I went to the civil surgeon to pick up my INS medical papers today, and the stern lady with dark-rimmed glasses told me quite pleasantly that I was apparently not vaccinated against chicken pox. She didn't look so stern today, actually, and was even quite friendly. I arrived there a few minutes before their office closed, expecting to have to explain why I didn't pick up my documents last week. Instead, she recognized me immediately and smiled warmly as she slid a pen and paper over to me.

"You need my name, right?" I asked, sure that she didn't remember who I was.

"No, just your phone number, Patrick. You don't have your varicella shot."

"Oh," I replied. I was at once impressed and somewhat taken aback that she remembered me, and I returned her smile. "Does that mean I have to come back to get vaccinated?"

"Yep, I'll call you back, and we'll have you shot in no time."

She handed me a sealed and stamped envelope. "Here are your documents. I'm not really supposed to give you these until you have your shots, but you look like I can trust you."

I quickly scribbled my phone number on the piece of paper and slid it back to her as her smile broadened into a mischievous grin.

"Thanks so much," I said. I smiled nervously as I left the office, my precious envelope tucked securely under my arm.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea leaving my phone number with her, the lady with the dark-rimmed glasses.

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We're baaaaaack...

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It's time to say goodbye to St. John today. The past week has been absolutely remarkable in every possible way. Exactly what I've been needing for the past six months. But now it's time to go. Time to leave the unhurried island life where everyone drives on the right side of the car, but on the wrong side of the road. Time to bade a fond farewell to some of the most beautiful beaches, where the white sand is soft underfoot and the water a brilliant blue. Time for one last wave to the pair of friendly geckos living under our eaves, the scraggly lizards basking on the scraggly rocks, the shy wild donkeys roaming the evenings at Trunk, the pelicans diving for their supper at Leinster, the goat family with their goat-kid munching on the wild tamarind at Annaberg, the neurotic beach chicken running helter-skelter at Salomon, the tiny frogs hop-hop-hopping across the road as we drove home in the rain from a dinner at Miss Lucy's last night, all the way across the island. Time to say thanks for the beautiful evening sunsets and the moonlit strolls along the beach. Time to care what time it is again. Time to head back to the Big Apple. Thanks for everything, St. John. See you sometime again.

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The wind was strong today at Jumbie Beach. It made the sea a bit rougher than what we had been accustomed to over the past week, but it didn't matter at all to us. Because below the rolling waves, through the crystal clear waters right off the tiny coral-laden peninsula, we saw a sea turtle. He was beautiful. I think he even winked at me.

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There was a wedding on Cinnamon Beach today. It was one of those almost-too-common and somewhat clichéd sunset beach weddings with everyone in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts. All except for the bride, of course, who was resplendent in a beautiful white gown and with her hair and makeup polished to elegant perfection. There were only five people in the party, not including the woman minister officiating the ceremony and an older couple--perhaps in their sixties--watching curiously from their beach chairs behind the coconut trees.

I used to think that beach weddings were too corny, too 1980-ish. When I saw this one, I suddenly knew why couples choose to get married this way. It's so wonderfully simple, so seemingly hassle-free, so relaxed. When we passed the ceremony, we managed to catch the bride's eye and gave her an enthusiastic thumbs-up. She broke into a wonderful, sparkling smile. Then, a few minutes after we passed, the ceremony was over. Just like that.

See, Francis? Not all weddings have to be complicated headaches.

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We saw two stingrays today. After a moderate hike along the coast-hugging and coral-littered Leinster Bay Trail, we dove into the turquoise waters of Waterlemon Bay for a bit of snorkeling. We had decided to snorkel from the mainland to Waterlemon Cay, a tiny island one-fifth of a mile out to sea. About halfway there, I spotted something moving at the sandy bottom, and I pointed excitedly at it, trying to get Greg's attention. I wanted to yell Hey, Greg, there's a stingray down there, but this was translated in underwater snorkel-code to Hlurp, Grelp, gloob gloob shtrungaye gloob gloob. Somehow, Greg managed to understand me.

It was so graceful, this stingray. It was relatively small, with only a three-foot wingspan and a beautifully dangerous-looking spiked tail that swooshed gently as the animal moved along the seabed. The stingray had a travel companion: a fish, perhaps a small blue fin tuna, swam above the ray, close enough to touch it and mimicking every graceful movement. It was oddly familiar at first, watching this odd pair swimming lazily along the seabed. Something seemed strangely commonplace. Then I realized what it was: it appeared as though the fish were the stingray's pet. Yes, that was it; the ray was a young woman taking her pet fish/poodle out for an afternoon stroll in Central Park. Come, Fifi, after you are done with your business we shall take a little walk down Madison Avenue. Wouldn't that be lovely?

We followed the stingray for a while, watching from twenty-five feet above, until some perfectly-formed and plump starfish captured our attention. When we got to the tiny island, we turned around and began the trip back. That was when we saw the second stingray. This one was larger, and seemed a bit crotchety. It also had a travel companion, a slightly larger fish whose temperament in my mind seemed to match the ray's. Both darted around the seabed, each seemingly dissatisfied with having been paired up by Mother Nature with the other. Old Mrs. Stingray didn't seem to like us following her, and after a short-lived game of catch-me-if-you-can, she and her pet suddenly stopped and turned around, glaring at us above. Don't even think of getting closer, you two snorkelers. I'll set Muffy here on you. Needless to say, we left the pair alone, and headed back to the mainland.

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We had lunch at She Las Pot today. She Las Pot is one of those tiny stalls in the middle of town, right under the empty bandstand, perched strategically at the side of the road to greet the traffic--whatever little there is of it--on St. John. It's one of the smaller establishments that no one seems to notice despite its name emblazoned proudly across the colourful front. "She Las Pot," it says.

I always wondered what She Las Pot had to offer. Every night since we arrived on the island last Sunday, I would make note of the empty stall sitting quietly at the side of the road as we drove back into town after a day at the beach. It was always closed when we drove by, and for the past four days I would think to stop by earlier until I could sample one of She Las Pot's meals. In fact, I noticed the little stall when we were here a few years back, but even then we never managed to see it during the day when it was apparently open. Today, we saw it open.

"Can I help?" The buxom woman behind the stall peered at me with her hazel eyes, and smiled. She was perhaps forty, and her hands sat akimbo upon her neatly-pressed apron.

"Good afternoon. Yes, what is there for lunch?" I asked. As I looked over the menu handwritten on a cardboard slate, someone passed by.

"Hello, Miss Sheila. How you doing?"

"Fine thanks, Miss Melissa. Hope you doing well, yourself."

Ah, so that explained the name. The woman's name was Sheila, and this was her stall. It was probably meant to be "Sheila's Pot" and not "She Las Pot" as it was so carefully painted on the side. I smiled.

"I'll have one baked chicken with macaroni, and one stewed goat with green bananas," I said. I was actually unsure of what I wanted, feeling the urge to order one of everything on the menu. "Well, add a side of rice on the order with the chicken as well. Oh, and also a bit of the salad, with the goat," I added. "This looks really delicious."

Sheila smiled. As she began to prepare the meals, I told her the story of my longing to try her food for some time now, and how much I was looking forward to finally being able to taste some of it. Her smile broke into a wide grin, and she heaped a large helping of macaroni pie into both boxes.

"Don't worry," she said, "I will put a bit of everything for you to sample. Miss Sheila will take care of you."

And she really did. She Las Pot's lunchboxes were packed. They were absolutely delicious. We brought the huge boxes home and ate and ate and ate. We ate until we could eat no more. Then, feeling like two anacondas that had just each swallowed a wild boar, we crawled into bed and fell fast asleep. When we woke up two hours later, we still had the taste of She Las Pot's lunch on our mind, and we helped ourselves to a round of leftovers from the still-packed boxes. And still there was more left over. Sheila wasn't kidding when she said she'd take care of us. God bless her heart, that wonderful Miss She La.

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Salted fish pie, baked shrimp patty, passion fruit juice, soursop juice. Bought from Comfee's West Indian Kitchen, a tiny shack on the side of the road across the elementary school. Mmmm, I can still taste tonight's dinner.

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I woke up at six this morning. Six o'clock is early for me, considering I have so much trouble getting up before noon every other normal, non-vacation day. I woke up early this morning before the alarm had the chance to scream at me, and tiptoed over to the balcony to watch the sun crawl over the sleepy island. The island is different this time of day, and more special than most other times, for me. It is the time between last night and today, when the trade winds are still resting and the stillness of the Caribbean night air lingers in the branches of the coconut trees. I love this time of day when tiny birds are still asleep in their nests, and the gentle hills cast long shadows over the hibernating boats. It's an all-too-brief few minutes of pleasant solitude, when nothing yet is stirring and the colours of a promising day have just begun to blossom. A bird has just started its morning song. Ah, today has begun.

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Crickets are chirping all around. Their cacophony is woven tightly into the undulating notes of an orchestrated warm-up, their music being broadcast in stereophonic wonder into the tropical night sky. Down in Cruz Bay, little sailboats lie still with their masts rolled carefully away, asleep along with their precious cargoes of happy tourists. A monstrous cruise ship powers silently across the horizon, and across the bay, tiny lights dot the landscape of neighbouring islands.

All of this we see tonight from our tiny balcony. Greg, now reading a paperback, has prepared two cups of peppermint tea, and we are sipping quietly, careful not to make a sound. I reach across and gently run my hand over his head. He grunts appreciatively and looks up, smiling. I love you, his eyes say. But we remain quiet lest we interrupt the drone of our thousand-cricket orchestra.

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Wow. It's been less than forty-eight hours since Greg and I arrived here on St. John, and the stress has just upped and gone away. Just melted. It's amazing what something like this can do...

We got to St. Thomas yesterday a little after 2pm, delayed a bit by the airport's need to de-ice the plane and runways after the snowstorm we had in New York. All that cold, wet slush made the arrival onto the island all that much more glorious, and set the stage for a study in contrasts. After a brief pause to marvel at the wondrous weather, we grabbed our luggage and hopped the ferry to St. John, where we picked up our rental Jeep Wrangler. We then headed on over to Cruz Views, where we are staying at Unit 3.

Dinner yesterday was at Woody's, a little joint whose grilled mahi-mahi I've been craving since we last visited in 1999. Ah, yes, it was as good as I remembered.

We woke up this morning and headed down to Trunk Bay, where the kind lady who smiled wryly at us gave us five dollars off our admission. You want two passes? You could save some money if you get a family pass. Are you a couple? Yes? Then you save five dollars. Here you go. Thank you, kind lady, for acknowledging us.

After that wonderful welcome, we spent a hectic day relaxing as hard as we could (so much unwinding to do, so little time)... We did some snorkeling off the beach, following the underwater trails and marvelling at the snake-like trumpetfish, the colourful parrotfish, the amazing fanned corals, and the scores of other species eyeing us warily as we floated lazily by, trying desperately to blend in as much as we could. Dinner was at a tiny shack at the side of the road downtown, where the barbeque and macaroni platter left us blissfully contented. We're now getting ready to turn in for the day, listening to the murmur of a brief tropical shower as it makes its way over the island. Ah, there, it's already gone.

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All my bags are packed. I'm ready to go.
...'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane...

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It's snowing in Manhattan again. The giant plastic snowflakes in Lincoln Center, all lit up with a million tiny lights, sit on their perches busy looking important and dignified. We are bigger than you, tiny snowflakes. They stare cockeyed and wary at their natural counterparts and try to ignore their swirling bodies, their teeming masses dancing around them in an uncontrollable, frenzied tango. Yes, we are plastic. But at least we don't melt.

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We took a spur-of-the-moment drive down to Philadelphia to see Cycle World's motorcycle show. We missed the show when it came to New York a few weeks ago, and so we decided at the last minute, hey let's go see it in Philly! So after work, like maniacal madmen we flew down the New Jersey Turnpike down to the Pennsylvania Convention Center, where we met up with my nephew Jeffrey, who's a junior there at Penn. We had enough time--about two hours--to browse through everything before their 10pm closing time, and I even managed to find me a nice new pair of winter riding gloves so I won't have to freeze my hands off this time of the year.

After the show, the three of us headed towards Genji, one of my favourite college haunts, nestled unobstrusively between Billybob's and the arcade on 40th and Spruce, for a late dinner. Genji has a special place in my heart: when I went to I school in Philly, I used to go to Genji as a rare treat for doing something especially worthy of congratulation, or for a special event such as a birthday. It was always a place of celebration, a place I associated with happy times and wonderful friends. Imagine my dismay, then, when last night I learned that Genji was no more. Instead, a familiar entryway beckoned me to Nara. We went in, anyway, and had a wonderful meal of steak, spider rolls, hamachi, kaki fry, and a delicious pot of warm green tea. The food was as good as I remembered it, and the interior hadn't changed at all, so I think the name change may have been cosmetic. But, like any change to something close to the heart, I was a bit saddened to realize that the name Genji exists now only in my memory. Here's to a wonderful restaurant and the fond memories there!

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So I don't have tuberculosis. I went back to the civil surgeon's office today, where two days ago a stern-looking lady with dark-rimmed glasses injected my forearm with PPD as part of the INS-required Mantoux test. The lump of fluid that she injected under my skin is now nothing more than a tiny red blotch. "Patrick?" The same lady was there. With a curt nod of her head, she motioned me to roll up my sleeves, and I obediently obliged. "Oh, good, it's all so smooth and nice," she said, and she rubbed her hand approvingly over my arm. "I guess you don't have TB." She suddenly smiled at me in a kind of you-don't-have-a-contagious-disease-so-I-can-touch-you way, and I grinned back sheepishly, suddenly uncomfortably aware that her hand had lingered a tad bit too long. The rest of my results come back in a few days. I can hardly wait to return to the stern lady with the dark-rimmed glasses.

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I went to a civil surgeon today to have a physical. This is good news, because it means that I've gotten to the third and final stage of the green card application process. So apart from preparing the usual letter of employment/sponsorhip, financial statements, biographical data, passport copies, tax returns, pay stubs, etc, etc, I had to leave work early today to have a federally-approved civil surgeon draw blood and do a TB test. The scary thing is that I only have one year two years left on my H-1 work permit, so if by this time next year two years from now I don't have a green card in my possession, it'll be time to say goodbye, America! That thought really frightens me--I think I had better hurry up and get all my documents in order; after all, Stages 1 and 2 took only a few years to be pushed through... Auugghhh...

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Sunday finds me here at work again, slaving away to the rhythms of corporate America. It's windy today here in New York City--not that I would know, being cooped up in my office for the weekend. But as I gaze outside my window onto a tranquil Lexington Avenue, I see a mischievous gust of wind pick the cap off an unsuspecting pedestrian and hurl it playfully across the street. I didn't notice it then, but the taxi driver yesterday was right: these are beautiful days. I should be outside enjoying the fine-for-January weather this weekend, but instead I am rooted to my desk, running report after report, reviewing analysis after analysis, and procrastinating as much as I possibly can. Should I care that the SEC is auditing us now? Must I lose sleep that our largest client will be here for three weeks starting tomorrow? Need I worry now about convertible bonds being modeled differently in our data model? It's Sunday; relax…

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It's almost half past three on Sunday morning, and I'm still here at work--on a weekend, to boot. I've got to get out of here. I've got to go find me a life. See my Friday posting below about needing a vacation. 'Nuff said.

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Yay! We booked our tickets for our emergency vacation today. Boy, do I need a vacation right about now. I can't wait...

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B1 d t k s u f i o++ x- e+ l c

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I am a bit saddened. Every couple worth its salt has at least one of what Greg calls a private psychic rapport. For some, this may be finishing each other's sentences; for others it may be having the same dreams or calling each other simultaneously on the phone. For Greg and me, one of our pet psychic rapports happens whenever I take the bus home from work. More often than not, my cell phone rings as the 57 passes the Coliseum bookstore on 57th and Broadway.

"Hey there," I answer. "Guess where I am."

"Coliseum?"

"Yep, right on time today."

It's uncanny that Greg would call me so precisely and with such frequency as my bus passes the bookstore. So much so, in fact, that I often use his call as a gauge to tell me how far I am along my journey home. Today, I was sitting on the bus, my thoughts deeply tangled in an essay I was reading. The young woman behind me was shrieking excitedly into her phone about the ring her husband was about to get her: blah, blah, blah, Bulgari, blah, blah, Tiffany, blah, blah, and is he a Gujarati medium or an American small? I battled the urge to turn around and tell her off when she suddenly interrupted herself. "Oh look, there's a sale at this bookstore. Twenty percent off!" I glanced up and saw everyone turn their heads to the right; I was apparently not the only passenger listening in on her raucous conversation. I looked past the turned heads and saw a neat, handwritten sign posted on a familiar window display. The noisy woman was right: the Coliseum seemed to be having an after-holiday sale. I smiled; even from my awkward perch on the bus, our little bookstore looked a bit more crowded than usual, and I was happy that so many customers were browsing its offerings. I suddenly sensed how quiet the bus had become. The woman who was talking too loudly on her phone had exited the bus and had pointed herself decidedly in the direction of the feeding frenzy at the bookstore. I was doubly relieved. Then I saw another, smaller, sign posted carefully about three feet away from the sale poster. I struggled to read the tiny text scrawled on it. When I read it what it said, my heart sank.



At that very moment, my cell phone rang. It was Greg.

"Hey there. Guess where I am."

"Coliseum?"

"Yep."

I guess our psychic rapport will have to find a new home.

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Happy birthday, Darren! Say hi to Joel for me tonight...

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We had to move our bikes yesterday.

We park our motorcycles a few blocks away from home, in a tiny garage near the Upper West Side BMW dealership where we get a great monthly rate. Well, great for New York City, anyway. The thing about this garage is that there isn't really any real motorcycle parking. What they have is an empty, run-down office space that is used as motorbike parking. Cars go in and out of the garage, but all the motorcycles are shunted to the left, where the heavily-stained industrial carpeting and musty, exhaust-tainted air hint at the powerful machines nestled comfortably in the depths of its busom. You enter this small complex and walk down the corridors, and there are all these motorcycles parked in office cubicles and tucked-away corners and spaces. Which is at once both amusing and peculiarly surreal. We had a four-person conference room all to ourselves; our two neighbours had moved out to presumably greener pastures, and we had the run of the entire room. Sure, the corridors were narrow and the corners awkward to negotiate, but after an initial few weeks we had learned to deftly navigate the entrance to our little conference room. Everything was fine and peachy; the yin and yang of our motorcycle universe were in perfect harmony. All until a few days ago. Which is when we got a call to move our bikes. They needed the conference room to store stuff. Our conference room. So yesterday, with a heavy heart we bade a fond but reluctant adieu to our warm and comfortable conference room, and moved our bikes to another, more open area of the garage. Well, to another area of the office, I mean...

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It's snowing in New York City!!! Well, actually, it's more like wet slush. On the one hand, I love to peer out the window at the snow falling onto the pedestrians hustling and bustling to wherever it is New Yorkers go. I love to watch from the thirtieth floor the white flakes appearing magically out of an invisible sky, dancing gently down towards the pavements and onto the ever-changing traffic lights. I love the quiet hush that befalls the city as the the swirling wind suddenly becomes visible and the traffic slows almost to a halt. On the other hand, like I said, today it's more like wet slush... Yeesh.

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Very cool. My cousin from Germany, Evelyn, sent me one of those neat German euro starter packs. The new coins are so very sehr schön. They came as a complete surprise in my mailbox today; I just opened the mailbox, and there they were, some twenty coins, all shining new and packaged ever so delicately. I love little unexpected surprises like this; isn't Evelyn absolutely sweet? Vielen Dank, Evelyn, für das wunderbare Geschenk!

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I left work at 8pm this evening and prepared to walk the five blocks to catch the Number 57 home. I always dread this walk because more often than not I miss the bus by a hair as I wait to cross the street to the bus stop. As I neared 57th Street, I let out a mental groan: the bus was already there and a red light had stopped me in my tracks. Another bus approached and I glanced nervously at it. Too bad, it was the 31, which would take me only halfway home to 10th Avenue. It pulled up behind the 57. As the light changed, I quickly crossed the street and made a beeline for my bus, breaking into a light gallop that proved futile. The bus doors closed as I approached, and a woman with a red beret and oversized silver hatbox, seated near the window above me, gave me a sympathetic look. Too late, better luck next time. The bus pulled away as I tried to look as nonchalant as I possibly could (I didn't really want that bus anyway); the driver had not even heard my glove-muffled rapping against the vehicle's sides. I stood back, resigned to waiting the next thirty minutes in the cold for another 57 and staring frustratedly at the empty space where the bus had been. Then I heard a horn beep and I looked up: the Number 31 was flashing its lights at me and the driver was waving. No thanks, I'm waiting for the 57. I waved him on. He gesticulated even more excitedly, and I approached, curious. "You can ride with me and I will catch the 57 for you," he said in heavily accented English. Wow, that's pretty nice. I jumped on the bus and he took off, grinning mischievously as he drove at a furious pace to catch the bus ahead of us. After a few minutes, he pulled right up behind the 57 at a red light. "You can get out here and catch the bus at the next stop," he said, "if you think you can make it from here." I nodded, offered a rushed litany of thanks for the free ride, and he opened the door. I did catch the 57, and as I walked up to its opened doors, I turned and waved to the kind man who had spared me a miserably cold wait on Lexington. He grinned and waved in return. No problem, señor. Who said New Yorkers aren't kind? Thank you, kind bus driver, wherever you are.

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*Ugh*... Had a rather lousy game of squash at the 86th/Lex New York Sports Club last night. Probably a residual hangover from welcoming the New Year, which, by the way, was spent shaking our boo-tays and imbibing overpriced drinks at The Web. There we met Michael and Tom, two guys who apparently kept tabs on me during my short membership at the YMCA. They apparently even had a nickname for me: "Panda Eyes." It was rather amusing and strangely flattering, actually, but... Panda Eyes? Sheesh... Too bad they're moving to Thailand; they were pretty funny. After getting to bed at 5am on New Year's Day, we had a pretty low-key day recovering. We played a few games of squash at the 62nd/Broadway NYSC and then proceeded to the cinema to see Behind Enemy Lines, which turned out quite unfortunately to be one of the worst movies I've seen in a while. I hope this doesn't set a precendent for the rest of the year.

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So I hop off the bus this morning and walk as bravely as I can through the cold to my favourite deli on the way to the office. I recite the requisite new year greetings to Bobby, and Bobby grins at me as he readies the usual two-egg-whites-and-ham-on-a-roll he prepares for me almost every day. I walk to the counter to pay, and Bobby follows me, sandwich in hand. "Short staffed today?" I ask. He shrugs nonchalantly. Today Bobby is apparently both the chief sandwich-preparer and head cashier. I reach into my pocket for my wallet and open it. Egad! A solitary dollar bill stares vapidly at me, and I stare back at it with equal incredulity. Am I going to have to return my breakfast? Will I have to run out to get some cash? "You don't accept credit cards, do you?" I ask sheepishly. Bobby grins again and dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "Pay me tomorrow." Ah, the benefits of being a regular.

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Happy [*sic*] New Year!!!

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