Jamaica

Those of you who've known me for a while are aware of my strange infatuation with Jamaica. I went there forever years ago. Spent a couple of weeks in Kingston. Learned to appreciate Bob Marley and the legacy he's left behind. Refused to smoke pot because I had signed an agreement I wouldn't do it. Only to find out upon my return that I had been one of three people who didn't do it: the other two being the leader of our group and the nun that was hosting us. Got stung by a pissy creature while swimming in the ocean and had to pee on myself to make the swelling go away. It did. Learned to zip-it-up, i.e. dance, Jamaican style. The kids from the street taught me how. Drank rum and ting every night. Passed out several times...too much ting, you know.

Have not a single a picture to prove it. But God knows I still remember the smell of it. A mixture of tropical fruit, flowers, the ocean, marijuana and pure joy. Or at least that's what Jamaica smelled like to me.

Those memories get triggered by the most innocent of things. A glass of Appleton, every once in a while. A line from Redemption Songs on the radio. A reference to idyllic places...

The last time I smelled Jamaica was when Kanisha and I had an early dinner at this new place in town that serves Caribbean food. Jerk chicken and fried plantain can make the pickiest of meat-eaters drool.







See how happy we both look? Anything Jamaican does that to people. I'm serious.