Trapped on an Island
DAY 3. Starting to write this entry, though, it has nowhere to go. Kinda like me.
In Barbados, in a house that has a view that would make an artist spout in his trousers. I like it a bit too, but remember, Im in my thirties.
Got to Barbados two days ago, staying on the less populated Atlantic Coast of the island. Trade winds on this side of the island make it cool, and the water is a clear azure blue. The waves, however, are strong, and the surfing (I’m told) is intense. Been in the sea a few times, the waves are strong, there is a powerful undertow. Its pretty much great swimming, mixed with a wrestling match with a much stronger opponent who never tires. (Reminds me of the movie biz).
Thing is, we’re very far away from most of what’s going on, and the roads here are best explored with a little bit (read – tons) of faith. They wind, you’re driving on the left side of the road, and people whip by inches away without a though (and without insurance much of the time, but hell, probably die anyway due to the gullies and cliffs that side many roads- who needs insurance).
Still the weather’s gorgeous, and the guy who invited DB and I down, lets call him Stork, has been a great host. The house, while not overly fancy, serves its purpose. What purpose that is, for me, I haven’t yet figured.
Other than swimming, and drinking and smoking, there doesn’t seem to be a shortage of things to do – sail, scuba, go whoring, you know, the typicals. I don’t sail and I am not much on prostitutes (never feel comfortable, kinda like taking a taxi ride from NYC to JFK when you only have 45 dollars in your pocket, and you don’t know if its enough, and then you get there and you missed your plane – SO I’M TOLD).
The sun blazes into the house every morning, around six thirty. The wind howls mightily all night long, there are barking (and whining dogs) and a big cock (i.e., rooster) that does his thing all day long. Talk about hormones.
Mediocre greek food and some Metaxa last nite. A little peaked this morning, but generally OK. It’s a bit strange for me to walking around for 72 hours and never not be a bit sweaty, but we’re only a hundred miles from South America.
Alright peoples. I gotta go sit around.
G
Day 6. Leaving on a Jet Plane
So heading back to the mainland tomorrow. Its been an interesting trip. The stork is an absolute whirlwind, a constant source of noise and energy that are a bunch for me to swallow, particularly because (not through all my fault) I often can’t understand what he is saying, and when I do, I often find it doesn’t make much sense to me. Still he is undeniably brilliant – just not sure what the application for his brilliance can be, and if I can bear the energy storm enough to enjoy it. Crazy stuff.
Talking about doing a slate of three or four movies in Barbados – low budget, product place, action comedy thrilla whateva. Guy next door, turns out, is a sculptor and a playwrite- gonna have him email me some ideas. His sculpture is great.
DB and I had lots of fun, today, on our own. Somehow, DB and I have our best days on the vacation on our own (though we had fun with Teach as well). DB met a pretty young Basian honey yesterday and we shepherded her and her cousin around the island all day. They were nice girls, poor (by American standards, though I think they’d be middle class here) and very classy. DB offered to buy them anything they wanted from the fanciest shop on the island and they demurred.
Im pretty sure Lana, the cousin, had it in for me. I wasn’t aboard though. Not really my type, though she was nice. Didn’t want to start something that meant nothing – especially because of DB’s interest in his girl and my general physical attraction indifferent to Lana. Though she looked good in a swimsuit when we hit the baths.
Trip is done. The best things down here, to me, are the coasts, especially the desolate and beautiful Atlantic coast, the baths in the coral formations, the Oistens fish fry Friday nite, friendly Basian’s who go out of their way for you and the tradewinds. The worst things are driving at nite on roads with no signs and with highbeams from oncoming cars rushing by inches away during the 35-50 minutes rides to and from the West Coast, the heat (on the West coast only), Cheffette (one meal only but terrible) and the fuckers at the airport.
Sayin goodbye to the fuckers, and the rest of it tomorrow. Pretty sure I’ll be back.
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