(This is part of a storytelling experiment called WELCOME TO YOUR QUARTER-CAREER GAP YEAR)
Your whole plan hinged around two or three hours of breakfast, internet research, and distraction-free work at the coffeeshop. And there was no PLAN B, because you didn't think there was any reason to have a PLAN B. But as you look around, you recognize your mistake: it’s a ghost town at 9AM in the Redcliffe Quay shopping district because it’s the off-season. Without tourists, there's no reason to open early, and out of the stores that are open, most of them are grocery stores, convenience stores, or other places that aren’t set up to accommodate a sweaty foreigner, looking for internet and a place to sit.
You look at your cell phone. If you were in New York, it would take you ten seconds to find another coffeeshop or restaurant. But you’re not in New York.
Then, you remember from your research, that a bar in the Heritage Quay shopping district, six or seven blocks away, has internet. It probably won’t be open, but you decide that the walk will help you pass time until 11AM when some of the RedCliffe restaurants open for business.
So you start walking. A couple blocks away from the shopping district, the streets rumble with cars and the sidewalks are filled with people briskly walking to work. But as you weave in and out of the throng, you get the sense that people are staring at you. At least that’s what it feels like. You get self-conscious and realize that your forehead is dripping with sweat, so are your armpits underneath your backpack straps.
You think about your clothes, maybe that’s drawing all the attention. Your mother, in her infinite Caribbean wisdom, said to dress very plain so you wouldn’t stand out like a naive, ostentatious tourist. You took her advice for the most part, but today, as you walk through the streets with your casual-for-New-York button up shirt and Adidas shoes, you feel like maybe you didn’t dress down enough.
When you arrive at the Heritage Quay bar, it’s closed, just like you expected, so you turn around and think about where to go next. After resting for a few minutes on a bench outside the bar, you decide to take an impromptu, unguided, sightseeing tour of the city. After all, there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do until 11 AM.
So you walk and walk, traversing the uneven sidewalks and leaping over the treacherous gutters while taking in the sights. You see the magnificent St. John's cathedral, the Antigua museum, and the harbor where the cruise ships dock.
But the staring continues and so does the sweat. In fact, you're sweating so much that you can feel the drops of perspiration cascading down your chest inside your shirt. Your back aches from the books and the laptop. And just when you feel like you’re in pure agony, like you’ve been giving a Sumo wrestler a piggy-back ride, you see the sign:
“Library.”
You totally forgot about it as an option. Fortunately, it had opened at 10 AM and was the perfect air-conditioned refuge to recover, rest, and get some work done. You walk in and get settled. The Wifi is extremely slow, but it works. There's plenty of space, books, and friendly faces. You make note that wherever you go, the library should always be high on your list of places to locate.
After getting some writing done, you leave and go to lunch at the Marcel Café, a French Caribbean restaurant back in the RedCliffe area.
You have a great meal – a succulent Mahi Mahi – but you have an even better interaction with the owner of the restaurant, Cecilia.
The conversation isn’t the most free-flowing encounter, and you feel like you ask most of the questions, but after so few interactions outside of your cousins, it's a welcome encounter.
To a certain degree.
Cecilia is attractive (her mixed Portuguese and Grenadian heritage gives her a intriguing look) and well-traveled (you speak to her about her various European excursions), but after a while, you sense a haughtiness to her manner. And it's not just how she acts, but the condescending tone she seems to have when speaking about St. John's and the nightlife. It's almost as if she would rather have her restaurant in English Harbour, the playground for the rich and, typically, European. Naturally, you acknowledge that she can like whatever she likes, but you don't like how she speaks about the St. John's residents, who typically are Black and of middle to lower-income.
Upon leaving the restaurant, you wonder if you ever sound like that, like you're better than other people. You hope not. Your mother used to tell you that "no one is better than you and you are better than no one." She also used to say that the Queen of England sits on the toilet and shits just like everyone else.
To finish off the day before Fawnie picks you up, you head over to a bookstore that Cecilia told you about. It's a cramped and stuffy three-story building, but it excites you. Books always have – so much knowledge and perspective and goodness jammed into all those pages. You feel at home.
After thumbing through a few books about Antiguan myths and ghost stories, you're reminded of your desire to find a writing group. And what better place to find someone who knows about that than in a bookstore? From the employees you learn that, yes, there are writing group meetings in the area, but not until after Carnival – which ends after you leave the island three weeks from now. Fortunately, they also give you the names of some Antiguan poetry slam and book-lover groups on Facebook, saying that you might be able to find out more info there.
Leaving the bookstore, you decide to use your last 30 minutes before Fawnie picks you up to check out those Facebook groups, so you go to the RedCliffe Big Banana pizza restaurant, order a soda on the bar patio, and use their WiFi. After a few minutes of reaching out to people on social media, you notice some soccer on the bar TV and strike up a conversation with the bartender. A lively debate about English soccer ensues. You speak about the virtues of the Arsenal soccer club, while the bartender heaves praise on Manchester United. A friend of the bartender comes in and joins the conversation. He loves Liverpool and the debate continues.
At one point, the bartender leaves to tend to another customer, and his friend seizes the opportunity.
"Hey man, so I have a soccer game later tonight, " he starts. You look down and notice he's wearing soccer shorts and a striped jersey t-shirt. "But I don't have any shinguards. So I wanted to ask – do you have some money I can have to buy some shinguards?"
Wide-eyed, you look at him, trying to absorb the request. "Shinguards?" you say, trying to buy some time as you analyze the situation. The guy doesn't look like somebody who struggles for money: moderately priced tennis shoes, well-kept soccer jersey. It's confusing.
"C'mon man, shinguards, man! You're a rich American, man! You can spare the money!"
It's the "rich American" that does it: shuts the door on any sympathy you may have had. Begging for food is one thing, but begging for shinguards as an able-bodied 20-year-old kid is another thing entirely.
You make some excuse about not having any money to give and then leave.
Standing at the intersection where you’re supposed to meet Fawnie, you alternate between thinking about the shinguard incident and the condescending tone the restaurant owner had about the city. You shake your head, because you don't want to connect the two. But it makes you sad, for a moment.
Fawnie drives up, then you get in the car and go home.
______
(Click here for more episodes)