Watch the Walk

Hanging out on the roof On moving day I watched a couple hours of music videos with my host sisters, waiting for the call that the landlord was available to give me the keys and sign the contract. At 11 AM I finally got the call—the keys were mine, but the landlord was busy and couldn’t deal with the contract. After many reassurances from people involved that I wouldn’t move in only to have to move out again, I brought my luggage that had come from America to the house. And started cleaning. Things here get dirty fast, and I don’t think the house had been cleaned since it was built. My friends who came with me started in sweeping and wiping things down, while I grabbed a mop and started following behind. And wait, the kitchen is locked! The landlord had lost the key for the kitchen between the time I looked at the house and the time I got the keys! He assured my friend over the phone that he would look for it and send the key with someone as soon as it was located. Well, okay, that wa...

Goofing off Despite my attempt to have a house arranged before arriving on Clove Island, my plans fell through and I had to do some house hunting after arrival. While looking for a house I stayed with a couple of dear islander friends. They also helped me in the house hunt. Here are the steps I went through in looking for personal accommodations: 1)       Spread the word. This I started before leaving the U.S., sending messages to a few friends that I would be looking for a house and to let me know what they know of. After arriving on Clove I told most people I ran into (acquaintances and friends) that I was looking for a house, and I gave them a few parameters: 1) water needs to come from the pipes, 2) it can’t be a huge western-style house, 3) the neighborhood needs to be friendly. 2)       Look at all the houses. People started coming out of the woodwork, showing up at my host family’s house to talk with me and take me to houses, pic...

I can always tell when I’ve reached the right gate at the airport for my last flight to the island. Suddenly I’m surrounded by people dressed too warm for the airport, carrying random bags that don’t seem carry-on-sized. The mixture of islandese and French fills my ears and I find myself eavesdropping just for entertainment. It even smells like the islands, with the perfume and other strong scents. But I often prefer not to let on immediately that I’ll be sharing the flight with them. I wander past, absorbing the scene, observing my soon-to-be flightmates, then move a little further on until it’s close to boarding time. Even on the plane I often delay letting on that I’m going home, not just a random tourist. Once the secret is out there’s just no going back. This time arriving in the islands I waited until my seatmate’s English failed her and the conversation was just getting too frustrating to continue in her third language. So I switched to islandese… and there was no going back. S...