One of the reasons why I've always preferred to travel with the only sane family member around (that would be the woman who gave me life) or winging it solo is because I've been able to sidestep the minefield of bullshit that comes with planning a trip with a friend. That is, until now.

Thought it would be cool to blow off some steam in the next few weeks with a quickie weekend getaway, but making the mini-excursion into a "girls nite out" theme. Well, more like a girl + 1 since my circle of single and fancy-free girlfriends have been shrinking faster than Mary-Kate Olsen. Damn near everyone I know is either getting or have already gotten hitched, on the inside track for the idealized amount of 2.5 kids while migrated into the blandness of suburbia. So, the cheese stands almost alone. Enter my homegirl Nadine.* We've been friends for eons, and when she moved across the street from me about 5 years ago, it seemed like we had made a 360° from sleepovers to just chillin' on the stoop with a couple of cigs talking about whatever.

So around September when I had the bright idea to make a weekend run out of the tri-state area, she was on the short list of candidates I could proposition 3 days of debauchery to. And as luck would have it, Nadine was up for the trip. But then again, who in their right mind would turn down some sunny skies and an excuse to drink in the daytime during the dog days of winter? The whole plan still hinged on whether or not she could get the time off as schedule was constantly schizophrenic due to the revolving nature of being a hospital staffer. I figured as long as she gave me answer before Thanksgiving, I'd be good to book the flight and then plot the hotel scouting.

September ended, nothing.
Halloween came and went, nada.
Thanksgiving rolled by, still no concrete answer.

What kind of janky ass position are you holding down if you can't get a yes or no from your supervisor damn near three months ahead of time just to take two days off? Meanwhile in the midst of all my thumb twiddling, American Airlines kept tempting me with new discounted flights smack dab for the time I was eying. A round trip of under $150 was just too much of a steal to pass up. So I put the booking on hold so I could run the numbers by her first. I call her cell and home numbers so many times I may have given myself carpal tunnel. No response. I'm pacing and getting antsy because I'm slated to lose the pending seats at midnight if I don't put the order through. Finally at 11:09 p.m., this broad calls me back feigning apologies. Never mind the bollocks, are you in or out? She says she's still going. So, I reserve the tickets at least feeling a bit more at ease since the biggest hurdle was cleared. Well, for the time being.

Now I was comparison shopping for the best place to stay, and of course I was the one doing all the work. Every time I would call her to stop over to take a look at the details and sit down to crunch the numbers, the heifer would pull some incognito bill-collector avoidance tactics.

This constant push & pull only served as a reminder of why I keep the socializing with broads to a bare minimum because this is the kind of nonsense that's far too commonplace.

Here's hoping a U.S. marshal doesn't put a slug in me if I happen to choke the living daylights out of her en route.

Labels: friendship, frustration, rants, relationships, vacation

All good things must come to an end and while I'm cool with being back in my stomping grounds... I can't help but long for just 48 hours prior when I had no cares in the world except cool island breezes caressing me at night and I-can't-believe-it's-not-summer sun rays kissing my skin into a deeper shade of Hershey. Though my last full-fledged excursion was barely 3 months ago, the pressures of it all were just wearing my veneer down thinner, and much faster than expected. So 5 nights spent in San Juan, Puerto Rico was just what the doctor ordered.

I'd had never ventured to la isla del encanto before and when the opportunity presented itself for a 5-night getaway from the incessant rains that pummeled the Mid-Atlantic relentlessly for the past week and a half with airfare discounts reaching rock bottom prices, gift wrapped in the pretty satin bow of non-stop flights in a shade over 3 hours, how could I resist?

The rustic architecture of Old San Juan, the vibrancy of Calle San Sebastian (pictured above) at night, the amazing colonial churches, the pulse of Santurce, hanging out with the locals at Piñones or browsing the lineup of kiosks on Luquillo Beach was a welcome slice of the real P.R. outside of just indulging in cheap rum courtesy of the Bacardi factory (which I happily obliged daily) and picking out the ugliest coquí souvenir you could find.

However, I spent the bulk of time in Isla Verde (right) as this was where my hotel was, and since so many places were situated in the area - it functioned as the hub I wound up coming back to. Bars, a glutton of restaurant chains, high-rise condos, strip malls, 24-hr. pharmacies, hip-hop and reggaeton blasting from every other car that whizzed by certainly had the big city feel of life in the 5 boroughs. It was so refreshing to actually make a late-night run for a pint of Haagen-Dazs from Walgreens around the corner even though I was miles away from the 'burbs.

The beach was literally a hop, skip and a jump away...slipping into my flip flops only was a 30 yard dash for both the tourists and native beach bums alike. However, the sands and seas were of the Monet variety. Amazing to photograph from a distance, but up close? Straight seaweed city. And there was no way in hell that I was going halfway out into the ocean just to frolic in the aqua blues. Reclining with a steady supply of mojitos handy while watching butter pecan Adonises of the Kamar De Los Reyes variety jog up and down the surf for their daily cardio was clearly a better alternative.

After being lulled into an almost otherworldly-like state of relaxation, it was only fitting that once I touched back down in the Rotten Apple, a mantra of "don't worry, be happy" would soon be obliterated.

I was determined to quell my over packing tendencies for once, so I traveled light with only 2 (!!!) carry-on pieces in addition to my shoulder tote... a giant step for mankind if I do say so myself. But the self-congratulatory satisfaction I felt turned into sheer rage when only my Louis Vuitton packall came through the baggage conveyor belt. My rolling Pegasé was nowhere to be found. I waited a bit longer. Kept peering through the rubber curtains to see if there was anything still left to be unloaded from the aircraft's storage. Not a trace in sight. Color me stressed the fuck out. Off my heels clacked at warp speed to American Airlines' customer service office to rip some unassuming rep a new asshole. Nothing is more annoying that explaining a situation to someone who has a hard time jump starting their brain cells out of neutral to give you a succinct answer. First the clueless wonder couldn't tell me for sure whether my belongings still MIA were floating on a flight that hadn't yet arrived even with the boarding pass I provided. So I did what any irrational chick would do. I went to her superior and berated the both of them while tearing the claims form already filled out until I got a satisfactory response to basic questions posed. An hour had ticked by and the next flight was touching down @ JFK in another 5 minutes. Yet another jaunt upstairs to Terminal 9 would be required, but my Smart Carte was moving like grease lightning. Finally I could stop waiting to exhale once I saw the familiar monogrammed trolley with my name on it.

The relief of that small victory dissipated almost as quickly as it had began once I was accosted by a fast talking Bajan cabbie who thought I was some fresh water Yankee who didn't know any better once he tried to sell me on a $40 price tag from Kennedy to my front door. Negro please. Hustling is in my DNA...

As we bickered down the Belt Parkway to slash the price down to my usual $30 fare, my iPod shifted in my purse and suddenly Lighters Up filled my ears with the staccato beat every bit as rough around the edges as this welcome back had went all night.

Like I always said, there's no place like home.

Labels: Puerto Rico, vacation

I'm taking a brief respite from the hustle and bustle of it all on a semi-unplanned getaway for a few days before I wind up like Mariah Carey during the whole Glitter/"that bitch done lost it" fiasco. So rather than leave all 2 of my regular reading audience outta the loop, I figure I'll post the "gone fishing" entry now while I'm taking a break from cramming shit I don't really need into my suitcase. Flight leaves in the next 7 hours, so I'll be back next week with the usual babble that keeps the wheels turning. Same bat time, same bat channel. Until then, catch you on the flipside.

Outro...

Labels: vacation

Bermuda, Bahamas, come on pretty mama
Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go
Ooh I wanna take you down to Provo, we'll get there fast and
then we'll take it slow...
That's where we wanna go...
Start in Grand Turk and off to Provo...

P. Diddy who? Psshht. Tell Puff the Magic Sampler to try and flip a slice of vintage Beach Boys 80's cheese into an ode for the place in the British West Indies that stole my heart away. And don't front like ya'll wasn't sangin' along either, I'm not the only one who sat through Cocktail just to hear it while watching Tom Cruise play another one-dimensional asshole. Guess who's back in the muthaeffin' house with a scrumptious choco-tan for yo mouf! After 8 days and 7 nights spent in paradise otherwise known as Providenciales, I am back in the Rotten Apple toiling away at the corporate plantation, back to making a $1 outta 15¢. Ugh.

If you haven't ventured to Turks & Caicos as of yet, get your asses to Expedia.com and start doing your homework. Turks and who?!? Yeah, I've gotten that response from damn near everyone I've talked to about my vacation, it's crucial for Black folk to move past the Mason-Dixon line and see how the rest of our people beyond the borders do it up in an unfamiliar habitat. There's a big world besides the corner bodega to explore and it isn't that far away to escape. The T&C islands are still rural and developing generally, but I think that lends a bit of rustic charm to the backdrop of it all. With all the construction still ongoing, in another 5-10 years, it'll be fully commercialized into an antiseptic sort of Caribbean haven for Americans that don't know any better. Slick and glossy with the culture suctioned out for the sake of the masses, kinda like a tropical Los Angeles.

In terms of nightlife, there aren't many choices available at the moment (BET Soundstage withstanding), but you're not going there to sweat it out on the dance floor, the piéce de résistance of TCI has to be their flawless shorelines.

Stretching 12 miles of aqualine loveliness is Grace Bay, the jewel of Provo and arguably the most exquisite beach in all of the Caribbean. I'm not just quoting shit out of a brochure here, you can't fake just how freakin' beautiful it is. Powder white sands, sparkling, turquoise blue waters that would make Lucy in the sky envious to pawn her diamonds for a dip. It's the stuff made for cheesy Club Med commercials, but this is the real deal Holyfield 39 miles away from the Bahamas. Sheryl Crow wasn't lying about soaking up the sun and telling everyone to lighten the fuck up because that's exactly what I did without a care in the world. If it wasn't for the call of the ocean, I would've finished Bliss in under 2 days instead of 3½. Either way, how refreshing to have a beach read that without a drippy heroine in need of a backbone at its center and doesn't forsake a sharp insight balanced with the sweet fizz of connect-the-dots-drama to keep the pages turning. The plots snaked, veered and intersected in ways that would make traffic off the Major Deegan seem doable. Loved, loved, LOVED it... I never even made it through the others I lugged along, so don't revoke my Oprah Book club membership card just yet.

Why isn't beach bum listed as a paying gig under HotJobs.com, goddamnit?! Other than gleefully browning about 3 shades darker while being sufficiently liquored up with rum punch, margaritas and daiquiris galore, I arrived just in time for the annual music & cultural festival (no coincidence there). The main concerts at Turtle Cove Marina featured in order on the following bills: Gregory Isaacs/Jeffrey Osbourne, Spragga Benz & Shaggy/Ashanti. Sitting through a set from the "woo woo" man didn't hold much appeal, but I was too damn lazy to get dressed for G. Isaacs alone, so I opted for the latter of the three.

Spragga was set to follow the Miss Turks & Caicos beauty pageant that dragged on about 2½ hours overdue. A slice of the Atlantic City-like glitz this was NOT. The cattiness in me was baring claws because these were some of the roughest lookin' broads I've ever seen on a stage. Ma Dukes could've easily given these chicks more than half her age a serious run for their money. I would preface this by saying "no offense, but..." that wouldn't be sufficient to soften the blow. There were only 6 contestants and about half of 'em needed Carson Kressley and the other queer eyes to issue a makeover transfusion, stat! The locals were ready to pelt me with Guinness bottles during the "talent competition" because I couldn't keep my snickers to a minimum. Reviewing the highlights of a watered-down Julia Stiles routine from Save The Last Dance, an offbeat steel pan rendition of Candle In The Wind and unintentional comedy from spoken word poetry yelled at full decibels with a mic front and center, could you really blame me? I was too through waiting around in pair of 3¾" Giuseppe Zanottis that hadn't been properly broken in yet, so I headed for the exit just as Spraggz hit the stage to an old fave, Big Tings A Gwan... [insert HUGE schups (that's teeth suck for the Yankee massive) here.]

I did come back the next night for Mr. Lovah Lovah & the self-appointed "princess of hip-hop and R&B" (mmhmm, defendant Gotti done told you wrong, my dear...) and that was another scheduling nightmare. The T&C tourist board HAS to learn the definition of pace to execute a concert successfully. The practice of stocking the bill with lots of opening acts to drag the night on is not only grating, it made the entire audience restless. Festivities kicked off on time at 8:30 p.m., with local fave Clement Lightbourne doing his best Bobby Brown impression with pelvic thrusts abound. Then came Haitian konpa band Tabou Combo who held the stage hostage for an excruciating 75-minute (damn right I was counting) performance. There were so many extended jam sessions, I wound up yelling "sak passe!" in relief when their shit finally got packed and moved backstage. Praise ya, Jesus.

At just after midnight, Ashanti appeared to an adoring crowd that bumrushed the front row area where I was sitting all night to catch a glimpse of now-defunct Murder Inc.'s first lady. Clad in Baby Gap-sized hot pants and bejeweled halter, she breezed through medleys of her own hits like Happy, Baby and Rock Wit U (Awww Baby) which flipped the slept on remix that rode the Michael Jackson staple of the same name. Her multiple appearances as one of hip-hop's hired hook girls didn't go unnoticed as a megamix of snippets from labelmate Ja Rule, Big Pun & Fat Joe were blared in rapid succession. I'm far from an Ashanti fan by any stretch of the imagination, but she held the confidence and magnetism of an old pro. Full of energy and backing tapes to spare, she was a svelte firecracker that knew just how to keep the party in the palm of her manicured hands. To top it all off, the ubitiquitous "this is bananas!" wasn't uttered once. Color me sold hook, line and sinker.

Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for pop/reggae vet Shaggy who made his grand entrance at the witching hour of 2:00 a.m. to close out the night. Opening his set with Luv Me, Luv Me with an assortment of backup singers and hype men, the zip reappeared into a weary flock whose patience was wearing thin. Just as soon as we were pulled back into a carefree singalong, the mood dissipated when Shaggy left the stage due to "technical difficulties" with the equipment. 20 minutes later, with a contrite smile and right eyebrow cocked up like the Deuce Bigalow of dancehall, he promptly made up for that trangression by reviving forgotten chestnuts such as Oh Carolina, Boombastic & Big Up with his trademark buzz-saw baritone. Now the Shaggster is an attractive guy (and come to think of it, we're rockin' the same 'do, 2 more cool points docked), but there's nothing I find more unappealing than a man pandering to Chippendales-levels of raunch just for squeals from a bunch of sweaty ass hoes. It's old, it's tired, in short, time for a new shtick, Orville sweetie. Frequent collaborator Rayvon was along for the ride as pop smashes like Angel and It Wasn't Me finally gave the crowd the familiar tunes it craved all night for. As he wound down to throwaway songs like Hey Sexy Lady, Lucky Day and his newest single, a tune with G-Unit castoff Olivia (keyword: yawn), I kept my fingers crossed that he would throw a bone to one of my favorite tracks, In The Summertime. The weather was right, we were in the tropics and the light, percolating beat was a welcome way to do a sendoff. Right? Wrong. This bastard decides to end it with the irksome Jacksons bite, Dance and Shout. What. The. Fuck. I needed a double shot of Negro Please on the rocks to wash down my irritation. Aside from feeling pangs of disorderly conduct, I was fascinated while indulging the aqua baby in me by snorkeling off Grace Bay's reef and spent lots of time out at sea while sailing over on day trips to North, West & Middle Caicos. If you're a diving buff or just get a kick out of water sports in general, it's a bonafide bonanza of places to take advantage of.

I can still close my eyes and literally see a seashell piled high with conch fritters ready to munch on. Or hear the waves crashing from the oceanfront balcony at night. I'll go through another mind-numbing customs ordeal at Miami International just to feel that salty breeze right about now. I definitely missed being home, but to face the music of a pile of paperwork awaiting me. Message to be returned. Broken train cars with NO A/C?! Oy vey. My postcard's mocking me with the usual tagline: "wish you were here." It's time to plan a heist to make another getaway sooner rather than later.

Labels: Turks and Caicos, vacation