Rush Hour On The Caribbean

Someone In A Treehouse

I dropped by Scout’s Place last night for Sabaoke.  There seems to be a penchant among the Sabans for re-naming everything in the world with a prefix of Saba-.  Hence, when people get up and sing along to a prerecorded track, it’s “Sabaoke.”  It was a (very) slow night at Scout’s so I sat at the bar by myself and enjoyed a couple of Tings, a really terrific grapefruit soda.

 

But on Saba, a person alone is a conversation waiting to happen so I was the (willing) target of more than a few locals.  Charming Claire, who has two sons in the states and who speaks to her 2-year-old grandson in Rhode Island every day is “of a certain age” and loves to sing on Friday nights.  Rumor has it she has been spotted on the street in platform shoes and spandex leggings and I say more power to her.  Last night she sang several new songs because “people get tired of hearing the same things over and over again.”

 

One of the cocktail waitresses started off the evening with a rousing rendition of “Hey Jude,” with the karaoke operator backing her up in selected spots before taking the mic himself and giving a German-accented performance of “Like a Rolling Stone.”  I seriously considered making my Saba-miere with a song or two, but--oh, the never-ceasing march of time!--I didn't have my glasses and couldn't read the song list in the dim light of the bar.

 

Then Stuart approached me to welcome me to Saba [Believe me, if you’re new here they’ll know instantly.  1500 people total doth not anonymity promote.]  Stuart had recently returned from New Zealand with his new wife and new baby.  They had spent six months—get this—traveling around in a camper.

 

Stefan, who works behind the bar was intrigued to learn I was spending three months here at El Momo to write a play.  He then produced a note pad and gave me six words:  snake, path, house, axe, tree and fence and told me to draw a picture using those six items.  I asked if he would then analyze my character.  “I already did that when you told me you were spending three months at El Momo to write a play.  All those steps?  (There are 73 steps from the road up to the office level here at El Momo)  That says it all” 

 

I’m proud to say that of the couple of thousand times he’s asked people to do this, I’m one of just three who drew a tree house.  He did give me a fairly accurate character analysis, although the sex part puzzled him (I had the snake wrapping around the tree heading up to the tree house.  I dunno, seems kinda obvious to me…)

 

I left shortly thereafter, but not before giving workout tips to a couple of guys who just came up to me and asked.

 

Tonight, after Patrick makes a green papaya salad for dinner, we’re all going back to hear the first solo concert being given by the winner of the first “Saba Idol” contest.

 

No kidding.  It’s Sabarrific!

(Oh, and those papayas for the salad?  From right off the tree, thank you very much.)

 

 

 

N.B.  I’m abandoning my earlier format of small square photos illustrating each entry:  it’s just too gorgeous here to crop things out.

 

 

Getting There Is Half the Fun

Four-forty-five A.M. on the corner Broadway and Fourth Streets in Manhattan is not a busy time.  As I waited there with my two small bags (and one "personal item") it was a good ten minutes before a cab showed up.  The driver popped the trunk and I sank into the back seat for the ride to JFK.  I said “good morning” to the driver, which was just the wedge he was waiting for.  The rest of the ride through Queens was filled with stories of his arrival 20 years earlier from Pakistan and his English language classes.  Alas, I couldn’t really understand him, so I can’t in good conscience recommend his instructor.  There was something about a book he read in the class where an African woman was searching for her children and couldn’t find them or something.  I don’t really know, but it did seem like an odd reading list for a new arrival to our shores.

 

After a very pleasant check-in I proceed to security and took off my shoes.  Although the roads to the airport and the airport itself were both nearly empty, there was a line at security as there simply weren’t enough lanes open.  My lane had some sort of glitch up ahead so I stood there, shoes in hand, waiting.  The adjoining lane opened up and most of my fellow line-waiters sprinted over to that one.  I had plenty of time to spare so I just stayed in place, holding my shoes. 

 

The line monitor looked a little disgusted with the lane hoppers but carried on with his spiel (“laptops out… no liquids… no metal…) 

 

I stood; waiting; shoes.

 

Then the strangest thing happened:  the lane monitor approached me and said, “Sir, you can go to the other lane if you’d like.”  I thanked him and sauntered over to the end of the new line.  Standing/waiting/shoes.

 

Then the strangest thing happened:  the monitor motioned to me and actually brought me to the front of the line.  I can only imagine he appreciated the fact I hadn’t stampeded over when I had the chance.  I can’t say for sure but I did think it boded well for my journey.

 

The waiting area at the gate was nearly empty which proved to be an accurate prediction of the flight itself; the 737 held a mere fraction of its total capacity.  I had three seats to myself and promptly started to snooze as I waited for the plane to pull back from the gate.  It did so right on time, and then the aircraft made a sort of groaning sigh as it, well, went to sleep, I guess.

 

Some navigational computer needed to be replaced so we waited.  Not too long, but long enough for me to be concerned about my connection from St. Maarten to Saba.  Sure enough I missed my 12:00 flight by about 10 minutes.  The next plane out wasn’t until 4 PM so I had some time to kill (and to finish the little iMovie I made of my going away BBQ this past Saturday.) 

 

But… Patrick and Sophie, my El Momo friends would be waiting for me at the Saba airport.  Not only do I not have my cell phone with me, I don’t have the number of El Momo, nor could I send an e-mail.  What to do?  I explained the situation to the lady behind the Wynair counter.  And then the most amazing thing happened:  she got on the phone and called the airport on Saba and had Sophie paged.  The Saba airport isn’t much bigger than a drive-thru Photomat, but still, I was suitably impressed.  I mean, it's an island.

 

4 PM approached and still no sign for a flight to Saba.  I asked at the desk and the guys said it had been delayed to 5:20.  Oh, well.  I’m going to be here for three months so another hour won’t kill me.  I felt bad that Patrick and Sophie would have to make an additional trip to the airport and then have to wait an hour, but I couldn’t really reach them to let them know.  Close to 5 o'clock the flight to St. Eustatius (a.k.a. Statia, a neighboring island) was posted.  I figured my flight had to be the one after that, right?

 

I guess I must have dozed a little, because the next time I looked over toward the gate the passengers for Statia were walking out toward the plane.  The crew closed the gate door and I looked at the monitor:  still no flight to Saba.  And the waiting area was deserted.  I went back to the counter and shrugged a “so……?” to the guys behind the counter.  “Aren’t you going to Statia,” one of them asked.  No, Saba.  “But that’s the plane for Saba leaving now.”

 

Instant panic.  Hanging out at the airport all day is one thing; overnight?  No thanks.

 

Why didn’t they call me when the flight was leaving?  Turns out the flight to Statia and the flight to Saba were both half-full so they combined the two.  Somehow a second boarding pass with my name had been printed and someone else had used it to board the plane (“Homeland security!”) so their passenger list was complete.

 

What was I going to do?

 

And then something truly amazing happened:  they called the plane back from the runway where it had already started to taxi off!  The little 20-seater came back to the terminal and the gate attendant walked me out onto the tarmac so I could board the plane. 

 

The looks I got…  More “who is this V.I.P.” then “who is this idiot,” but looks they were.

 

I landed safely on Saba, Patrick and Sophie picked me up and brought me to my amazing summer home, I tried to nap but was so filled with excitement there was no chance, I walked into town a little later and met P/S for a wonderful BBQ dinner at a local joint, I came back home and stood on the terrace for a bit looking out into the inky night sky and then I crawled into bed and slept the sleep of the contented.

 

Honey, I'm Home!

Joint Custody

This is more than likely the only entry to be posted simultaneously on the Saba blog and the camper blog. I just couldn’t decide where it was more appropriate, so it’s hitting them both.

Tickets have been secured for both legs of the trip to the Caribbean (JFK to St. Maarten; St. Maarten to Saba) and, even though it’s more than a week before I leave, I packed my bags. I’m the world’s lightest traveler; for three months away I’ve two carry-on sized suitcases. I figure sunblock and a couple of Speedos and I’m set.

I’ve been so focused on the Canned Ham adventure that the mere act of packing for Saba got me excited all over again for this part of the project. For that’s how I’m looking on the Saba trip, as the precursor to hitting the road in the fall.

But first I have to wrap things up here at home.

My last day at the Albany Damien Center was a day of keeping emotions in check. In spite of my brief tenure there, the place left a profound impression on me. The typical response when telling people about my job was, “it must feel great to contribute in that way.” When, in fact, the dividends from the job far, far outweighed my investment. I strongly encourage everyone reading this to find some not-for-profit volunteer position. Even if just a few hours a week. You will be amazed at what it does for your state of mind.

At what was my final staff meeting (cake… singing... the whole megilah) I was asked about my plans post-Saba, and if I would be coming back to the ADC. I said I would like to put in a few hours in September when I’m back from the Caribbean but that, no, I would not be returning permanently because of the Canned Ham tour I have in the works. The conversation turned to what that was all about and it was then my boss, Dorothy, wondered if I might be interested in giving a benefit performance of the show in Albany before I head out on the road.

The idea was so obvious I’m amazed I hadn’t thought of it myself. So “Canned Ham” has its first official booking: the world premiere of the show will be at a venue and date TBA sometime in September as a benefit for the Albany Damien Center. After that I’ll probably get a one-nighter gig in NYC so it can be billed as “direct from New York.”

So now there is a world premiere engagement, T-shirts, refrigerator magnets and a developing itinerary. Something’s missing, though. What is it….? Oh, yeah. The show. In point of fact, I’m already writing it. The way I work on a writing project is ideas gestate in my head and I move things around mentally before sitting down to a blank page. So it’s starting to take shape even if there’s nothing tangible.

Good thing I’ll have a project to work on while I’m on Saba. I’d sure hate to get bored there.

The photo below is my peeps from the Damien Center on my last day. This is a case of the gang’s not all here; a few key players are missing from the picture.

"Woo-hoo, Rochester!"

Equality & Justice Day 2009.

 

Well, to be honest, it was kinda odd. 

 

I was all excited—waking up at 5 AM and all to get to Albany by 7:45.  The energy among the volunteers was heady and enthusiastic.  I’ve been to enough local events/meetings at this point that I know these folks well enough to exchange a few friendly words.  My friend Beth--photographer extraordinaire--volunteered to take photos of the day and it was fun to have her along.  When my friend Gabe showed up things really got cooking.  She started a group called Project Yay Gay that is “striving to foment positivity and crowd out homophobia and transphobia through community service, outreach, humor, and plenty of kindness.”   And not only are the group’s goals wonderful, but on special occasions they don capes and hot pink underwear.  I was handed a cape and gladly placed it around my neck.  Superhero for a day!  Tiffany arrived in her little bolero jacket.  I had met Tiffany the week before at an organizational meeting and she stole the show.  When one is a transgender roller derby queen, that goes without saying. 

 

The volunteer orientation was brief and to the point—get the people their credentials and get them into the convention center main hall.

 

We—ahem—bus greeters were asked to stay behind for further instructions.

 

Those instructions were not much more than board the buses as they arrive, welcome the people to Albany and find out where they’re coming from.  (This last to keep track of who had arrived and who had not.)  The script I had prepared (yes, the script I had prepared) had a little more to it than that, but I was willing to make some cuts for the sake of brevity.  Out went the remarks about the Empire State Plaza being “terribly ‘Logan’s Run.’” 

 

The first bus rolled in and Beth—who had decided she was my personal photographer--and I booked over to meet it.  I climbed aboard and stood in front of the delegates. 

 

“Good morning and welcome to Albany!!!” I shouted, mic-less, to the crowd. 

 

Silence.

 

“Where are you all from?”

 

“Rochester.”

 

“Welcome, Rochester!  Woo-hoo!”

 

Silence.

 

I mentally began hacking away at my script as I yelled out instructions to the group, ending with, “thanks to all of you for coming, have a great time while you’re here and now go out and get ‘em!”

 

Silence.

 

O-o-o-o-oh K, then.

 

The rest of the buses had pretty much the same (lack of) energy.  Were they tired from traveling?  Was it too early for them all?  Were they disappointed that this bus ride didn’t end with a roll of quarters like the Atlantic City junket?  Who knows.  Beth and I were stumped.

 

We wended our way back to the registration area—fielding questions all along the route about my cape—and headed into the main hall, where breakfast was being served.  Here there was energy and enthusiasm to spare; you couldn’t get near the bagels to save your life.

 

We spotted a pair of (gorgeous) identical twin brothers who appeared to be journalistas of some sort.  A brief chat got the information that they were from Brooklyn and had--at the last minute—decided to drive up rather than take the bus.  This was fortunate for them as the Brooklyn bus had broken down en route.  On a hot day.  In rush hour.  In the middle of the George Washington Bridge.  A brief Google later on got the information that these were the Riker twins from The Amazing Race.  (Let's see, now...  the twins from The Amazing Race... supposed to be on the bus that broke down... just happened to change their plans at the last minute so they made it, anyway.  Hmmmmmm.)

 

The meeting got underway and Beth and I sat at the table with the Brooklyn placard.  We had a hunch there might be an available seat or two.  The speakers welcomed everyone and talked about how important the day was and how glad they were we were all there and blah blah blah.

 

Still the audience was just kind of subdued.  Uptight, even.  Beth and I decided these were the people who complain about there being too many drag queens and leather guys in the Pride Parades. 

 

Governor Paterson appeared onstage and spoke quite eloquently about the marriage and other bills of LGBT interest before the legislature.  That impressed me.  And the crowd got some fire under them at his appearance.

 

Then state senator Tom Duane took the podium and rehearsed the call-and-response he wanted for his talk.  I thought that was weird—shouldn’t that kind of thing be spontaneous?  (Maybe it’s a gay thing—at the Prop 8 rally in Albany last fall the first speaker attempted  a chant that was so wordy no one could repeat it.  He was followed by an adorable couple had been married in Massachusetts.  One of the gals said inspiring, but vague, things like “..and we’re not going to be kept down any longer by the haters of this world!”  One wasn’t entirely sure if a “Yaay!” or a “Boo!” was expected in response.)

 

The meeting adjourned and the delegates went on their way to lobby the legislators.  This, of course, was the real reason for the day and the mood of the crowd didn’t really matter. 

 

And still, people asked about my cape.

 

Lunch was served in the main hall, although we never did find out exactly what was in the kosher meal.  (The cute gay rabbi opted for the vegetarian instead.)  The placards for "Roast Beef" and "Ham" were identical to those for "Rochester" and "Hudson Valley."  In that context one pondered over the placard which read "Buffalo."

Amazingly, I didn’t recognize a single out-of-town person I knew.

 

Then the rally:  in the park behind the capitol a de facto stage had been set up on a short flight of steps.  Mr. Alan Cumming was the emcee (something he has a bit of experience at) and was charming as ever.  This was not the first Big Gay Event at which Alan and Yours Truly have both taken part.  My last appearance as Gus Mattox was at the San Francisco Pride Parade several years ago when Alan was the Grand Marshall.  That day I wore leather short shorts and a big smile.  This time ‘round I wore a cape.  Honestly, I can’t say which ensemble garnered more attention.

 

There was a lone protester with a couple of hand-lettered signs on cardboard who stood on the steps behind Alan.  A group of Vermonters who arrived to show solidarity very politely went and stood in front of Mr. Cardboard Sign.  He’d move over and so would they.  He’d move back and they traced his steps.  There was something so cute about it, because nobody really cared that he was there.

 

This was followed by more inept chanting.

 

The local TV news was there and Gabe shamelessly managed to get on camera behind the reporter (and, believe me, I know from shameless.)  It was hot.  The crowd cheered and held signs.

 

And then I said goodbye to Beth and Alan and headed off to work. 

 

It was great but it wasn’t dramatic.  And I liked that about it because the day just seemed like something one, of course, would take part in, but that would probably soon(ish) be not terribly necessary.  Things seem to be rolling along so well with all this stuff that the mood seemed to be not so much “We want our rights, dammit!” as, “Nu?  You gonna take care of this now, or what?  Sure, I’ll come back next year but you can save us all a lot of trouble and just pass the damn legislation.”  

 

That, my friends, is my definition of progress.

 

So, was there anything I learned at Equality & Justice Day 2009 that I will find to be of use in future life?

 

Whenever possible, wear a cape.