Scott’s asking me “so are you going to take your top off?”

Here in “europe” I find it quite–liberating that not only is the entire island topless, no one gives a damn. While my husband is busy tapping me on the shoulder, whispering “look! BOOBIES!” My friend’s French husband couldn’t be bothered. “eh, boobs, so what?” & that’s pretty much the mentality of every other straight male on the island, unless he is an American. Then its “OMG! BOOBIES! I SEE BOOBIES!”

but anyway, I’m a nudist. A Proud nudist. I don’t bother to shut my blinds because if someone wants to look into my apartment and see me naked, well, they have to accept a little fact about themselves: namely, they are a pervert.

So what if we live on the first floor? It’s my damn apartment. and I’ll walk around in my thong if I want to. The funny thing about this–is we have more windows than walls in this condo–and if the blinds are open in the bedroom, and I don’t close the bathroom door, a passerby can easily see me doing my business. I really LIKE this about my condo and have really take to the gamble of peeing “in public.” But I digress… Point is, for all my walkings around naked–and peeing with the door open for all to see–no one has seen me.

TODAY, however, the anti-nudist (Scott) walks about of the bathroom–in the buck– and through just the smallest opening in the curtains (unintentional) scott flashes and then moons (as he turned around in embarassment) our neighbors kid, who happened to be walking by, and looking into our bedroom (?) at that exact moment.

I, of course, find this HILARIOUS — and Scott doesn’t.

Lindsay “So what, you were naked in your own apartment! Shame on them for looking in the window!”

Scott “But I’m a dude. Someone sees you naked it’s hot. Someone sees me naked and I’m the pervert.”

Lindsay “Have you been to the beach with yourself? You  ARE a pervert!”

Scott “Just because I want my wife to take her top off doesn’t make me a pervert!”

Anyway, here is the moon:

tomorrow, we’ll have been expats marooned on an island for three weeks.

Interestingly, anytime we talk to a friend or family member back home–they’re quick to ask how the pugs are doing. I try not to take this personally–I just assume that everyone knows Scott & I are highly adaptable and Quaid is not.

It’s true. You’d have thought by now Quaid would be used to moving. That when he saw boxes and suitcases he’d realize that yes, he is coming too–but he doesn’t. He get nervous, craps on the floor in protest and acts strange. He won’t look at you. He’ll eat your lone tomato plant and barf it up on the floor, or he’ll sleep in your suitcase–as if that would somehow deter your packing efforts. (Lily Bean is not the same variation of drama queen, she is laid back–goes with the flow, but when her brother drops a load on the floor she thinks “hey! I can do that too!” and follows in suit even though her reasons are not the same).

Lily Bean seems to feel at home anywhere her brother and mom are, but not Quaid.

While we could tell–instantly– that he liked it better here (better than NYC, that is) he was still having fits and tempertantrums for not discernable reason. You could tell that he was unsettled, uncomfortable–wondering “hey this place is nice, but when are we going home?”

I wondered how long it would take for him to realize–we aren’t leaving here, bud. Not for another 339 days.

And then today he did something I’ve never seen him do: he snuggled with his sister.

Perhaps Quaid is finally feeling at home—and perhaps living on this island has made him like his sister.

I’ve been living in St. Maarten for two weeks. When we left New York it was cool and crisp, the leaves were just starting to change and some days, you needed a jacket. It was really beginning to feel like Fall–my most cherished time of the year–and I was worried that leaving such bliss and returning to “summer” (my least favorite season) that I would be depressed.

but, a funny thing happened. I got off the plane and my world literally changed. I’ve been persisting in a denial that the world back home is going on without me. I’m in denial that it is cold, snowing or a different season, anywhere else. Despite my friends tweeting about snow, or Autumn, or pumpkins, or apples, or THANKSGIVING, I’m living in my own timewarp bubble.

It’s not November. It’s not the Fall. It’s not Thanksgiving.

This also happened to me in Los Angeles. Although my parents primarily raised me in Florida, we always went home–that is, to Pennsylvania where all of our family lives, for the holidays. It never “felt” like Christimas, or Thanksgiving, until I was freezing my ass off.

So when we were living in LA, I just couldn’t “get in the holiday spirit” when I was still wearing my bathing suit—but as soon as I got off the plane in New York City, I not only felt like I was “home” but that “alas! It is the holiday season! It feels like Giftmas!”

Anyway, it’s not Thanksgiving here…and not just because it’s not cold outside so it doesn’t “feel” like Thanksgiving to me, but because they do not celebrate Thanksgiving.

Right after we got here, it was Veterans Day–only, it was also St. Martin/St. Maartens Day, so like in the U.S., everything was closed but with the added parade and alcoholic celebration.

Today, of course, is different. Today is a holiday back home–one that our friends and family are surely enjoying, and we are thousands of miles away from it all–literally.

I did have a lovely thanksgiving with friends in the states before we left…and I’m actually hosting a thanksgiving dinner tomorrow for our friends that are Bajan and French (expats) who have never experienced an “American Thanksgiving” — but still.

I remain in denial.

Scott, however, doesn’t seem to live in the same bliss. Yesterday he mentioned at breakfast that he was kind of homesick about not being home for the holidays and me? well I’m having dreams about snowboarding and I’m plenty homesick about that.

I’m often surprised by things sold at the grocery stores here. Sure, it’s neat to see “American” foods like Jif peanut butter and Quaker Oats (though at $8 usd for a tub of Quaker Oats I no-longer look to them as a cheap food!) and then there are just some bizarre foods for sale as well…fruits, mostly, that look like space aliens.

But last night….

Hookers.

There were hookers in my grocery store.

Now I am not making assumptions here. I mean, yeah, sure, they COULD have just been French sluts that just happened to be at a grocery store on the Dutch side NEAR a brothel–I’m all for accepting coincidences…

Except going pantyless (and wearing clothes so it’s obvious to anyone who passes you buy to grab a box of condoms–crackers that you are without panties) leads me to conclude that you’re more than your average garden variety hoochie.

Add in the animal print lingerie top, and a friend looking about as trampy, and you are left with the obvious conclusion: hookers.

When we left the store, Scott said “did you see those girls?”

Me: “Ya mean the prostitutes? I think everyone saw those girls.”

Scott: “Yeah, I thought they were hookers too. Think they work at Botta Bing?”

Me “Should I go ask?”

Scott “Well you have been wanting to practice your French more.”

Me “But I don’t know how to say hooker in French…but I do know how to ask someone if they want to sleep with me…”

and before you go thinking that I have been spending all my French studies learning dirty words… anyone who ever heard that song, Lady Marmalade, from the movie Moulin Rouge, knows how to proposition someone in French.

voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

and yes, hookin’ is legal here. Of all the things to make legal they pick prostitution and gambling? Lame.

Here’s a little secret about me: I’ve never been jazzed up about driving.

You know those kids in High School—the ones who were waiting outside the DMV at 6:00AM on their 16th birthday so excited to take their drivers test they could barely stand still?

That wasn’t me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I appreciated the freedom getting a license would provide–I would no longer need to rely on my parents or friends to get me some place I needed to get to, but actually driving? I could leave it.

I could also leave the car payment, the insurance payment and the gas—all three bills that made me slave away at a part-time job in retail store after school and on the weekends. No, it was not “character building” or “good for me” and it did not “make me a better person.” It blew monkey balls, it cut away from my social life (something that is character building, would have been good for me and possibly made me a better person) and affirmed my sneaking suspicion that adult men in retail are pervs…

But I digress…

Point is, when I left for college, I happily left my car behind. While most of my friends were crying that their universities did not allow Freshman to have cars, I was skipping with joy: not only could ditch mine, but at my school, I didn’t need one.

You see, I’d moved to a college in a “walking city.” Charleston, SC is so small that you can walk anywhere… and everywhere I walked. Whether it was the movies, the grocery store or class – I could get there on foot. I even managed to go the entire first semester without every putting one foot inside a car. I then, somehow, found myself in car second semester, a run to Target or something, and I remember thinking, “this feels odd!” and the next time I got in a car, I was in a horrific car accident with my sister. (We’re both lucky to be alive).

So… Between my long-standing distate for driving and my newly discovered PTSD (that’s post-traumatic stress disorder for those who don’t watch drama shows on cable) I was never getting in a car again.

and I didn’t for a long, long while. In fact, it wasn’t until I moved off campus junior year that my parents convinced me to bring the ol’ car back to Charleston.

Excited to move off campus into a real apartment? yes. Excited to have a damn car again? no way. I cringed at the thought of paying gas (“there goes my booze money!”) having to ward of friends who wanted to borrow it (“sorry! I like you, but NO!”) and finding parking in a city that has none. Fabulous.

BUT I made it through and just long enough to dump the car off on my parents again, when I moved to Boston for law school.

Boston, bless that city, has a subway. It’s slower than molasses, smells kinda bad, is pretty much never at the station when you need it to be, but whatever. It’s a subway. I didn’t need a car. Most people didn’t have a car. It was glorious.

After law school, I made the poor decision of moving to Los Angeles. Sure, there are lots of buses in LA and even a subway, but they all go NO WHERE. The traffic is a nightmare. Atlanta is not the traffic capital, it’s LOS ANGELES. It would take an hour to go four measly miles.

If I didn’t know it before I got to LA, I knew it moments after arrival. I AM NOT A CAR PERSON.

So, I packed my bags and moved to the one place where I would never EVER need or want a car — NEW YORK CITY.

For the past two years I have not driven a car, except once (an emergency)–and it lasted about 15 minutes. No driving. Have I been IN a car? Well sure, I do take cabs from time to time…but drive one? HELL NO. I took a BUS to the ski slopes. Surely that tells you something! (Okay, honestly, I liked the bus because I could drink after snowboarding, then pass out on the bus, something you can’t safely do if driving) — but whatev.

Anyway, so it’s been two years. TWO YEARS. Actually, LONGER than TWO YEARS and yesterday my husband asks ME to DRIVE.

Lindsay: “No.”

Scott: “I’m not asking, you have to do this.”

Lindsay: “NO!”

Scott: “We have to switch out the rental cars. It takes two people.”

Lindsay: “Walk home.”

Scott: “You’re being ridiculous!”

Lindsay: “I have not driven in TWO YEARS. You want ME to drive on an island where there are no speed limits, no stop signs, no traffic lights and people can drink and drive without being arrested…and I’m ridiculous?”

Scott: “Yes. You are driving. We’re leaving. Get your key.”

So there I was. Me and the jeep. It wasn’t a long ride, but I had spirts of panic. At first I was convinced the jeep wasn’t really going to stop, even with my foot on the brake, because, secretly, it wanted to ram into the car in front of me. Then a plane flew over head and I was certain I might flight out the window. THEN I nearly ran off the road. twice. okay four times.

During all of this, I kept reminding myself it COULD be worse. I could be driving in the conditions I drove last time — that is, in a car I was totally unfamiliar with, that belonged to a person I’d just met, without a license, on a windy mountain road, in the dark, when it was snowing and icey, and I’d been snowboarding all day so my legs were jello. Oh, and lets not forget a police office was watching me the whole time.

So, sure, it could have been worse.

But now that I’m safely on foot again I’ll say this. People who drive every day are absolutely nuts. I mean it — those things are like ticking time bombs. I’m not a paranoid, I’m sensible!

Scott & my morning exchange went something like this:

Scott (from the shower): “Liiiiindsay!”

[Lindsay ignores Scott]

Scott (still from the shower): “Liiiindsay! Come HERE! Please!”

Lindsay (from the kitchen): “WHY?”

Scott: “I can’t find the soap!”

Lindsay: “It probably fell down on the floor, just look for it!”

Scott: “I can’t find it!”

Lindsay: “I just took a shower last night. It’s there. I SAW IT THERE!”

Scott: “I still can’t find it!

Lindsay: “I’m not going to wash you, big baby! I’m making YOUR breakfast!”

Scott: “I don’t WANT YOU to wash ME! I want SOAP!”

Lindsay (to herself, throwing things around in a dramatic fashion) MUST *I* DO EVERYTHING?

[Lindsay arrives at the bathroom, and there is no soap]

Lindsay: “I don’t get it. I showered last night. Where did the soap possibly go?”

{silence}

We both look to the pug’s bed, which is in the bathroom. Soap streaks all down the plush blue interior.

(in unison)

“LILY BEAN!!!!!!!”

Just add “soap” to the list of strange things Lily Bean (AND Quaid) eat.

How do I know Quaid partook in the soap buffet?

Our neighbors 11yr old daughter walked the pugs, and came back in a hurry “Quaid’s poop had bubbles in it!”

#facepalm

Check out my French-style spoon. (Ahh the French, lovers of all things small and dainty!) I’ve used a can opener for scale (and inadvertently, the keyboard of my netbook).

(Get your spoon out by a can opener for true comparison!)

If you’ve read one of my most cherished books, Mindless Eating, you’ll know that this is a good thing. Perhaps this petite spoon explains why the French are so slender, or why Americans are… not.

It’s no secret that Americans are obsessed with BIG everything — big cars, big houses and big portions. (Hell, if you’ve ever tried portion control in America, you were probably started to see just how small a true portion looks on a jumbo-sized “American” plate).

Perhaps the “French secret to being skinny” isn’t in their wine or genes after all, but rather, explained by this spoon—matter over mind, not the opposite.

(I can’t recommend Mindless Eating enough!)

p.s. I also find it amusing that the French word for small, petite, is used in English to describe small women and their clothing.

I chuckled a little when I read this definition:

pe·tite / pəˈtēt/• adj. (of a woman) having a small and attractively dainty build: she was petite and vivacious.

Yesterday a few fellow ex-pats & I commandeered Scott’s jeep wrangler and drove around the entire island (on the upside, the island, in person, is bigger than it looks on a map!)

We saw all sorts of goats, cows—and chickens, running freely all over the place. The chicken was actually walking along the shoulder of the road and it took everything I had not to spout off “why did the chicken cross the road!?”

We also saw a gecko and iguana—the iguana, however, was neon green. Which makes me wonder if the pet iguanas in the United States are all kinds of depressed because their color is much more muted.

Still, the most…alarming surprise came this morning when I found a crab in my yard. This crab is about the size of a crab you might be served at a restaurant. He’s dead, though I wonder how he managed to get all the way here from the beach…

So in addition to Cupecoy Beach being the gay, nude beach on the island, it also has crabs. Fantastic.