Our County Seat in Paradise

--April, 2008: St. Thomas, American Virgin Islands

Charlotte Amalie–our own duty-free county seat in paradise—is so diversified and bustling with life that there are at least four different ways of saying her name among the folks who live there. Jon Lucien, her velvet-voiced native son, has sung her praise as Bearer of the Seed of Love, Teacher of All the Rules of Mother Nature....

In fact, when I met her, she was buzzing with cruise ships and shoppers, beauties young and old, gold merchants, African lads making offers you couldn’t refuse, tax dodgers and other gamblers—all of it framed in a sensuality so earthy it made you want to stay forever, or leave at once. That decision seems to flow like island music carried on the trade winds.

Ms. Tanya pointed out beautiful homes and vistas on the rest of the island. She told us that those who love St. Thomas manage to stay, while those who don’t simply “bounce off-island” rather quickly. And smiling warmly over a hearty Irish breakfast at Molly Molone’s, where every day is a lovely day for a Guinness, Ms. Poincy stopped everything to deliver her on-island report:

“It’s fantastic,” she sang, as some of the local folks do when they speak. “You know, when you go away and then you fly back, you look down at these islands and you say, Yes!” Here, her fists fell victoriously at her sides. “I’m home!”

Just then, an iguana came to call. Eyeing familiar haunts, it had stopped to catch the lay of the land on a sandy hillock, then scaled the artificial waterfall before scurrying across the lawn and disappearing into the hibiscus. No one seemed to mind. They’re merely the local squirrels, ignored or admired from a respectable distance. And like our squirrels, they tend to fulfill their manifest destiny; they bite.

In spite of the relative density of population compared to the neighboring Virgin Islands, there’s little risk of island fever once you’ve decided to stay. In a sense, paradise isn’t really an island at all, but a cluster of mountain tops jutting out of the sea, where hopping from one set of peaks to another is encouraged by affordable ferryboats and the free trade winds (more reliable than treacherous, if you know how to use them).

Wherever you are in Charlotte Amalie, or out and about among her neighboring villages, you can hear and feel the caressing rhythms of the Caribbean. But this island’s sensuality is never the stuff of sultry Somerset Maugham damsels draped among palm fronds and wrought-iron balconies under endless tropical rains. The balconies and fronds do make a showing; but palm-trees are not native to these parts—merely well-nourished imports that many equate with paradise. And so, they have been scattered as accents across the landscape. Rain is often light, refreshing and intermittent, usually sufficient to fill cisterns for those rain-water bathroom showers that positively spoil the general populace (baths are frowned upon as water-gluttony).

But they do tie their rooftops down, for when the hurricanes come, just to make sure verandas stay in one piece—the better to savor those postcard vistas away from the crowd, the playfully colored houses, the doll-world patios and terraces.

And the sultry damsels, based on a significant historical model, tend to be strong women who can take care of themselves. As the story goes…

In 1848, the African Queens, renowned and revered with Queen Mary at their head, stormed the colonial governor’s palace with fire in their hands and in their eyes. (The cabbie who related the tale warned that it tends to brandish and flourish with every telling. Even now, I feel the tale telling itself…)

“Free the slaves now,” they warned, “or we’ll burn down every stick of every plantation on your blessed isle!” Apparently they struck a memorable figure, because the governor, being Danish, freed the slaves forthwith. Predictably, however, he lost his job.

Still, some of the sugar-mill towers survive to this day, along with other colonial landmarks, architectural designs and period interiors. These vestiges of colonial elegance welcome the tourist with perfect grace.

Along with her neighbors, Charlotte Amalie looks out across the water, around the sound, and past the islands on sale for 35 and 10 million, respectively. Alas, there are no true bargains for the ruling class. But the view onto St. John—pristine, tailored, and monied—is of the beckoning sort. We’ll have to go there, won’t we?

And soon.





IF YOU GO:

• Bluebeard's Castle, in Charlotte Amalie, for comfortable lodging and fine dining in luxurious surroundings.
• The American Yacht Harbor, in Red Hook, for sailing opportunities; the ferry to St. John is closeby.
• Molly Molone's, at the American Yacht Harbor, for hearty Irish-Caribbean fare and a great sailor's breakfast.
• Little Switzerland, on Dronningens Gade in Charlotte Amalie, for quality duty-free shopping, including fine jewelry, crystal, and china.
• Talk-to-Tanya.com, for all your short- and long-term rental and real estate needs.

© Copyright 2008 by Cary Kamarat . All rights reserved.


Please share your travel experiences and impressions by clicking on the word ‘comments’ below. Alternatively, send your comments to the author directly at dinosasha@juno.com.

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Edinburgh--Renaissance Queen

--March, 2008: Edinburgh, Scotland

Edinburgh is barely an hour by train out of Glasgow’s Queen Street station, across a brief expanse of green and rolling countryside. But you couldn’t ask for a more dramatically different historical rival, or a fairer sister city.

Glasgow’s history has been one of struggle, from self-determination under royal charter to coming to terms with its own religious and industrial barons. But Edinburgh, the Scottish capital, has seemed freer, somehow, to devote its energies to common advantage for quite some time. The recurring themes in records of its earlier days, its formative years as a Renaissance town, show a concern for the security of ships and goods, amity with foreign nations, festivals, and orderly government—indeed, going so far as to levy a fine of fourpence for wine against those city fathers who failed to show up at scheduled town hall meetings. In short, a town at peace with itself, and closely focused on “the commoun proffitt of the burgh”.

As the train pulls in, there’s none of the industrial clutter or the unsightly railroad switchyards you might expect at central station. Right from the start, its spires and turrets dominate the skyline of a queenly city whose real estate values are among the highest in the realm. If you’ve got to love Glasgow for its spirit and its character, you’ve just got to love Edinburgh for her sheer beauty—unless, of course, you prefer Danish modern.

Interest in ‘the common profit’ may have carried local real estate to a point of diminishing returns. No one seems to know what’s in many of the lovely old edifices. “Dunno,” a common response. “Offices? In some, maybe. But they’re askin’ so much rent, they’re lyin’ empty.”

Still, there are parts of the towering past, besides the Bank of Scotland, that are proudly known to all. The “dragon spine” of the old town is a stretch of joined streets and lanes called the Royal Mile. Following the path of an ancient glacier, it runs eastward down the hill from Edinburgh Castle to the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The castle was a hilltop fort in Roman times and, as the locals tell it, has never fallen to an enemy. The palace, Queen Elizabeth’s official Scottish residence, has known murder and sundry intrigues surrounding beloved Mary Queen of Scots. And the “dragon”? It’s the volcano that was once beneath it all.

The Royal Mile itself is a concentration of history the likes of which would enthrall many Americans, and tire many a Scot (albeit proudly). Don’t try to roll through it on wheels. Tour guides gasp for air as they keep up with the neck-wrenching pace. It may work best to meet this history half-way, and let the rest of it come to you.

We had asked, at the Hebrides Bar, about the occasional ghostly presence in Mary King’s Close. Not far to go, they said, to journey back to the 1600s. But we followed the wrong lanes, and took the long way around…

Past the Georgian mansions of yesterday’s rich merchants, now shops and rooms on the square…

Across Princes Street Gardens, now the dried up floor of what was once the Nor'Loch--a small lake that helped make the great Castle unapproachable...

Beneath the graveyard watch—a towering spire meant to stem the tide of bodysnatching for medical experiments in the 19th century…

Past the new Scottish Parliament building, completed by the widow of the Spanish architect who began it, in honor of Scotland's new autonomy...

In the shadow of Arthur’s Seat (from Scots Gaelic Ard na Saigheid: ‘height of the arrows), a volcanic plug rising 800 feet over the center of town—a mountain of steep crags, moorlands, and ruins, where sunrise observers gather on Midsummer’s and Midwinter’s Day...

Finally we found the lanes and passageways that led into the old town, where the world’s first tenements were built, expanding upward where the city walls prevented outward expansion. We said the word carefully—‘tenement’—and remembered the wise philosopher (was it Churchill? Samuel Pepys? The Bonnie Prince?) who once referred to America and Britain as ‘two nations separated by a common language’:

>Oxford English Dictionary:
tenement house, a house containing several apartments (period.)

>Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language
tenement house, a building divided into apartments, now specif. one in the slums that is run-down, overcrowded, etc.

For all the difference in concept, their ‘skyscraping’ potential certainly impressed Benjamin Franklin on his visit to Edinburgh. He may well have been the one to carry word to early New Yorkers regarding what they might do about limited space on that purloined island of theirs.

We climbed, wending our way, until we finally came upon a curiously attired figure. She stood with her back to us, motionless and alone in the ‘Street of Sorrows’. She heard us panting behind her, turned and invited us to stay; no need to push on, she said. Then she brought her finger to her lips in a gesture of silence, and continued to stare off in the direction of the Castle.

Suddenly the General and his Lady made their entrance onto the square followed by an entourage of nobles, witches, ghosts and murderers. The play was clearly the thing; and its plot unraveled before us as a vivid part of one of the world’s largest art festivals. The Edinburgh International Festival, now in its 62nd year, surrounded us with dance, drama, film, and wee sprites, in a colorful and welcoming Renaissance environment.

They seemed to know just what we needed, as (artists and wee sprites often do). They led us on through the crowds, sensing our roots, our world-weariness, our tired and flattened feet. Presently we heard familiar rhythms, taking us back…

...and with Liza Minelli smiling down on our Native crafts,

and First-Nation artists playing lonely tunes under Federal architecture...

how far away could home possibly be?

© Copyright 2008 by Cary Kamarat . All rights reserved.

How about you—don’t you sometimes find home in the strangest places? Please share your travel experiences and impressions by clicking on the word ‘comments' below. WATCH FOR NEW POSTINGS AT THE END OF EACH MONTH.