Ich liebe Dich Switzerland

After a draining, overcrowded, eleven hour flight I was whisked away from the mayhem of Zurich and set on Höheweg Strasse in the charming town of Interlaken.  Sleeping for what felt like an eternity, I awoke to the vast panorama of the Swiss Alps and the exhilarating echo of the mountains.  Those ghostly, white, jagged peaks evoke magical dreams and powerful emotions within.  Finally alert and adjusting well to the six hour time change, I went on a search for the perfect cup of steaming, frothy cappuccino.  I wandered outside into the brisk air to see what treasures I could unearth.  Interlaken, nestled between lakes Thun and Brienz, (named accordingly “Inter” between and “Laken” lakes) is notorious for being somewhat touristy.  But what I discovered was so much more.

Narrow side streets, secret courtyards, clandestine gardens, local pubs, mystifying churches, whispers around corners and hidden passageways were just some of the secrets of this city.  Meandering lazily through the town I happened upon a lovely tea room, finally deciding on a warm cup of green tea with a tasty gingerbread cookie on the side.  Completely forgetting about my cappuccino, I took my first, real deep breath in almost a year, sipped on my green tea concoction and sunk down so completely in my overstuffed, cushioned chair.  Flipping through a few travel pamphlets, which you should never do, I tossed them aside and set off on my own again.  I wanted the local feel of Interlaken and I got it.

Read more

The Accidental Hedonist

 Mid-flight, somewhere above El Paso, it hit me that I could be making a big mistake.  I’d boarded the red-eye to Kingston, totally alone, to attend Sunsplash ’89 in Montego Bay, and was suddenly embarrassed by the reaction from the twenty-something, waif-like girl seated between me and her matching boyfriend.  They almost looked like brother and sister with their pale hair, ghostly skin and cheesy leisure wear, but were clearly not siblings due to the snuggling and smooching.  She asked me where I’d be staying in Jamaica and when I told her, “Hedonism,” that’s when her wide-eyed expression made me feel like some kind of pervert. I wasn’t aware of the sexual connotation when I’d impulsively booked the trip.  My travel agent had played the name down to sell me on the all-inclusive package, I figured.  The agent said the hotel was “exactly like a Club Med.”  But the cling twins found this altogether too much and the girl turned her body toward her boyfriend and forced herself into a sudden state of sleep.

              Beginning to doubt my choice of lodging, I nervously tucked the hand-picked bunch of sunflowers I’d bought from a beggar woman at LAX inside the seat pocket before me.  Looking at the yellow slivers, I’d seen darkness beginning to form around their edges with each passing hour. They’d been picked too young and would never reach maturity, but I told myself the bouquet would serve as a talisman for the journey.  I needed some form of protection after hearing myself trying to convince a perfect stranger there was absolutely nothing wrong with going to Hedonism. 

              I had booked this trip on a whim during my lunch hour the Friday before without even looking at photographs of the resort.  Now I rummaged around my satchel, then leafed through the hotel brochure for a sign, some reassurance that I wasn’t flying straight to hell.  Oh God.  There’s a nude beach?  And, what did “fulfilling each guest’s greatest desires” mean exactly?  It was going to be a long four days.

              The wispy girl and her boyfriend held hands while they slept, leaning against one another.  The cabin hummed while other passengers dozed quietly around me.  A full, crazy moon kept me company during the quietude then slipped out of sight before we touched down upon the new Jamaican day.

              Dozens of local men offering their taxi services for a few dollars buzzed around the airport’s latest arrivals.  Tired from the sleepless flight, I singled out my driver, a smallish man with a mouth like a carved pumpkin.  With a whistling smile and a thick Jamaican accent almost impossible to understand, he collected my bag and we settled on a fare.  He hadn’t been mortified when I revealed my destination, but, then again, his taxi reeked of ganja.  We sped past a colorful marketplace as we drove through Kingston.  I slept sitting up as my head snapped a little before my eyes had closed completely.  When we finally reached Hedonism, I guess any doubt I’d felt before had vanished entirely.  The air had a comforting affect, like the perfect shawl on a cool night.

              There would be no need for currency at Hedonism.  Nor, for swim suits according to the sign pointing down a path of tilted palm trees to the nude Jacuzzi.  My pulse quickened a bit as I pretended not to notice.  The slow-walking attendant escorting me to my bungalow didn’t catch my bugged-out-eyes shaded behind sunglasses.  Glancing around the tropical paradise that was to be my home for the next four nights, I saw no obvious signs of debauchery.  The lanai’s view captured a greenish-blue cove beyond the pool deck, and yellow and white cabanas lined the powder white beach in postcard perfection.  Having just quit my job in advertising the only “desire” I wanted fulfilled was total escapism.  Was I running from the snap decision to up and leave a job without even a prospect?  Probably.

              This year would mark the 12^th annual six-night reggae festival in Montego Bay.  I’d often sought comfort in reggae and since I was now unemployed I decided that hearing the music I loved in the country of its origin would more than soothe the panic stricken feeling of wondering if and when I’d find another job.  (And, the rum would help, too.)  Every little thing’s gonna be all right.  I hadn’t contemplated voyeuristic discos, naked beaches or hooking up with strangers as part of the plan.  If the basic idea behind hedonistic thoughts meant that pleasure is the only thing that is good for the spirit, it would follow that I had come seeking mine in the form of music.  Bob Marley’s album Legend had been the soundtrack of my 20s.  The song “One Love” still feeds my soul better than church.

              The players changed daily at Hedonism.  New faces came and went as quickly as the food disappeared.  An all-you-can-eat buffet was laid out on a 100-foot long table across the indoor patio.  Jerk chicken (spicy grilled chicken – the scent alone draws you in), baked sweet potatoes (so light and fluffy I couldn’t get enough), Bammies (a cassava flatbread, soft and warm), curried goat (couldn’t go there); red beans and rice, and plantain fritters (deep-fried banana balls that quickly became a staple during my stay).

              The pool area teemed with sun worshippers; bronzing bodies glistened with oil and the beach bars were always packed.  Kayaks dotted the waves in the background, along with flailing sails of inexperienced wind surfers.  The sun never ceased to shine at Hedonism, but I was strangely drawn to the indoor areas where music floated overhead and the sun’s relentless glare never found me.   

              It was during a shaded lunch near the buffet table that I met a group of six young men with noticeable biceps from Philadelphia.  Every one of them bore an uncanny resemblance to Sylvester Stallone.  They quickly took on the role of my bodyguards when I said the scurrying crabs had scared me the first night.  One of these ten-inch crabs had brazenly crossed over my bare foot which sent me running on a lunatic spree off the pathway.  Peter, the shortest member of the gang, gallantly carried me five hundred yards to my doorstep on his last night.  Out of breath and clutching his pale white chest, he left me with a little salute and disappeared down the path flexing his muscles with pride.  I can still see his Yosemite Sam tattoo on his lower leg – pistols cocked and ready.

              By the third day I’d stopped wearing shoes altogether.  Long, lazy hours eclipsed into longer nights, and I embraced the hedonistic mentality on my own terms sauntering around the tropical enclave, a floating hippie in a bikini, a sarong, and a buzz.             

              Out of the hundreds of guests at Hedonism, only five of us had paid for the shuttle van to make the all night quest to Sunsplash.  James and Clarissa took the front seat as Johnny, Mark and I took our seats in the rear.  Montego Bay was about three hours away and most of the guests at the resort were permanently affixed to their chaises or sleeping off hangovers.  I’d met James and Clarissa, a couple I’d had dinner with the night before, who had reunited at Hedonism.  They hadn’t seen each other in five years and by some miracle had run into one another again.  She resembled a retired stripper with feathery, bleached-out locks, platform hooker heels and caked on eyeliner.  He swore he was a policeman somewhere I’d never heard of and had been “undercover” in prison on a top-secret assignment.  I never found out for sure if this was true, but it didn’t seem to matter.  Their rekindling charmed me somehow and they made me feel like what I did or didn’t do for a living was of no consequence.

              Mark and Johnny were the kind of guys my mother warned me about.  These childhood buddies had been coming to Hedonism for years.  A “tradition” they said.  They each had a kind of Brooklyn, bad-boy charm that when they spoke, even of nothing significant, I felt safe.  I ended up at Mark’s table the day before and liked him immediately.  But, when his good-looking friend, Johnny joined us, I liked him even more.  They were the type of guys who screamed macho at first glance.  Johnny wore his mirrored aviators pushed back like a headband and Mark’s bulging pectorals busted out of his extra-small t-shirt.  Having always been a girl who liked to “one-up” the boys, I dared them to join me in the nude jacuzzi, just to see their reaction.  I discovered that boys from the east do not care to be “one-upped” and the three of us made our way down the forbidden trail in broad daylight.  We were the only guests stupid enough to find it, apparently.  Well, there was one guy in the water already, but he looked like he was sleeping. 

              I was the first to disrobe.  Johnny and Mark feigned indifference.  They acted like this was just another day in paradise, looking anywhere but at my naked body as I submerged myself in the bubbling waters.  After a few seconds, they stripped down to nothing, leaving their swim suits where they’d dropped them on the edge by the steps.  This super-sized jacuzzi could have seated up to forty people at one time. There we sat, motionless, spaced very far apart, each faking a heavenly soak.  I remember thinking that “sleeping” man was probably peering out of one eye from behind his shades the way I used to do at the beach when I was a teenager trying to glimpse the lifeguard without him knowing.  I was the one who broke the uncomfortable silence when I suggested we all go to Sunsplash together.  (Sleeping man not included.)  That was the moment when I figured if they were game for the nude jacuzzi, they would be ideal companions for the long ride to Montego Bay.  I thought of the pallid couple on the plane ride over.  I pictured the girl’s skin sunburned to a crisp with that hideous white stuff covering her nose at some boring resort on the other side of the island somewhere, probably still holding hands with her boyfriend. 

              No sooner had Hedonism’s reflection disappeared in the van’s rearview mirror, when somebody passed a spliff, and soon the smoky air became like another passenger along for the ride.  The van drifted atop the dark, winding road, and then suddenly, made an unscheduled stop.  There were no street lights around and as we toppled out of the side door, a barking dog yapped crazily and momentarily killed my state of mind.  The driver shushed the dog and motioned us to come inside the shanty house.  The “bar” was an empty room and at the back sat a ramshackle counter.  The shack had no stools, tables, glasses, bottles or pool table.  Somehow in its understated glory, it embodied the simplicity of Jamaica.

              From behind a hanging curtain, a fleshy Jamaican woman with dreads piled on top of her head like a beehive appeared.  Our driver mumbled something to her about a Red Stripe.  I was very familiar by now with the official beer of Jamaica.  She swayed in place then sashayed behind the curtain again, her hips keeping time to the rhythm.  Bob Marley’s “Stir it up” was drifting out from somewhere in back.  I knew if “One Love” came on next, she was listening to Legend.  Just as she returned with our beers on a tray and set them down, the song ended.  Then, the unmistakable high notes from the piano began to play:  One love, one heart, let’s get together and feel all right. I asked her how often she played that tape.  Without looking up she whispered in a throaty rasp, “About a t’ousand times a day, mon.”

              We finished our beers, said goodbye, climbed aboard the smoke mobile heading towards Sunsplash in total darkness.

  r

              As we approached the stadium’s entrance, Johnny and I held hands.  Mark took off in another direction and James and Clarissa had gone off in another.  Friendly Jamaican children not more than six or seven years of age were selling large pieces of cardboard.  Reggae Beds – One Dollar!  Johnny and I bought one each after realizing that the van would not be back until morning.  I guess amidst the Hedonistic splendor nobody had thought to bring blankets.  Nobody worried about the surprisingly cold bay wind breezing over the open stadium or the mosquitoes nipping at our bare legs in the chilly, August night.

              The Bob Marley Memorial Center had withstood five nights of non-stop reggae music before International Night had arrived.  The emcee Tommy Cowan took the stage with his usual “Yes, Indeeeeed” with the Es strung out and then introduced Marcia Griffiths.  I was witnessing one of the original members of the I-3, Bob’s backup singers, live, in person, and, the best part, in Jamaica.  She performed her classics soulfully until twenty tireless dancers joined her onstage for a memorable performance of “Electric Boogie.”  The singer Half Pint followed next and by now the massive crowd rocked and reeled to the pulse.  The ganja-filled air smoldered in a cloud above us.  Every single person was dancing.  Everyone.  I was hypnotized by a Rastafarian man a few feet away with sun-bleached dreadlocks hitting below his butt.  He danced for hours, leaning back slightly, in a reverent trance, as if he were running in place, never opening his eyes.  It was as if the players in his head were giving a better show only he had been invited to attend.

              I wandered around the many booths which sold concert souvenirs, t-shirts, stickers, drug paraphernalia, food and music, leaving Johnny to guard our beds.  After a few minutes of drifting around I paid a woman five dollars to braid my hair.  She designed a couple of corn-rows out of my blond locks and attached red, yellow and green beads on the ends. Next, I thumbed through boxes of music for sale.  I purchased a cassette tape by Frankie Paul.  (The housekeeper at Hedonism had strongly recommended him when he changed my sheets a few days before.)

              The smell of jerk chicken lured me toward a huge tent, where I sat at an unsteady picnic table and devoured a heaping plate alongside a synergetic family of five who’d driven all the way from Kingston.  Accustomed by now to the bumpy, one-lane roads in Jamaica, I estimated their drive must have taken ten to twelve hours at least. Each of their voices was noticeably hoarse from the week’s festivities.  The youngest child, gnawing on a wing, remarked that she’d “sung so much I probably lost a tonsil or two.”  Her brothers laughed and said that was “a very good t’ing.”

              I’d singled out a woman wearing a loud pink dress as a marker for my row and navigated my way back through the thousands of people singing on the grass.  Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers had just taken the stage.  Someone said that Rita Marley, the late Bob Marley’s wife, was actually in the house. Not long after they started to play, people began to cry and I didn’t understand why. 

              The music played on through the night.  Johnny and I were leaning against each other for body warmth and probably out of attraction as well.  He looked over at me, sweetly and whispered, “Nice dreads,” and kissed me then buried his face against the dangling beads.  Mark was nowhere to be found.  James and Clarissa were fine, we assumed.  Johnny and I huddled together and the woman behind us was still crying.  We tucked our heads down, wrapped our arms around each other, and fell asleep on our cardboard bed still freezing.  In the silver light of day, we awoke to scuffling feet.  The stage had been almost completely disassembled by the time we deposited our beds into a waste can and caught the van back to the resort.

              Later that afternoon, I boarded a plane for the states.  I read a Jamaican newspaper that reported the last night’s events at Sunsplash.  I learned the reason the crowd had been so emotionally charged by Ziggy Marley and his brothers and sisters’ performance was that for the first time ever, the group had played as adults before a Jamaican crowd.  No doubt their growth into accomplished musicians unseen by their father moved the audience to tears.  I thought about the woman who wept behind me at the concert as she clutched her little girl.  Then I thought about my wilted bouquet of blackened sunflowers I’d left on the nightstand that morning at the hotel.  My talisman was exactly like Bob Marley.  They both had been picked too young.

              After the flight attendant had cleared away the trays from the meal service, the conservative looking man seated across the aisle wanted to know what I did for a living.  Without a beat I said winking, “I’m a Hedonist.”

Written by

Jill Paris

Next Page »