Hair Care on the Road and a Rant About European Bathrooms

 

                                                                     Camille Brodard for Unsplash

Though 2023 has been the most amazing year of my life, not everything has been peachy.  I have done my hair dirty this year.

A little background on me.  I have had natural hair for the last 15 years (I can’t believe it’s been that long!).  What that means is that my hair is not chemically treated to make it straight.  It is very long, very curly, and it is my personal pride.  My hair is life.  My hair is love.  Can you feel the love tonight?

My hair is also a challenge while on the road.  I knew it would be this way.  What with the washing, detangling, deep conditioning, and twisting, the process would take hours when I was living in Georgia.  When I still worked in an office, I would only go through this once a week on Sundays.  When covid hit and I wasn’t leaving the house so often, the schedule changed to every two weeks. 

During my travels, the process is greatly reduced.  I don’t have access to my hood dryer for conditioning.  Additionally, I’m dealing with foreign water, which can sometimes be harsh, while using products that aren’t necessarily designed for my hair.  I foolishly thought I could get away with doing the bare minimum of washing and detangling every two weeks.  Um … no.

Turns out, all that extra stuff I was doing with Indian herbs and homemade conditioners wasn’t so extra after all.  Those were necessary steps to keep the hair happy.

I’ve been coloring my gray hair with henna for years.  I chose to use it because it is all natural (pure henna is just dried, ground up leaves), it acts as a protein treatment to strengthen the hair, and I like the color.  The last treatment I did was in February 2023 at the latest.  This picture (02/24) is after a year of growth and what is known as a metric buttload of gray hair.

I’m quite saddened.  I don’t think I can pass for a 20-year-old anymore, dear readers.

Especially not since I turned 50. 

(What’s up with that?)

I considered just letting it grow out and eventually cutting out the red, but … I really can’t stand the gray.  I don’t want to put any chemicals in my hair (especially since I haven’t babied my hair in a year, so its condition isn’t optimal to even take the color).  As messy and time-consuming as a henna treatment is, I decided to do one during my latest trip to the states.

Doing this process in a hotel room without a tub was not exactly ideal.  But if being on the road for so long has taught me anything it’s that you gotta be able to adapt.  The mixing and application of the mud-like henna was easy enough.  Rinsing it out was always the problem.  The shower ended up looking like a crime scene, but at least the messiest part was done.

The results were spotty.  I wasn’t used to having so much new growth to cover and I should have adjusted my application method to compensate, but it was still a vast improvement.

But, alas, only the color was better.  After a couple of days, once the hair dried, I could see that it wasn’t just the gray that was making it look bad.  There were some definite short pieces that I could no longer lie to myself and say was new growth.  Skimping on the deep conditioners, treatments, and even my hair coloring came with a price that I'm only now acknowledging.

That’s broken off hair, stupid!  And it’s been doing that and feeling thinner for months.

Denial is truly a powerful thing.

It was then, as my newly washed scalp began to itch, that I realized that I usually clarify my hair before a henna treatment.   I had neglected to do so this time and had not truly cleaned the gunk off my scalp in a year.  Now I also had henna residue on top of all the buildup from the foreign products I’d been using.  This is Haircare: 101 and I failed it just as I failed my hair.

I have sinned and now I must do penance.  I pray that the hair gods forgive me.  It’s time to go back to school.

YouTube videos have reminded me of the virtues of protective styling, deep conditioning, and cleaning the scalp to promote hair growth.  I’ve set myself back at least a couple of years and I’m obviously still not in a stable, controlled environment, but I’ll do my best from now on to keep what hair I have left on my head. 

I can’t say that Europe makes that process any easier.  I’ve already mentioned the lack of black hair care products in most countries.  Portugal (fortunately) seems to be an exception to this rule.  While they don’t carry the product lines I’m used to seeing, there are quite a few items with pictures of big-haired black women on them.  Yet another plus to moving to the country.

Another issue I have is with European bathrooms.  This is one credit I will give to America for doing things better.  The setup in my house was very simple. I had a bathtub with a wall mounted showerhead and a shower curtain to keep in the water.  Easy, right?  Europe has decided to get complicated with its designs and I’m not digging it.

First off, most bathrooms I’ve encountered on this trip have drains built into the floor.  The reason for that is because none of the showers are designed to keep in water.  I don’t know why this is so difficult, but showering in Europe is made way more of an issue than it should be.  This is the bathroom from Naxos, Greece.  Pretty and artistic but messy. 

Secondly, and what I miss most during the rinse out process of doing my hair, is the lack of bathtubs.  I’ve encountered maybe three in my entire journey.  The Europeans are very fond of showers with a detachable showerhead.  The better ones will also have the big pancake sized showerhead directly overhead like this one in Ireland.

That was a decent sized, fully enclosed shower, a rarity in Europe and unlike the shower in Santorini.  This one at least had a shower curtain, but it was still tiny with a low ceiling.  At 5’9” with a foot of hair, I had to commit an act of contortionism to get through the shampooing process.  A taller man would have had to hunch over to get anything done.

Then there’s this one from Mykonos.  Just … why?  You know people use water in this tiny little space.  Why not just enclose the whole thing to keep the water inside the tiny little space?  Why is this concept so hard to understand?

I’ve seen a few setups like this one in Sofia, Bulgaria.  I can’t tell you how much I hate those partial partitions.  Seriously, just get a shower rod and curtain.  That would solve so many problems.

Needless to say, for the sake of my sanity (and my poor hair), I will be looking for a new home with a decent shower set-up.  Finding a tub in a European apartment might be like finding a unicorn, but that won't stop me from trying.

Balat Welcomes Me Back

 

I was more than happy to leave that tiny apartment.  Too much noise and not enough space for me.  I was able to book a place in the Balat neighborhood and I was thrilled.

A quick taxi ride across the Bosphorus and I was back on the same street I’d stayed on last year.  The new place was even owned by the same host.  Force of habit had me trying to get into the old apartment (#7) when someone called my name.  Mehmet, the host, greeted me at the door and showed me to the new place (#12) just a few feet away.  He helped me inside before wishing me a pleasant stay.

I knew this wasn’t the same place I’d rented last year, but it was amazingly similar and just as homey.  Good thing too since the weather kept dropping to below freezing and making me a lot less eager to get out in it.  Most days I sat at the table in the warmth checking the temperature online. Can we at least get up to 40 degrees F so I can go outside without having my toes go numb? Then, when I would go out, I’d see people just sitting out in that 40-degree weather.  At least I was moving around and generating some heat.  “But I have my cigarette and my cup of tea,” said the Turks.  Seriously??

The neighborhood is just as busy and colorful as I remember it, only now everyone was bundled up from the cold.  I discovered some new restaurants, funky little holes in the wall with few customers but great food and atmosphere.  I had my beloved charcuterie breakfast a couple of times at a little place named Pops that was less than a five-minute walk from the apartment.

I stayed in that apartment for a little under two weeks but find it difficult to post much about that time.  There was nothing really exciting going on – dare I say that my life became rather routine.  I cooked, I studied, I washes clothes, I walked along the Bosphorus.  I was good in my homey apartment in Türkiye.  It was just another sign that I am ready to be housed again.  Hopefully my next trip to Portugal will see that happen.

The place at #12 was booked up, otherwise I would have extended my stay through February.  But the other place, the same apartment I rented last year upon my second trip to Istanbul, was available for another two weeks.  Cool.

In the easiest move of my entire journey (well, second easiest after Naxos), I switched from #12 to #7.   I had a huge grin on my face upon seeing the place again.  Granted, the other apartment was similar, but better in several ways.  The front door didn’t weigh 900 pounds, requiring a hulk-like strength to open and a narrow behind to get through.  There was only one set of windy, annoying stairs to climb as opposed to two.  The bathroom was wider and a lot easier to maneuver.  The living room was bigger and included a larger dining room table for my computer and stuff.

But there was still one thing that set #7 apart from #12 – I had sex there.  Twice.

And as I’m probably never having sex again, I like holding onto those good memories.

I quickly got cozy again and settled into my same routine.  All was good until I got a message from my stepmom regarding an urgent legal matter that needed to be addressed.  I had been named as one of the heirs to my deceased aunt's home.  The sale was being finalized in North Carolina and I needed to sign some papers.  

I emailed the lawyer handling the case and let her know that I was out of the country.  How was I supposed to do this?  She suggested finding the American consulate, consulting a notary, and having the paperwork shipped back to the states when finished.  Really?  Just the thought of doing all that was exhausting.  So, I figured it'd be better for me to go to their office and sign the papers in person.  I wasn't happy about it -- I had already paid for another week in that rental with the idea of returning to the states afterwards.  But ... there were other people involved in the sale and I didn't want to hold up the works.  And, of course, money.  So ... I guess I needed to book a flight.

Randomness on the Road Part 3

 

Time for another entry in this series.  Here are some more random shots and stories that didn’t make it into the main posts.

This dude was a total mood!  I spotted him in a restaurant in Istanbul back in December and just had to take his picture.  Then I smashed him.

(Kidding.  There’s only one Turk who’s ever paid me any attention and I make sure to avoid him like the plague when I’m in the city.  No penis is worth $4000.)

Speaking of moods, I think this ape at the Lisbon Zoo says it all.

I have never seen a coffee set-up like this.  When the waitress set it on my table in Jaco, Costa Rica, I just stared at it for a while.  As simple as it is, the concept is no different from an electric coffee maker.  Pour boiling water over coffee grounds and strain the results into a container. No big whoop. It was decent coffee, too.  This contraption was sold at some of the souvenir shops, but I didn't buy one.

My flight was delayed getting out of Jamaica (just what I needed to cap off my trip).  A man in line next to me struck up a conversation.  He mentioned that he had recently had a stroke and his brush with the Jamaican healthcare system had him running back to America for treatment.  I questioned that move initially (dude, go anywhere but America for medical assistance!), but my opinion changed slightly as he told me more about himself.

He was an American lawyer turned musician who had married a Jamaican woman.  He loved the island but admitted that his status as a white man in the country affected his treatment.  While in hospital, the staff demanded he pay them $40,000 in cash for his care.  Yeah.  Like the sick dude coming for emergency care that had just experienced a major medical incident had that much cash in his wallet.  Then they came back to him asking for more money for gas for the truck that delivered his meds. 

In addition to trying to literally rob him, he mentioned that the meds they had prescribed for him seemed suspect.  He consulted a non-Jamaican doctor who warned him not to take the meds as the combo would kill him.  Apparently, that was par for the course for Jamaican medicine.  He said that a bunch of his buddies died because of mis-diagnoses of dengue fever, preventing them from getting the treatment for their actual maladies.

I still think he should’ve headed to Canada rather than the U.S.  The Jamaicans only tried to rob him.  And he was going to California?  Okay …

I thought this was a dumpster at first glance.  Located in Lisbon, it was only when it started playing music that I read the signage around it.  This is one of many art installations around the city, all part of some exhibition promoting literacy or something.  Can’t remember the specifics.

In Hilton Head, I was having lunch at a Mexican place that I’d never visited before.  The room was full of families and subsequently a bit noisier than I would have liked.  There was also another lone woman sitting at a table near me.  When she finished her meal, she stopped by my table on the way out.  She said she was so happy to see another woman dining alone.  She’d never been comfortable doing it and seeing me made her feel less alone.  Obviously, she had no idea just how much I’ve done by myself this year.  I didn’t go into it, merely telling her that everybody needs to eat.  All those families weren’t paying any attention to us, no need for us to feel self-conscious or pay any attention to them.

This is a scene that repeats on certain Turkish streets.  There are a lot of bakeries around that not only serve individual customers, but they also provide bread to all the local businesses.  The bakeries use wood-burning stoves so trucks will come by every few days and just dump all the wood on the street to be taken inside by hand.

All of the Hard Rock Cafes I've visited are unique in their own way.  Whether it was the elephant statue outside of the Chiang Mai location, the huge guitar outside of Phuket, or the full-size car suspended from the ceiling in the Lisbon location.  It was cool to see though I had to wonder about the safety of the people sitting beneath it if that thing ever fell.

An update on technology:  I’ve seen these puppies in a couple of places but could never figure out how to work them (same for all the radiators I've encountered).  This time, on my most recent trip to Türkiye, the towel warmers were already turned on and serve as the heaters for the bathroom.  Put your towel on there while in the shower and it’s nice and toasty when you’re ready to get out.

Back To Beyoglu

 

Checkout time for most Airbnbs is 11 am.  It takes about an hour get to Atlanta Airport from Roswell.  Return car then board the SkyTrain to get to the Domestic Terminal.  Grab the shuttle to the International Terminal (about 20 minutes depending on traffic).  My flight out was at 9:25 pm.

There is always a lot of waiting around all these events.  Taking my time to get to the airport (get gas, lunch, and do any last-minute shopping), loading luggage in and out of shuttles, standing in line to check in my bag, enduring security, sitting at the gate.  All in preparation for a bear of an overnight flight (11 hours).

The flight was a flight.  Not good or bad, despite sitting in a middle seat.  Turkish Airlines always has decent service and good food.  There weren’t too many screaming kids (I still vividly remember my first flight with the airline back in May – oy).  It surprises me to realize how accustomed I’ve become to the whole process.  It’s still a pain in the butt and completely exhausting, but the process gets me where I want to be.  That makes it worth it.

Landing back in Istanbul served as a hard reset.  It felt like coming back to my home away from the place I really want to be my home (Portugal).  My tropical ‘vacation’ seemed like more of a nightmare to be quickly forgotten – except for the fact that my arms and legs were still covered in calamine lotion (thanks, Jamaica!).  Now it was back to this new version of my reality. 

Though … I did miss the island’s warmth.  It was cold and a bit rainy when I landed in the city.  Can’t say I was looking forward to dealing with that again.  In hindsight, I really did the last few months backwards.  If I had had any sense, I would have planned to spend autumn in Türkiye and spend winter on Madeira, but I didn’t think that far ahead.

And yes, I know the beautiful country of Türkiye is more than just Istanbul.  I just can’t motivate myself to leave the city.  I really do love it.  Istanbul is like nothing I have ever encountered.  

                                                    (See anything odd with this picture?)

Walking along the Bosphorus has got to be one of my favorite things ever, particularly during the call to prayer.  I’ve already gushed about Turkish breakfast – this time with fire!

And it’s even better in the city when it’s not raining every five minutes – yay!

Granted, I could speak to and understand the Jamaicans (in theory).  The Turks sometimes sound like they’re speaking backwards. 

Kül | Resmi Fragman | Netflix (youtube.com) watch with subtitles and you’ll see what I mean.

And that’s not to insult the Turks or their language.  I’m just saying that I’m a dumb American and their language is way too much for me to process.   Needless to say, I still only know a few words in Turkish.  I’m still training my brain to even understand phrases.

I wanted to get another apartment in the Balat neighborhood (maybe even the one I had the first time I was in the city), but the cheap, available place was again in Beyoglu.  I was stunned when the taxi driver drove up the street I stayed on last time. “Hey!  I recognize this street (just don’t ask me to name it)!”  I’m getting to know the city.  Cool!

The new place is on the other side of Istiklal Street and it’s another place that’s really only suited for short term rentals.  The apartment is very small and doesn’t get a lot of light.  Even the two windows in the living room face other buildings so the sunlight is filtered.  The bedroom is the darkest. 

It’s fine at 2 am, but when it looks exactly the same at 10 am, it makes it very difficult to judge the time.  Hard to get out of bed, too.  Not because the bed was so comfortable (it wasn’t), but after waking up in the night, I’d try to go back to sleep.  Call to prayer at 6:45.   Try to go back to sleep.  It’s suddenly 9:30. I’m still tired, it’s still dark, but I figure I should get up.  I guess.

Then there’s this.  This is the weirdest bathroom setup I’ve ever seen with the toilet and the shower being in their own small closets.  If you’re a bigger person, there’s no way you’re getting to the toilet.  It’s far too narrow.  And while the shower stall is a decent size, the area around the sink is too tiny to do much of anything, even dry yourself off. 

The bedroom is just big enough for the bed with no closet space.  The flooring is uneven and moved under my feet.  The thresholds for every room are large enough to trip on if you’re not careful.  There is a car lot just outside the living room window – lots of horns honking and raised Turkish voices at all hours of the day and night. 

There’s a hotel next door and for some reason, they insist on washing every dish in the universe after 10 at night.  The sound of clinking plates was so loud and went on for so long one night that I eventually got up to go to the slightly less loud living room until the noise in the bedroom stopped.

Not my favorite Airbnb experience.  I’ll still take it over that shack in Negril any day of the week.

This apartment was closer to the touristy action than the last place I had in Beyoglu.  Take a left out of the apartment, walk to the end of the block, take a left and two blocks later, you’re on Istiklal Street.  Can’t get more convenient than that. 

Even post-Christmas, the street was still hopping.  It was nice to have access to it without having to go too far.  I don’t think I mentioned it earlier, but the police presence is almost as heavy as it was before Christmas.  If they’re not walking along the street or driving down it, there are closed off areas where they keep watch.  These folks are openly carrying rifles across their chests.  I didn’t get a picture for fear of being shot, but that was my only fear.  They weren’t paying any attention to me and I never saw them arresting anyone.  I figure they were there less for the shoppers and more because of possible international terrorism.  Türkiye borders Iran, Iraq, and Syria to the south, so there have been issues there.  Istanbul is about as far north in the country as you can get from the Middle East, but it’s still a major city that could possibly be targeted. 

My concern is more for earthquakes than terrorism.  I’ve seen too many reports talking about the vulnerability of the city, particularly after the big quake experienced in southern Türkiye last year.  It’s a risk (I really don’t do the whole ground-shaking thing – not even a tremor) but, like I said, I do love this city.

And I still highly recommend a visit (preferably in the spring or autumn). There has been an update to the Turkish visa process for 2024.  Americans are no longer required to obtain an e-visa before travel.  I’m not sure how that works, though.  I’m still on the visa I got back in November, so I’m assuming that the 90-day limit still applies from that.  I think that you can only stay for 90 days total once you enter the country going forward, but I don’t know if that includes re-entry.  If anyone wants to visit from the U.S., please do your research as things are changing all the time.

Escape from Jamaica

 

Finally, the day had arrived!  Time to leave that god-forsaken island!

Getting packed up was easy seeing that I never really unpacked.  I locked up the shack and tried to get an Uber to no avail.  Of course.  So I hauled all my crap down the white stone road to get a taxi on the main street. 

It was yet another ride in one of those group cabs.  I asked the guy to drop me off at the bus station, but, my bad, I didn’t shout for him to stop when we reached it.  I wasn’t paying attention for most of the ride then consulted my phone to find out we’d passed the place.  When he stopped to drop off a passenger, I asked him if we were going back towards the station.  Nope, he was going forward, but he could hand me off to another driver.  He did just that but I told him I only had cash for one taxi.  He waved me off and drove away.  A last nice thing to happen on the island.

I told the new driver to take me to the bus station.  He also proceeded to drive right by it!  I finally shouted to please stop the car, my voice joined by the other people in the cab until dude stopped.  Got my stuff out and began to trudge the 1/4 mile back to the station, muttering some choice curse words along the way.  The cleaned-up version: “I rather do dislike this place.  Jamaica needs to have sex with itself and I’m quite perturbed that I stayed this long”.

Got to the station, got checked in, and settled myself on the bus.  Ahh.  Sigh of relief.  I just sat there during the 2-hour ride, listening to some more smooth R&B, with a huge grin on my face that I was getting out of there.

Montego Bay Airport was busy with the after-Christmas rush.  I had plenty of time before my flight, so I wandered into the gift shop.  Honestly, I didn’t want a physical reminder of this trip.  I had my photos and enough memories to forever haunt me, but ... despite my experience, I knew I’d feel differently later.  I settled on a spoon rest, something I needed during my travels anyway.  That, along with the coffee I’d bought, was enough for me.

I checked my bag and got in line for security.  While I waited, I saw numerous signs pointing out that any souvenirs in powder form were subject to confiscation, including the coffee I had in my bag.  Now you tell me?  This couldn’t have been explained before I checked my bag? Like I needed another hassle from this place.  Thanks, Jamaica! 

Fortunately, my coffee wasn’t an issue.  The security check went off without a hitch and I headed to my gate. 

The gates are surrounded by more gift shops and bars, not unusual for an airport.  Montego Bay stood out though because it's decorated to look like a typical Jamaican street.  Everything is colorful and covered with artwork.  Bob Marley's presence is still everywhere as well as the dive bar esthetics.  One bar near my gate looked like another version of the Pelican Bar, a huge wooden structure covered with signs and license plates.

It was a two-hour direct flight from Jamaica to Atlanta.  Why did I even have a layover getting to the island?  Even if it did cost more, it was worth avoiding the hassle of going through Florida (seriously, stay away from that state!).  I landed, collected my bag, collected my rental (another sweet Mustang), and went back to the Airbnb in Roswell I’d visited in December.

I really do love that place.  It is very cozy and the hosts are lovely.  They even offered me a plate on New Year’s Day, collards and black-eyed peas, a traditional meal in the south to bring good luck for the year.  I had already eaten when they offered so I declined, but it was still a nice gesture.

While not as warm as the island, Georgia was still sunny and dry which was nice.  Every time I’ve visited the states, the weather has been cooperative.  It’s much appreciated particularly since I’m driving a strange car every time.  After spending most of the year in Europe, I was also glad to return to a place where everyone speaks English and I don’t have to worry about visas or immigration.

Everything else though …

Rental cars are pricy, food is stupidly expensive for the quality, it takes too long to get anywhere, I still don’t have health insurance which just makes me anxious, and, most importantly, it costs too much money to leave.

As eager as I was to get out of the country again, there were some issues I had to take care of while in the states.  I’ve mentioned using Charles Schwab as my main bank while traveling and they’ve been great.  Except once I got to Jamaica, the website no longer wanted to recognize my computer.  I couldn’t check my balance online and it was really bugging me.  I can’t receive SMS texts while out of the country and trying to call them required my account number – which I couldn’t access without the website.  It was an annoyance that was easily solved once I was back on American soil.

My phone still had the sim card from Jamaica.  I had limited service with it, but quickly realized that the woman who installed it hadn’t given me back my original sim card.  Sigh.  Jamaica:  the pain in my a$$ that just keeps on s*&^^ing.  Google will ship out a replacement totally for free, but the card wouldn’t arrive until after I was out of the country again.  I had to bite the bullet and buy another one from Best Buy for $10.

When in Alabama, my stepmom commented on my pants not fitting.  I had (gleefully) noticed but hadn’t really made an effort to buy any new ones.  I’m still not European skinny, so I didn’t bother to look for anything in my size overseas.  I had lost my first 50 pounds deliberately on Weight Watchers then quit the program once I’d reached my goal in early 2023.  I knew I wouldn’t be paying attention to my diet while in Europe, eating all the French fries, all the bread (Türkiye!), and drinking more alcohol than I ever drank in Georgia.  Yet the weight kept coming off.  The food is just better in Europe, there’s no getting around that.  All the more reason to keep working for my visa.

On this unexpected trip back to the states, at least I was able to find some pants that fit (a novel concept).  Made the suitcase a little lighter.  With that done, I just hoped that by the time I got on my next flight, the numerous bug bites I’d acquired on the island would have healed up. 

Thanks, Jamaica!

A Few Days in Negril Part II

 

I walked back to the shack soon after sunset.  It got dark fast which made getting back all the more adventurous.  I managed to get back in one piece and decided to take a shower.  I hadn’t taken one on my first night because I was too tired and upset about my situation to even bother dealing with an unfamiliar shower.

I quickly realized that I’d made a good decision.  Had I tried to shower that first night, I know Jamaica would have had me in tears again.  Why?  There was no hot water.  Not in the bathroom sink (I’d learned to just deal with that), not in the kitchen (wasn’t cooking or washing dishes anyway in that dump), and not in the shower (sigh).  But since I was tired, dirty, and covered in sand, I would just have to make it work.

One more day, Jamaica …

After a slightly better night than the last, I got dressed and bounced.  I hit the same café as the day before for a quick breakfast, then made my way back to Arthur’s.

Well, I thought I knew where I was going.  It was a straight shot down the beach, but the more I kept walking, the more I started to think that I’d never get there.  Finally, I whipped out the phone only to realize that I had passed the place by 1.9 km.  What?  How did I do that?  Good grief!

I doubled back with Marshall calling me just before I reached the place.  He was standing in front of the sign with his arms out.  I know I’d only been to the place once, but I even took a picture of the sign the night before.  I still have no idea how I missed it but whatever.

Marshall produced a bottle of rum punch.  He’d noticed that that was the drink I’d had the night before.  He offered me some but since I had made him wait so long, I said we should just get going.  He took me over to another man sitting at the bar then led us out to a car.  Huh?  I thought we were taking a boat from the bar.  Confused and a bit wary, I got in the back seat.

Even in December, the temps were in the high 80’s.  The car had a broken mirror on the driver’s side so I had to believe that the A/C was non-functional.  We were basking in God’s air conditioning (all the windows were down) as we sped up the main road.

Travelling in the back of a car with two Jamaican men I’ve just met, billows of weed smoke coming out of each window (because this is my life now), I started to question my judgment.  What’s stopping these guys from pulling over into a secluded area and taking advantage of the lone female traveler?  No one knew I was with these guys and I had no idea where we were going.  And we just kept going.

I started to get this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Oh yeah.  I’m about to be raped and murdered in Jamaica.

Well, this story had to end somehow.

That’s one of the issues with travel.  I want to throw myself into an adventure, but at the same time, I’m still by myself in a foreign country and would like to not die in that country.  It’s a fine line.

We stopped at a car mechanic and the driver got out to get something he’d forgotten there.  Seeing this as a possible chance to escape, I asked Marshall again where were we going.  I told him I didn’t realize it was so far away, we still hadn’t established a price, and I wasn’t entirely sure yet that I would survive this adventure.  He gave me the puppy dog eyes saying he was hurt I could even suggest that I was in danger.  This was his job.  Everyone knows Marshall.  He’s a stand-up guy.

Okay.

                                                                    That's Marshall

Considering that we passed through several small towns, stopping in one so I could take pictures, I started to relax.  Even on the more barren parts of the road, there were houses, people, and taxis everywhere.  Plenty of opportunities to get help if I needed it.

We made another quick stop at what passes for Jamaican fast food.  It was a line of small stalls set off from the road enough to allow cars to stop briefly.  Once we did, a bunch of folks came to our windows carrying all kinds of food.  Marshall bought a package of bammy, a type of flatbread, and offered me some.  Munching on the bread further served to soothe my fears of being murdered.

After two hours(!) we turned onto this rutty dirt road and parked in what looked like someone’s backyard.  There was a dude grilling near a small house as another dude sat by the water and fished.  We waited for a boat to come in, then Marshall and I set sail for the bar.

Alright.  Now we’re talking.  It’s a gorgeous day in Jamaica. I’m sitting in this small boat, grinning like an idiot, as we speed toward what looks like a bunch of sticks floating in the water. Adventure, not assault.  Cool!

The Pelican Bar is indeed an experience.   The walls are decorated with license plates and memorabilia from around the world. The wood planks are covered with the names of the people who have visited.  With all the marks in the wood and views of the ocean peeking through the planks, I thought the place would be unstable.  I kept expecting the planks to wobble with every step, but they never did.   There’s a small gift shop and plenty of places to just sit and chill.

The bar serves beer and mixed drinks along with a limited food menu.  Marshall had already warned me about the high prices, so I opted not to order food.  I bought us a couple of strawberry margaritas and we sat and watched the waves for a while.  Even with the loud music (more of the American music I’d heard all over Europe but this time with a reggae tempo) the bar was a peaceful way to spend a couple of hours.

Marshall called the boat to take us back to shore where we had some of the fish I’d seen the guy catch earlier.  Then we were back on the road.  Marshall spent most of the trip yelling at stupid drivers.  And there were some doozies.  Like the motorcycle driver with passenger who passed us on the right (next to oncoming traffic) and then did a wheelie (what a nut!).  Or the genius who tried to pass another car ahead of us and nearly caused us to have a head-on collision.

Did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back of the car?  Or that the two-lane road often had limited visibility, numerous potholes, and plenty of pedestrians, dogs, goats and the occasional cow passing by?  And don’t forget I was being driven by a pot-smoking man who was speeding the whole time.

May the travel gods continue to smile upon me because this could have turned out really badly.

Back in Negril, we stopped at an ATM so I could pay them.  I don’t know the going rate for such excursions, but the $250 I paid is a reminder of why I chose not to book them.  I don’t like spending that kind of money unless it’s for a roof over my head or a plane ticket.  Marshall and I then went back to the chairs in front of Arthur’s to crack open that bottle of rum punch and watch another sunset.  He wanted to have a chat with me.

That ‘chat’ involved him again expressing his pain at my doubting his intensions.  He was also upset that I was leaving the island so soon.  That if I hadn’t met him, I would have left Jamaica with a bad impression of it. 

He asked when I would come back.  I smirked at him and said never. I was rage-quitting Jamaica, something I haven’t done since Athens.  Why on earth would I pay good money to come back here when I could go anywhere else? Now, I know that if I had planned this trip better, spent some more money, and stayed in one of the many resorts that I would have had a better experience.  But I have no interest in returning to test out that theory.

A week and a half on the island actually had me happy to go back to the states – a place I hate.  I looked forward to the simple things like washing my clothes, getting a good night’s sleep, taking a hot shower – none of which I could do in that shack in Negril.

He noticed a black man walking down the beach with a white woman and went off on a rant.  He said that Jamaican men tend to worship white women, but he wasn’t one of them.  He only loved black women.

(good for you)

This line of thought led to him asking me about having a man (because, of course, I couldn’t be happy without one).  I told him how I attract vampires, told him about Zaza and how he only wanted sex and money.  He assured me that Zaza was out of line, that he shouldn’t have asked for so much.  Instead of $3800, he should have only asked for a thousand.

(the f&)#k?)

He again suggested that I stay longer, that my plans to move to Portugal weren’t the end-all, be-all and plans could change.  “I just want to see you happy, D.”

I just stared at him thinking ‘you got a lot of nerve’.  I just met this man and he has already decided that he knows what’s best for me.  That ‘yah, yah, you want to live in Portugal, but that’s not what I want so you should change your plans’.  That ‘you’re still a cash machine, but stick with me and I won’t ask for as much’.

I’d known the dude for a day and now I’m supposed to forget all my plans.  And yes, I know the situation sounds a lot like my encounter with Zaza.  I spent one day with him and a month later I went back to Istanbul instead of going on to Australia.  But there was a difference.  Zaza offered sweet talk and affection.  The only thing I was getting from Marshall was dismissal of my dreams and guilt-tripped for not taking his feelings into account.  I just met you, fool!

Besides which, I was attracted to Zaza.  To Marshall … not so much.

Dude, whatever.  Quit telling me about my life and go smoke another blunt.

I didn’t actually say any of that.  I just smiled and nodded.  When he got up to see to something, I quickly made my exit.  And just because I thought he might follow me, I dipped off the beach, shut off my phone, and headed out on the main road.

I began to question that decision as it got dark. 

There were some establishments along the road, but only for a while.  Then the streetlights disappeared and the gravel on the side of the road grew muddy and uneven.  On a couple of parts of the trip, the only illumination came from the few cars heading my way.  I was not loving that journey but kept going anyway.

Finally, the sky lightened up.  I could just spot the roundabout that marked my turn to the left when I heard someone shouting from the other side of the road. Marshall appeared on a bicycle waving me down.  Seriously, dude?

He caught up to me, again complaining about his feelings.  I’d ruined his night when I left like that since he said he would walk me home (he offered when I refused a third cup of punch since I would be walking home in the dark).  I had tried to tell him that I was leaving after thanking him for the nice day.  He didn’t want to hear it – that’s when I left.  I had already told him I was traveling the next day and needed to get some rest.   Yet somehow, the situation was all about his feelings. 

After way too long of a conversation, by the side of that noisy road that was adding to my headache, I was finally able to get away.  He said he would call me a lot, shaking his head in disappointment as I walked away.

He called me twice when the plane was boarding and I declined the calls.  Once back in the states, I saw that he had called multiple times while my phone wasn’t connected to the internet.  I promptly blocked him.  Unbelievable. 

My trend for picking up parasites continues ...

A Few Days in Negril

My host told me about the local bus service, so I bought a ticket online to Negril.  The research I did while there told me that this would probably be a better fit for me.  The only problem was it was all the way on the other side of the island.  The trip would take 5 hours.

I wasn’t looking forward to that, but the alternatives were even worse.  There were no direct flights from Kingston to the more popular Montego Bay airport.  A cab would be insanely expensive and there was no way I was about to rent a car.  I refuse to drive on the other side of the car on the other side of the road on those narrow, rough, unfamiliar streets.  Forget about it.

I used Uber to get a cab and was deposited at the Kingston bus station.  Within a few minutes, we were on our way.

Surprisingly, I enjoyed that ride.  I got to see more of the island and the seats were comfortable.  The driver played R&B music from the 60’s and 70’s which gave the trip a nice vibe.  The island is truly beautiful with all the greenery and the views of the ocean.  It wasn’t the smoothest ride because of the pot-holed streets and the sometimes crazy drivers, but still it was a good trip.

It started to rain just as we made it into Negril meaning I had to flag down a cab in the damp.  Again, not the best intro to a new city on this island.  My host had not provided an address, only directions.  I showed the cabbie and he asked me to call the host so they could speak directly.

This cab ride was also my first intro on how the cabs work in Jamaica.  For 5 USD, the cab will pick up as many passengers as it can.  I found this out when, minutes after I got into the car, the cabbie pulled over and picked up two more ladies.  There was already a dude in the front passenger seat.  While I knew from YouTube that this was normal, it was still annoying to have to unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot over as the woman opened my door and just stared at me. 

The irritants of this place just kept piling up.  And it was about to get worse.

The cab dropped off the three other people at the same place, then pulled up to the gate in front of my new place for the week.  He got my bags out and honked the horn to get someone to open the gates.  I appreciated the gesture, but already knew that the host had provided instructions for self check in.

My last place in Kingston was just okay.  The hosts were lovely and I enjoyed some time by the pool, but it was still just okay.  The new place made me long for that place.

To call this place rustic is being generous.  I don’t know the worst part.  The calcified dog turd right at the front gate? The rusty lock on that same gate that took forever to get open and closed?

The warped inner gate that it took me a while to realize also had a lock on it?  The electronic lock on the front door with the stupidly long combination?  The fiery winds that greeted me when I opened that door?  The non-responsive remote for the A/C?  The mini fridge that wasn't even plugged in? The shaky bathroom sink with the spitting faucet? 

The sloping wood floor?  The lack of soap in the entire house?

Oh, it’s official.  I f#$^&ing hate this place!

And I don’t just mean that shack.  I mean Negril, Kingston, and the whole of Jamaica.  My entire experience had been a pain in the ass that just kept getting worse.

I tried to use the remote to operate the A/C, but it was locked.  Keeping the door open since it was cooler outside than it was inside, I messaged the host for help.  She sent out a dude who unlocked the remote and got the A/C running.  I pointed out the wobbly sink in the bathroom and he said they’d get it fixed later.  He also assured me this was a nice quiet place.

Yeah right.

The best things I can say about the place are it was clean, the internet connection was consistent, and the hosts were responsive.  That’s about it.  As for the rest …

The shack was located down a rutty white stone ‘road’ that led to the main thoroughfare.  The abundance of traffic made it too loud to walk along the tiny two-lane road (screw those sputtering motorcycles).  Every store/restaurant was crowded.  There were people everywhere just hanging out and blocking the sidewalks (usually talking loudly).  The heat did not help with anything (and to think the weather was why I chose to go to Jamaica in the first place) nor did sailing through constant clouds of weed smoke (it is Jamaica).  No, sir, I don’t need any ackee (local fruit that grows everywhere), shells, or joints, thank you very much.  I’d like to just walk down the street in peace, but it wasn’t happening there.

I found my way to the famous 7-mile beach that first night but didn’t have much time to explore as it was getting dark.  Just like in Kingston, every fast-food joint in the local strip mall (Burger King, Little Caeser’s, and Popeye’s) had lines out the door.  The other local restaurants/bars were either deserted or equally as crowded.  I initially left Burger King for this reason but ended up going back for the long wait since everywhere else was so crowded.

That first night was the worst.  Jamaica is crawling with stray dogs and one of them was highly agitated.  It barked for a solid two hours and when it finally stopped, there was booming music to take over the noise pollution.  The bed had no top sheet and was very uncomfortable which meant I was tossing and turning the entire night.

Yeah.  I ain’t playing with you anymore, Jamaica.  We’re done.  I’m out of here.

Even though I’d booked that shack for a week, I began looking for a flight out the next day.  The only reason I didn’t leave that day was because I couldn’t get a bus ticket to Montego Bay, the closest airport.  My original plane ticket was scheduled for 1/11/24 (cheapest flight I could get at the time) out of Kingston.  But after all the trouble I’d had on the island, I had no interest in taking a bus back to Kingston or staying any longer than I had to.

It took some finagling, but I managed to cancel my original flight and get a bus ticket for 12/29/23.  I arranged for a flight back to Atlanta, non-stop this time (lesson learned – I will pay good money now to avoid the state of Florida).  I would just have to figure out my next move from there.

In the meantime, I still had Negril to explore.  Wouldn’t change my mind about high tailing it out of there but … beaches.  The water is lovely and the shore is lined with restaurants, souvenir shops, and hotels.  After breakfast at a seaside café, I walked along the beach for some of those 7 miles.  Had a drink at one of the many bars

and did some more walking.  Until I started slowing down.

I do this to myself way too often.  I’ll be going along after a meal feeling fine.  Time passes … I’m fine.  I’m fine.  I’m fine.  Oh my God!  I’m about to pass out!  I’m getting lightheaded!  Now I have a headache!  If I don’t eat now, I’m gonna die!

(I really need to snack more)

I stopped at a place called Arthur’s which is supposed to be historic for some reason according to the sign.  I didn’t care as long as they served food.  They did, and I was treated to a tasty meal and a glass of rum punch.

As I was finishing up, one of the two men hanging around the bar approached me.  He introduced himself as Marshall and offered me a hit of his blunt (no, thank you.  Even in the land of the perpetually high, I had no interest in that vice. I’ll stick to my mixed adult beverages.) He asked me what I had seen on the island or what I might want to see.  I told him I only had one day left and didn’t know what I should see.  He suggested an excursion to The Pelican Bar, a famous floating landmark.  I said sure and he said he would arrange it.

We sat in front of the bar and watched the sunset as we solidified our plan for the next day.  I gotta admit, the place is lovely at sunset.  Still not staying, but …