Read Online A Moveable Feast by Lonely Planet - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lonely Planet
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sushi?’ I asked on that first day. ‘We’ll see,’ Donna said.
After breakfast on the second morning, without a word of warning, Donna appeared on the deck and announced, ‘We go now.’
‘Go where?’ I asked
‘To the fish market,’ she said. So off we went to the little green ‘shack’ at the water’s edge on the other side of the island. Donna had promised lobster that night, and already the boats, in all shades of Crayola colours, were pulling up on the beach. I marvelled as men held up great clawed creatures, just pulled from the Caribbean. Donna talked with them in a dialect so fast, furious and foreign that I couldn’t find an English word to save me, although I knew they were hidden in the conversation. Would I have walked up to these guys and struck up a conversation had she not been with me? Not on your life; I would have felt like a number one fool. Donna was my key into their world, giving me a kind of VIP status that money alone couldn’t buy.
The guy who owned the fish market, really more of a store that acted as a clearing house, had ‘proud’ written all over his handsome, youthful face. His small green hut was a bit deceptive, for inside it was all spit and polish, with trays of whole fish on ice fronting a long sink used for cutting each one up to a customer’s specifications. The storage refrigerator was top of the line. On the wall to one side was an Obama sticker. It was mid-January, and our president was about to be inaugurated. I felt a swell of pride that he was being honoured on this small volcanic chunk of land closer to South America than to the United States.
A few European tourists had ventured in to inspect the catch of the day. I felt infinitely superior to them as they poked and sniffed around before settling on a few fillets that were quickly wrapped before they scooted out the door. I was still chatting with the store’sowner, still oohing and aahing as more fish came in. After Donna and I picked out our lobster, she took a picture of me next to the man who had caught it, holding it high as we both beamed while trying to say ‘cheese’, as Donna had commanded.
We were ‘downtown’ now, which meant that we had to pay a visit to the two other great establishments across from the fish store: the fruit man and the grocery store. The fruit man sat next to his stand on a chair that was slightly tilted for maximum comfort. His hat was halfway down his head. Except for the fact that his table was crammed with exotic specimens in a riot of colours, he struck me as the Universal Fruit Man, for his counterpart was everywhere in New York – indeed, throughout the world. It made me think that all sidewalk vendors must attend a school somewhere to learn how to sit at just the right angle, with their hats perfectly cocked, while mastering the art of the blank expression.
Across the street, something even more familiar loomed: the grocery store. While it had its Caribbean touches, I felt as if I’d been to this place many times in the course of my life. How different can a store be when its shelves are stacked with mostly familiar items? And here I was for the first time surrounded by fellow whites, who were speaking English, yes, but also German, French and Italian. My cultural focus had shifted, but all it did was make me feel cooler than I had before. ‘I’m with Donna, folks,’ I was thinking, ‘so best not to get in our way.’
On a return trip to Mustique – 21 January, to be exact – I bought a local St Vincent newspaper with ‘OBAMA’ splashed across the front page. I also took a photo of an adorable little blond boy who was sitting on the checkout counter in a sea of his mother’s groceries. Suddenly, I was being reprimanded. His mother suggested, in a staccato accent, that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. ‘People are on Mustique for privacy,’ she said. ‘There are many celebrities.’
I immediately realised my error and apologised profusely, even
After breakfast on the second morning, without a word of warning, Donna appeared on the deck and announced, ‘We go now.’
‘Go where?’ I asked
‘To the fish market,’ she said. So off we went to the little green ‘shack’ at the water’s edge on the other side of the island. Donna had promised lobster that night, and already the boats, in all shades of Crayola colours, were pulling up on the beach. I marvelled as men held up great clawed creatures, just pulled from the Caribbean. Donna talked with them in a dialect so fast, furious and foreign that I couldn’t find an English word to save me, although I knew they were hidden in the conversation. Would I have walked up to these guys and struck up a conversation had she not been with me? Not on your life; I would have felt like a number one fool. Donna was my key into their world, giving me a kind of VIP status that money alone couldn’t buy.
The guy who owned the fish market, really more of a store that acted as a clearing house, had ‘proud’ written all over his handsome, youthful face. His small green hut was a bit deceptive, for inside it was all spit and polish, with trays of whole fish on ice fronting a long sink used for cutting each one up to a customer’s specifications. The storage refrigerator was top of the line. On the wall to one side was an Obama sticker. It was mid-January, and our president was about to be inaugurated. I felt a swell of pride that he was being honoured on this small volcanic chunk of land closer to South America than to the United States.
A few European tourists had ventured in to inspect the catch of the day. I felt infinitely superior to them as they poked and sniffed around before settling on a few fillets that were quickly wrapped before they scooted out the door. I was still chatting with the store’sowner, still oohing and aahing as more fish came in. After Donna and I picked out our lobster, she took a picture of me next to the man who had caught it, holding it high as we both beamed while trying to say ‘cheese’, as Donna had commanded.
We were ‘downtown’ now, which meant that we had to pay a visit to the two other great establishments across from the fish store: the fruit man and the grocery store. The fruit man sat next to his stand on a chair that was slightly tilted for maximum comfort. His hat was halfway down his head. Except for the fact that his table was crammed with exotic specimens in a riot of colours, he struck me as the Universal Fruit Man, for his counterpart was everywhere in New York – indeed, throughout the world. It made me think that all sidewalk vendors must attend a school somewhere to learn how to sit at just the right angle, with their hats perfectly cocked, while mastering the art of the blank expression.
Across the street, something even more familiar loomed: the grocery store. While it had its Caribbean touches, I felt as if I’d been to this place many times in the course of my life. How different can a store be when its shelves are stacked with mostly familiar items? And here I was for the first time surrounded by fellow whites, who were speaking English, yes, but also German, French and Italian. My cultural focus had shifted, but all it did was make me feel cooler than I had before. ‘I’m with Donna, folks,’ I was thinking, ‘so best not to get in our way.’
On a return trip to Mustique – 21 January, to be exact – I bought a local St Vincent newspaper with ‘OBAMA’ splashed across the front page. I also took a photo of an adorable little blond boy who was sitting on the checkout counter in a sea of his mother’s groceries. Suddenly, I was being reprimanded. His mother suggested, in a staccato accent, that perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. ‘People are on Mustique for privacy,’ she said. ‘There are many celebrities.’
I immediately realised my error and apologised profusely, even
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