spot the ‘bot: Jamaican Vacation
Back from one week in Jamaica, can you imagine this ‘bot finally relaxing on some sand, growing browner by the minute, and actually not touching a computer or even a cell phone for over 7 days? Yeah, I went a little crazy too. But… it was still much needed, and I got a good log going of my stay.
Black for the hardship
Yellow for the sand
Green for the grass.
Day 1: Arrival to Negril
Took a red eye from Los Angeles, arriving in Negril after a one hour car trip at around 8am. My step dad thought it very brilliant to go with an overnight flight… until we had to wait until 1pm to actually get our room.
Negril is gorgeous, and the people seem quite friendly enough. However, it’s the slow season, so the beaches seem somewhat desolate. I’ll come back to this later.
Everyone is your “friend” or you’re their “boss” or “general”.
Later, we went for some local food suggested. Remind me to remind other people to NEVER eat the curried goat. Though apparently, a goat slaughter is a must at any big event or party of celebration. I think I prefer a pinata.
Day 2 - I love Jerk(s)
Today was pretty much about the conquest for good food. Seeing as our previous dinner at Sweet Spice was less than amazing. Bourbon Beach is supposed to have the best jerk chicken. And it was tasty. Only, our server was both stoned the entire time, and had to make two requests for supplies such as french fries and bread, the only other two items on the lunch menu.
Later that evening we returned for an evening of live music, and some reggae listening. Never mind being 28 and vacationing with your parents is perhaps, awkward. Try doing it and having people ask you to dance, smoke pot, or generally reminding you that you look “outstanding” (which I couldn’t hear and had to have the waiter repeat only 4 times to hear through his thick Jamaican accent).
Then came the constant pestering to go dance
“Psst, princess. My princess. Com’ wit me and dance.”
“no thanks” smile, please leave me alone.
This guy later wound up on stage as the main artist of the night. The Singing Hanna. I don’t think I’m ready to be a groupie quite yet.
Day 3 - Our “friends”
My parents know Negril quite well. They’ve vacationed here for over 10 years now, knowing all the locals that help the tourists along. However, this was the first time they’ve ever come during the off season, and ohhhh… it’s obviously the off season.
You literally can’t pass a single person on the beach without being propositioned for a service or good being sold.
“No thanks, no snorkeling today.”
“I’m not in the mood for any ganja today, but thanks for the offer.”
“Honestly lady, I really hate bananas. I’m an asshole like that.”
“Yah mon, Bob will be here later. I know he said we’d go snorkeling.”
By the way, there seem to be critters everywhere. I rather enjoyed them, but my mom was freaking. 
This includes the jelly fish that caught me out in the water.
Day 4 - 7 - I get lazy
This is around when I stopped logging the details of my trip. There was a waterfall trip involved, that allowed me to see other parts of the island. I’m amazed at how tiny the homes of the locals were. More like shanty little shacks, they dot the island’s topography.
And, it’s the rainy season. Which means it took us twice as long to reach the airport. Traffic was entirely halted in places where cars were trying to traverse roads turned into rivers. Apparently, it takes a lot of rain to keep an island this red.
I think the largest cultural battle was my stepdad having to drink diet Pepsi the entire visit. They must have some exclusivity deal with the entire country of Jamaica, because there was no diet Coke to be found.
He survived…barely.
as much as I like pirates
Today is proclaimed International Talk Like a Pirate Day.
Seriously, we can’t make fake holidays. I already have enough issues with the government mandated ones, though gladly I’ll receive the days off work. But a day for the celebration of gooks everywhere making themselves talk in what they think is a modern day interpretation of sea faring pirate talk from hundreds of years ago… sounds a little regressive to me.
Let’s keep pirate talk to drunken and spontaneous activities. Let’s not make it an “international” holiday please. And by international, I’m sure they meant to include everyone , not just the culturally backward American frat culture.
PS: flickr, it’s not a holiday until Google decorates it so.
I think it’s my birthday
It’s kind of my birthday today. I say kind of because I’m not exactly sure if that’s the case. I always celebrated it on September 11th, but all my documents and records say it’s the 12th.
This is because the Iranian calendar is lunar based and shifts each year, so according to that, my birthday changes every year by a little. However, apparently my parents couldn’t nail down ONE FRIGGIN date for this. It’s not just me either, my brothers have the same problem.
Oh well, I’ll just keep holding up September 11th. Besides, now it’s easy to remember.
I’m still celebratin’
mark of the FOB
It’s been a while, I know. I’m not lazy… I just realize that the focus of this blog has deterred somewhat. That’s alright, I don’t mind writing about me, I just think it might be a tad boring. I swear, I’m going to get contributors. You just wait.
Until then, more about me. I just went to Chicago to visit my oldest friend George. He and I met in high school, it’s strange knowing someone who knew you when your breasts were smaller, well…besides family. He’s my brother of sorts, and he’s Romanian. He rarely eats Romanian food though, because of the strangeness of it, and the fact that he’s quite picky, but not in the typical way.
When he was in LA once visiting his family, I went to pick him up from his Aunt and Grandmother’s house. When I rang his mobile phone waiting outside, he asked me to come in.
“Do you mind coming in?”
“Um, sure… I guess I can. Why, are you not ready?” George is always ready to go.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that my grandmother wants to see you. Well, she wants to see what you look like.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ll find a spot in the next block.”
I just somehow understood, maybe all foreign grandmothers had a code they had to abide, but I could totally imagine my own grandmother saying the same thing about George.
When I finally found a parking spot, I came in to meet George’s famous grandmother. He had been raised by her, much like my brother Ash had been raised by my grandmother, so I kinda understood the connection.
The apartment was familiar, totally different culture, yet somehow still reminiscent of mine. When I sat down, they offered me some apple filo pastry, home made. The taste was even familiar, not the overly sugary pastries most American families would like, but simple and yummy.
I sat down on the couch next to his grandmother. George’s aunt was in the corner smiling at me smoking a cigarette. George loved this aunt, she was quite funny from what he told me. I felt eyes all over me, and well, I think they wanted what my mom wanted, George and I to get married. But that couldn’t happen, I’d been like a sister to him more than a regular girl. As my eyes wandered, I noticed they were watching some sort of rap video on MTV.
“George, your grandmother likes rap?”
“No, they sorta wanted to make you feel comfortable and figured this is what you’d like.”
“Well, tell them to change it. Let them watch what they want. Though, this entire scene is pretty damn funny.”
George spoke to his grandmother in Romanian. I love to hear him speak it, he sounds so kind and sweet when he does. I wonder if his Romanian is anything like my Farsi, juvenile and underdeveloped. Like it’s locked in the last days we were in our home country. Though he was ten or eleven when he moved, I was only six.
The channel changed and soon I was watching some sort of Russian entertainment show, with a number of people dancing about on stage with costumes on and really colorful spotlights highlighting areas on the stage.
“I didn’t know Romanians could understand Russian, I thought they had two different roots.”
“They can’t, we have no clue what they’re saying.”
“Wait, this is Romanian?”
“No , it’s Russian. You were right.”
“Why is your grandmother watching it then?”
“Well, she sorta gets bored with the regular American programming. She much prefers this type of variety program with singing and dancing about. And since she doesn’t understand English either, this is better for her.”
Duh, that totally makes sense. I catch my grandmother watching Spanish television all the time. We’re so different, yet alike.
Another thing George and I have in common is our scar from getting small pox vaccinations as children. We both have on on our shoulders, where there leaves a tiny circular like white impresssion on the skin. I remember an ex-girlfriend of his remarking mine years ago. She said she knew I was born outside of the states for having one. She called it the mark of the FOB.
Pictured above at the large metallic jelly bean at Millennium Park in Chicago:
