In the Caribbean

It is in our nature to judge. We judge what other people say, what they don’t say, and – last but not least – what they wear. As such, in line with our nature, Passepartout now must pass a few uncomfortable judgments. Having returned from two extraordinarily exotic escapades with a heart of glass, Passepartout will judge.

In the past two weeks, Passepartout and Willie Fox played little Pirates of the Caribbean, they snuck away – not the Philippines – but to the very beginning of the New World – the one and only, St. Thomas. The Iguanas were omnipresent. The Beach sellers adamant. And The Island Taxis non-sensical. There was lots of fun to be had.

If only it wasn’t for the locals. And voila, ladies and gents, here’s where the judgment comes to picture. And holly molly! Judgment, will it be!

I am not gonna walk around the hot pot. Simply and trimply, the locals were: mean. Oh, man! And By mean, I mean mean, meaner than the video that killed the radio star.

Evidence numero uno: they don’t EVER look into your eyes. Someone said it was their culture. But man! Their culture really does make you feel like you’re dealing with the radio-star killers.

Evidence numero dos: Passepartout and Fox were trying to visit the island’s capital taking advantage of the numerous one-way-only taxis, named the Safaris. When demanded where to get off the Safaris in order to reach the famed capital, the two travellers were told to get off in front of the local K-Mart. Doubtful yet trusting, they did. Well, they shouldn’t have. Upon getting off the Safari, Passepartout saw a glimpse of the locals giggling in the quickly departing taxi. Of course, the get-off location was the funniest joke St. Thomas ever saw. With heart of glass the locals put the two travellers into a not so desirable position – left in the middle of a suburban mall, mocked and lonely.

Victims of island’s humor, Passepartout and Fox stood frozen staring at the passerby shoppers with bags full of the new K-Mart collection. Tears reached their eyes. Desperation their cheerful minds. In the middle of the hurdle-durdle of the consumerist fever of St. Thomas, the two young gentlemen remembered their most cherished chanson:

“Once I had a love and it was a gas, soon turned out

Had a heart of glass.

Seemed like the real thing, only to find

Mucho mistrust.

Love's gone behind.”

And Hallelujah. Praise the lord. The Blondies spoke the truth. It is in our nature to judge, and so let me judge. Dear St. Thomasians, Passepartout can deal with your low look – no matter how harsh they are on the radio star. Beware, nonetheless, the sneakiness is not ok – it is not ok to mislead to world travellers and leave them behind in a strange Caribbean suburbia with no means of escape. Oh, St. Thomasians – keep giggling – if you wish so. But keep in mind. With respect to your little island, for Jean Passepartout and Willie Fox, love’s gone behind.

Cape Cod - no wonder all the Pilgrims died

Last week, Phileas Fogg and his faithful servant Jean Passepartout ventured to the very end of America’s east, and the very beginning of Europe’s West. The cruel birthplace of the United States, the one and only, Cape Cod.

And cruel the Cod was. Allegedly, half of Father Pilgrims who came to Massachusetts on the proclaimed Flower of May died after a few harsh winters. Allegedly, they first ate the dogs; then they ate the natives, then they ate their wives, and last but arguably most significantly, they ate each other. Christian values seem to lose much of their allure when temperatures drop bellow zero, the Flower of May burns to dust, and the food sucks. Good thing the Fathers signed the compact before they emerged as avid cannibals. It would, however, be interesting to see the interplay of the true survival of the fittest in the US legal system.

Despite its ruthless winters, Cape Cod is swell during the warm months. It is in fact one of America’s prime location for the rich and liberal, the Kennedys and the Kennedy-wannabes. And like America’s upper bourgeoisie, Fogg and Passepartout were drawn by the mythic calling of the Cape in the shape of a Cod.
They were lucky enough to borrow one of their patron’s jets. Cruising in the clear air of Massachusetts with their own air of glamour and glitz, they finally understood the true meaning of the true identity of Mrs. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. In the presence of our cannons, all the Cape Cod chicas were jel; all the bros felt like failure. Fogg and Passepartout put on their very best outfits, hoping for an immediate recognition by the Kennedys. The season however, seemed to be a bit off for a Kennedy reception. As such, the two travelers had to satisfy their thirst for social promotion by secretly invading the yard of the Kennedy compound. Initially, Fogg was little distressed by the prospect of infringing on the privacy of the Kennedys (after all, he, too, is Irish-Catholic). In the end, nevertheless, Passepartout was true to his name and managed to get the two of them to the very epicenter of the compound. Stepping on the scene of the Kennedy Compound proved totally disappointing. Like totally disappointing. The flag waving above the Compound was shaggy and sort of dirty; the house had an air of an enlarged MacMansion. There was no one to hang out with; and no one to be hanging on to. No jealous chicas and sadness-stricken brothers to admire the boys’ jet.

And so, Fogg and Passepartout got on their machine determined to leave the Cape. In their search for Mrs. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, the two avid voyageurs ran into a few shackles of the long forgotten American aristocracy. The spirit of Mayflower, however, still seems to bear its influence over the entire region. Afraid of harsh winters, the CapeCodians seem to leave their sociality behind. Some should perhaps inform them that today’s hot dogs are not as bad as those of 1520s.
In the meantime, Phileas Fogg and Jean Passepartout are still on their search for Britney. Maybe, next time, they should try Asia. I’ve heard that Miss American Dream tends to sneak away to the Philippines – not Cape Cod. The Pilgrims are probably turning upside down in their graves, thinking “Oh My God, that Britney’s shameless.”