My name is Matt, and I'm a recovering journalist. (Hi, Matt). My last journalism job was in the Virgin Islands, a strange and beautiful place to cover business and politics. There, rum is cheaper than milk. I lived on St. Thomas. Us reporters often referred to it as "St. Trauma." In Hunter S. Thompson's semi-autobiographical account of working a similar gig on the neighboring island of Puerto Rico, "The Rum Diary," he recalled an admonishment someone gave him before going there: "Don't go to St. Thomas. Bad things happen to people on St. Thomas."
And they did.
Last night, I met a friend at The Library bar (best punk rock and indie juke box in the City ... hands down) with whom I shared a cubicle in the V.I. Journalism was a dangerous contact sport in the Virgin Islands. So my friendship with my former colleagues runs deep -- like soldiers in foxholes or former prison cell mates. Invariably, we talk about living in the Virgin Islands. About how we drank far too much. About our close calls with violent criminals. About how some of our friends were brutally victimized by violent crime (Not something you are going to see on those idyllic subway advertisements promising "America's Paradise" in winter months). We talk about corrupt politics and how we felt like strangers in a strange land.
Then we remember the good things. Carnival. Sailing. Dancing, as the only white folks, to the deep bass of SoCa and Reggae until the sun comes up in a cramped nightclub in the town of Charlotte Amalie. Long distance running through the National Park on the island of St. John. Weekend trips to Tortola.The insanely rich and wonderfully fattening Caribbean food. Great friends we made.
And then we talk about how, upon returning, it always seems like going home. I think the Virgin Islands is kind of like a mean-ass grandmother, who you know is going to give you endless shit but who winds up stuffing you full of food and making you feel welcome, warm and loved.
And they did.
Last night, I met a friend at The Library bar (best punk rock and indie juke box in the City ... hands down) with whom I shared a cubicle in the V.I. Journalism was a dangerous contact sport in the Virgin Islands. So my friendship with my former colleagues runs deep -- like soldiers in foxholes or former prison cell mates. Invariably, we talk about living in the Virgin Islands. About how we drank far too much. About our close calls with violent criminals. About how some of our friends were brutally victimized by violent crime (Not something you are going to see on those idyllic subway advertisements promising "America's Paradise" in winter months). We talk about corrupt politics and how we felt like strangers in a strange land.
Then we remember the good things. Carnival. Sailing. Dancing, as the only white folks, to the deep bass of SoCa and Reggae until the sun comes up in a cramped nightclub in the town of Charlotte Amalie. Long distance running through the National Park on the island of St. John. Weekend trips to Tortola.The insanely rich and wonderfully fattening Caribbean food. Great friends we made.
And then we talk about how, upon returning, it always seems like going home. I think the Virgin Islands is kind of like a mean-ass grandmother, who you know is going to give you endless shit but who winds up stuffing you full of food and making you feel welcome, warm and loved.
Are you insane?
I'm headed to Madrid tomorrow to see a bullfight. Can't live in Rome for the summer and not go to Madrid to see a bullfight... Thanks for the friend request note...you're right. Entirely not creepy. I never approve friend requests that just come in alone. Good call. :o)