I dropped off the key and hurried around into the day. It reminded me of pleasant summer weather on the island where I grew up. A day to soak up all that's good in this life. Gloucester Avenue was still asleep from the late night party that kept it up till dawn. The street was calm, and relatively peaceful. The women outside the shops wore bright, comfortable clothing. The men walked in flip-flops and loose fitting shorts...no shirt. They looked purposeful and sober, pleasantly strolling to their destinations. I took their stride and began to feed the hunger that had brought me here on a last minute ticket. Their easy, carefree nature hemmed the seams of my previous day into the fold of this great and tireless sun. I loved it.
My hand was empty, and as I was passing by the Jamaican Bobsled Cafe, I decided a Red Stripe would look perfect in it. The place looked open, a man sits idly at the bar smoking a cigar. The bartender paces the lap behind the counter, warming up for the day ahead. I stroll up, take off my shades slowly, and shoot the bartender a definite expression of interest in the products he was selling. The bartender recognizes my thirst and slides over a freshly peeled bottle of Red Stripe.
"Dammit, what day is it, Tuesday?", somebody yells from inside.
"Wednesday," the bartender says. "It could be Friday," he laughs, "but it wouldn't make one difference."
"Wise words," I say. "You sound like a Nobel Laureate already."
"Ya know, we have a saying here in Jamaica," the bartender says to me. "A man in a hurry gets there fast, but gets there tired." I've been takin' it slow my whole life."
"That's interesting. What do your bobsled friends over there think about that..." I say, pointing him to the TV with John Candy's movie Cool Runnings playing on a continuous loop, everyday, for 24 hours.
He laughs again and slaps his hand on the bar.
"Ah mon, we never would have thought we'd go that far, but we never lost hope, either."
"I'll drink to that," I say holding up my glass. "Never thought I'd make it to 21, but I never lost hope, either."
I wondered what my reaction would have been if, right then, I saw a man, naked as the day he was born, running down the street in a quick jog. I point my thumb back and the bartender tells me it's Nico and he's out for a morning run. He does it every now and then. About once a month, remove all his clothing and go jogging through the morning streets unfazed by the extreme conditions in which he exercises. The Police have never bothered to catch him. It's a gutless, and perhaps humiliating, challenge chasing after a naked man. Probably best not to bust the chums of this peaceful, health-minded runner and just let this one slip through. And so it was. By the time he rounded the corner and left the last fleeting drops of his sweat on the ground, it was as if he never passed by this way at all.
I decided to cash in my chips before things got any weirder. I took my beer and walked up the road. I needed to find a new room to stay, a potentially challenging task the Eve before Christmas. The customs agent at the airport refused to stamp my passport when I told him I didn't have a reservation. He let me through on the one condition that I switch my bookings only after I had secured another reservation. It's a holiday weekend, he told me. But I'm sure even he would understand that the terrible noise I heard screaming outside my window all night, ensured a quick and sudden checkout the next morning.
Just up the road, I saw signs for a Bed & Breakfast advertising clean sheets and ocean breezes. The ocean breezes implied a vital proximity to the ocean, while the emphasis on clean sheets sounded refreshing. I walked south in pursuit of these important traits.
I was instantly struck by everything, equally as familiar as it was new and exciting. A vendor in a cast-iron cart was steaming something that smelled sweet and robust. Reggae music pours down from a rooftop bar painted vibrantly in Jamaica's national colors. An elegant, Victorian hotel marked a coquettish display of fine architecture between dance halls, casinos, and venues all drawing in tourists with a loose wallet. I stop outside Dally's Variety Store, a charming shop offering up tours to see Bob Marley's former home. I'm greeted by a lovely lady who seemed to carry, by her whim alone, all history and hospitality in the city.
"You having a good day so far?" she asks me as I read over the display of available tours.
I tell her I am and that I'm interested in seeing Bob Marley's house. It was one of only two things I really wanted to do on this trip. That, and travel down to the 7-mile strip of ocean in Negril, the handle of all good reggae music in Jamaica. She invites me into her shop and I ask if it's okay to drink inside.
"Of course you can," she says. "This is Jamaica. I'm Auntie. Let me just get Junior on the phone."
I walk around the tidy aisles, drinking my Red Stripe, admiring her artful collection of wall carvings, leisurely tropical clothing, and travel size bottles of rum. Store hands polish the glass cabinets containing fine jewelry and rare indigenous collectibles. I liked the appeal to the storeroom. It felt nurtured and cared for. Nothing was out of place, and everything seemed stocked in moderation. Just then Auntie walks up and hands me the phone.
"Junior wants to talk to you," she tells me.
I take the phone and start talking to a man who spoke in a thick island dialect. I sift through his language, claiming the pieces of words I understand. He says something about this being my first time to Jamaica and giving me a good tour.
"Any day would work with me," I tell him.
He continues on about being busy until after Christmas, and I tell him that's fine. Until my luggage arrived from the airport, I was stuck into Montego Bay. A thought that made the vibrations of my body rattle desperately with anticipation. It wasn't the city itself, just my own ambitions of staking a plot of land in the warm sand for a few days. I hand the phone back to Auntie and she asks where I'm staying. I tell her I'm walking up to investigate the quality of ocean breezes from the other hotels.
"Well I have rooms upstairs if you want to see those."
Auntie leads me to the rear of the store and introduces me to her young, fresh-faced assistant, wearing a dazzlingly pink shirt with reflective sequins forming a heart across her chest. She was an eager apprentice filled with ample enthusiasm, ready to impress the world.
"This is Princess, and she can show you the rooms," Auntie says.
Princess leads me up the stairs onto the top floor and points out the communal kitchen and living room area. She points to the occupied rooms and walks to a narrow door in the causeway. She skillfully negotiates the set of keys before jamming one of them into the heavy lock. It was a small room, with a single bed covered by sheets and a window for ventilation. The walls were painted white and the shower and toilet were separated by a thin blue curtain. A fan set atop a whicker table kept the oxygen flowing. The room was tiny, but this place was an entire microcosm of good vibe and possibility.
"I'll take it," I said to Princess.
