some of the workers who were building the big resort on St. Cecilia. When the resort was finished, the other workers left. Domingo simply moved his grill about fifty yards down the beach and opened a restaurant.
When we arrived at the beach and at our table, Domingo himself—a beautiful man in a white golf shirt and crisp linen shorts and dreadlocks—greeted us and came and sat at our table for a while to say hello and to make us feel welcome.
The time came to pay the bill, and we pulled out ourcredit cards. The young man who was waiting on our table told us they do not take credit cards at Domingo’s. Who knew?
We did not have enough cash between us to settle the bill and pay for the taxi back to Windbreak. It was clearly too far to walk and too late for me to do so had it been close enough to walk.
“Let me see if I can find Domingo,” I said, not knowing exactly what I was going to say to Domingo when I did find him.
I reintroduced myself to Domingo and explained to him we had had a fine time and had enjoyed the food and the hospitality but we did not have enough cash to pay the bill. I could have it tomorrow when the banks were open, but right now I was out of cash and out of luck.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
I told him.
“Ah,” he said with a smile, “then you will be back. And you can pay me then.” He shook my hand and asked if we needed for him to arrange a ride.
The next day we went into town to get the money for Domingo and to visit the market for fresh fruits and vegetables to take back to the cottage. After buying a few things from a lady named Linda, we tried to buy a few mangoes from a lady in the next stall.
We found ourselves without enough small change. We were having trouble communicating as well. We might have had enough change and did not know it.
Linda stepped in. When she realized the problem, she handed the lady two coins out of her own pocket. “You can pay it back to me when you are here again sometime,” she said. Which we did, of course.
I know it may sound like it, but I do not kid myself that everything on St. Cecilia is open and aboveboard or that all people are treating all other people with civility at all times.
Some of our friends here on the island had their dogs poisoned in a dispute over whose cows couldwander over whose property line. I have received a blank stare or two while in certain stores and shops, the kind of stare reserved for people who are perceived to be intruding on someone else’s turf. There is one clerk at the market who fails to grin back at me every time I am in her line at the counter, no matter how charming I happen to have been that day. I will get her to grin back yet, though.
I think I got hustled pretty good by the car-hire company one time when I was here. And the exchange rate has some flexibility in it, depending on who is behind the counter at the Heptagon and which bank you go to and which taxi driver you call. In Princetown there are already enough boom boxes and large-car stereos in use that I have learned to avoid certain corners at certain times of the day.
“Is this heaven?” asked one of the ballplayers in the film
Field of Dreams
.
“No, it’s Iowa,” was the reply.
This sweet island in the Caribbean is not heaveneither; it is only St. Cecilia. But one does get the sense that the people who live here still believe they are to be about the business of replicating heaven if they can.
I do not claim to know all the politics or all the social and cultural mores in St. Cecilia. I do not understand all those things in my own country, and I have lived there all my life. I only know what I read in the government book and in the papers and what I have learned in a few visits.
What I sense is that people in St. Cecilia still believe their government should get up in the morning and be about the business of trying to make people’s lives better. A belief that seems to be shared by the people in the government. What
When we arrived at the beach and at our table, Domingo himself—a beautiful man in a white golf shirt and crisp linen shorts and dreadlocks—greeted us and came and sat at our table for a while to say hello and to make us feel welcome.
The time came to pay the bill, and we pulled out ourcredit cards. The young man who was waiting on our table told us they do not take credit cards at Domingo’s. Who knew?
We did not have enough cash between us to settle the bill and pay for the taxi back to Windbreak. It was clearly too far to walk and too late for me to do so had it been close enough to walk.
“Let me see if I can find Domingo,” I said, not knowing exactly what I was going to say to Domingo when I did find him.
I reintroduced myself to Domingo and explained to him we had had a fine time and had enjoyed the food and the hospitality but we did not have enough cash to pay the bill. I could have it tomorrow when the banks were open, but right now I was out of cash and out of luck.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
I told him.
“Ah,” he said with a smile, “then you will be back. And you can pay me then.” He shook my hand and asked if we needed for him to arrange a ride.
The next day we went into town to get the money for Domingo and to visit the market for fresh fruits and vegetables to take back to the cottage. After buying a few things from a lady named Linda, we tried to buy a few mangoes from a lady in the next stall.
We found ourselves without enough small change. We were having trouble communicating as well. We might have had enough change and did not know it.
Linda stepped in. When she realized the problem, she handed the lady two coins out of her own pocket. “You can pay it back to me when you are here again sometime,” she said. Which we did, of course.
I know it may sound like it, but I do not kid myself that everything on St. Cecilia is open and aboveboard or that all people are treating all other people with civility at all times.
Some of our friends here on the island had their dogs poisoned in a dispute over whose cows couldwander over whose property line. I have received a blank stare or two while in certain stores and shops, the kind of stare reserved for people who are perceived to be intruding on someone else’s turf. There is one clerk at the market who fails to grin back at me every time I am in her line at the counter, no matter how charming I happen to have been that day. I will get her to grin back yet, though.
I think I got hustled pretty good by the car-hire company one time when I was here. And the exchange rate has some flexibility in it, depending on who is behind the counter at the Heptagon and which bank you go to and which taxi driver you call. In Princetown there are already enough boom boxes and large-car stereos in use that I have learned to avoid certain corners at certain times of the day.
“Is this heaven?” asked one of the ballplayers in the film
Field of Dreams
.
“No, it’s Iowa,” was the reply.
This sweet island in the Caribbean is not heaveneither; it is only St. Cecilia. But one does get the sense that the people who live here still believe they are to be about the business of replicating heaven if they can.
I do not claim to know all the politics or all the social and cultural mores in St. Cecilia. I do not understand all those things in my own country, and I have lived there all my life. I only know what I read in the government book and in the papers and what I have learned in a few visits.
What I sense is that people in St. Cecilia still believe their government should get up in the morning and be about the business of trying to make people’s lives better. A belief that seems to be shared by the people in the government. What
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