By Jeffrey Marquis

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Note: All of this had been written freehand. I had no thesaurus or grammar help.
All of this was written on paper.

This is a strange way to start a travelogue—but I don't like a lot of what I see here in the vacation hotspot of the Bahamas. I'm sitting on the beach with my toes arching in the white sand and looking out upon emerald waters. But, on the other hand, I have flies swarming and crawling all over me—gross—I'm cut off from the world with no cellular phone, and I'm handwriting this like a primitive. I'll not make a joke about those who clean my room, serve me food, and sell me various items, but I will tell you it's funny to see how skin color is perfectly correlated with power.

And these damn flies won't quit!

It's clear; I crave development. I lust after HDTV in store windows with taxis passing. Here, I look forward to Saturday nights on Main St. because it isn't often I pass another golf cart on these hiking trails—yes I've begun driving. They're all going on the wrong side of the road! Getting away from any racism I'll let you know that I do like much of what I see in the natives; they're a relaxed bunch; they offer me assistance. Still, they are simple. They're quite basic, and I admit I feel far superior with my college learnin' when I see an island of those who serve the owners of Scarab boats.

Are we better than them though?

I'll argue yes—this proving I'm not really religious. I'd be in agony if I were forced to revert to their simple living. This is starting to sting like my sunburn, but I'll go along with it. I've said that I entertain the thoughts of lending a hand to the needy in order to erase a spiritual debt and make you smile, yet seeing this cancels the possibility of going to Africa or one of those countries. How about Sweden? How about Spain? Those aside I take much pride in being an American with my prestigious credentials.

This goes along with development.

I'm white. I'm male. I'm young. And I'm from a wealthy upbringing which brings me better than many of my peers. That and, for anyone who hasn't seen me lately, I'm bigger and thinner most (all) of you. I've experienced much retardation in my own life, and now taking myself to the next level with my own house should say something of the advancement I hope to see. I plan for the best. While I won't make it as a salesman, I will perhaps create an interesting novel and take my body to an envied height with any fitness training. That goes for my free time. Enough about me. I always do that; haven't you noticed? How about the people I respect? I'll tell you who I respect: young parents. I respect the moms who thought abortion was wrong, just like I respect the young fathers who knew what they had to do. I think I know how they feel with something that throws everything, everything, and everything in your life out of its orbit. It isn't easy. I think I can see eye to eye with them on this one.

Sometimes I'll think about what if . . . like what if I were going to be a father back in November of 2004? There's a life-changing experience that would have whipped me into shape . . . You've seen that I'm still not accustomed to my life since the accident—still not—but I hope (and expect) that living in a new environment with new people will bring enough fresh air into my life, along with studying a new major of English at Worcester State down the road. It's going to take a while though; if you ask me, "Jeff what have you done in the past year," I'd respond with something about gym-time and short stories. Then I'd go into school. What about work? I haven't worked legally in over a year. What kind of job am I looking for? This isn't good. Now I spend my time improving myself—with money out of the picture. And what about a car? I've seen gas prices are really damn high, and getting higher. I'm very unsure of my future. Earlier, by chance, an intelligent man told me that he expects to see our country decline to the #2 world power in his lifetime. You know it's going to happen eventually; the only question is how soon. Thankfully I feel free to explore the world and compelled to do so because I won't have a second chance.

Children. Kids. Offspring. I'm not sure how I feel about parenting. Maybe I'll get into eventually, maybe. There's no doubt I'll be capable of it, please, so don't suggest I see a doctor or something. One major downside to any parenting is my drunk mistake. I'd have to say Daddy screwed up to them from a young age. Granted I've now turned my life around, but it's not easy for me to have a drunk mistake following me around.

Enough of that; I'm focusing on myself too much.

I'm in a dim lounge at Green Turtle Cay with a television playing soft music and with fans blowing cool A/C air on my hot skin. The top side of my arms are sunburnt from sitting on a beach yesterday, as is the back of my neck and ears. I see this island is furnished with many fresh flowers and tropical plants. The flowers sit in vases with white petals and egg yolk yellow stamens. House plants sit on the floor in an unimposing manner like the lamps, which are turned off. The sun is shining bright on this paradise island with many advisories of SPF. I'm across from a bar with $1 bills pasted all over the walls, on which I see they're all designed by their owners with black marker and designs that signify, "I was here." On some I see names; on some I see dates; on some I see a mass of black ink in no organized standing.

And I'm now hungry. After an unspecial breakfast I could use a late lunch where I'm forced to spend a little short of $20 for some grub. I'm going to get some food to fill my stomach.

I got a snack and took a nap.

I've awoken from my slumber to an empty cottage. Mom and Dad are off at some beach and I'm sitting in this air-conditioned room where I need to change the higher temperature because they reset it.

I'm now sitting in the room on a couch with my dad. With my stomach full enough. And I'm in a relaxed state. Even though I have a tiny scrap of toilet paper serving as a blood-soaking tampon placed above a shaving cut. *schplooch*

I just went to the patio area where I was audience to a reggae band and the many dancing to its music. I just sat around and watched a girl, oh, say, fifteen or so dancing—no one else was dancing—who reminded me of a young Lisa Bolduc. This girl was thin enough and wearing a white dress. She had glasses and blonde hair . . . now I know how child molesters work! On that now I'll dissipate my beautiful temperament through some exercise.

It's now Thursday nearing my exit from the island. And be it so I finally went swimming in the ocean where I was tossed around like a ragdoll from the hellstorm of waves crashing around me. I got one suckerpunch wave to the face and I found myself blowing out salty snot. I sat out for a little, trying to tan my back while the parents were snorkeling. I don't like the ocean with its salt and seagulls and unpredictability. I'd rather be in a calm pool with an ambience suitable for conversation. Have you ever talked with someone while swimming in the ocean? It doesn't happen, and its part of the chaotic nature I see in the ocean. Exactly unpredictable.

I once thought I had a good idea of what life is and what it should be, yet seeing the natives' lifestyle throws off my American mainstream thinking. This simple living puts some chaos into my own complex and logical equation. As I see it I'd live a fine life here, being above The Black Man with my white skin and college educated history. I'd be Maitre De of their restaurant. I'd be Maitre De of their restaurant like the man who told me, "Gentlemen must wear collared shirts." That asshole! Speaking of food, my dietary routine is as follows: Breakfast consists of two sugary Sobe energy drinks along with the hotel breakfast of eggs, sausage or bacon, and some toast. That would be around 10 or so, so I'm set until around mid-afternoon when I'll come across a convenience store—I try to get some protein in me. And dinner follows with a disgusting salad of greens I'd find on a Massachusetts lawn but with a $35 main course of fresh fish. I'll usually request a kids meal of chicken fingers (think protein) to be prepared as doggybag for later that night. I'm eating well with no carbohydrates after dinner. (Note: I lost 7 lbs.) It's expensive though; I see that dinner ranges from $30-40.

Just as supper is overpriced so are the rest of the island's sale items in the unkempt stores. I see a fallout shelter of 1990's packaging. Items that have stood out are sugary sodas and one drug scheduled in the U.S., codeine. Along with it comes paracetamol, a research chemical shown to improve concentration. I've parachuted (swallowed, wrapped in tissue) a large dose of it at Justin's apartment but not noticing any effects I dismissed this smart drug as a yuppie waste of money. I once may have purchased a few packs of the drug, but I feel no temptation to see that opiate nod while I'm already located in this vacation hotspot. What's the point? Also I would have paid for the $7.50 drinks at the poolside bar, but I've managed just fine with Diet Pepsi and casual conversation with the black beauty bartender

There's no doubt I'll transcribe this onto my computer as website content. I'm miles away from Windows but I'll still have techie thoughts of what I'm missing on the world wide web—even though I haven't gone through a Wired magazine my parents have brought along. Funny, I once loved technology to the point where I risked freedom, but it seems it's the sort of existence I'm trying to get away from.

I see these t-shirts for sale with the hotel bar advertised. Beneath it says, "Third stool left of sunset," and it strikes me as very fucking stupid, like sitting at a bar is dolled up through romantic language. It's just drinking. It's just fucking drinking. It's like wine tastings; in the end it's just getting liquored up. They'll talk about when and where the purple juice came from, but it's just a way of adding pretty sparkle to what culminates in a buzz. My Movado for example; they don't call it a watch; they call it a "timepiece." I see that lofty thinking used in advertising. It's a fancy viewscope. Advertising decorates our thinking. Advertising has us thinking the type of car we drive is more important than what we're driving to. Think about that one.

So, it's now my last night here and it looks as though I'll not swoon a single sweety, rape a lonely whore, nor coerce a fresh divorcee into bed for some voracious humping. *Jeffrey frowns* And I didn't talk with that young couple enough to proposition them on some kinky threeway action. Thankfully I'm soon getting away to a house with friends—on May 1st—and imminently cozying up with a wonderful woman soon thereafter.

=)

But that means I must pack my personal belongings upon my return home. I need to relocate items of interest to containers suitable for shipping. Can you see why I'm taking a Poetry I class? Have I learned anything while I was here? Nothing comes to mind immediately, but maybe I've been a little more open to the vacation experience. I've talked with many strangers when I wouldn't have in past years. And I didn't watch any television. It seems that I've gotten a well-rounded experience during my stay here. Hell I've soaked up a nice tan while getting out of the country, so what's the fuss?

I'm now at an airport waiting to embark my flight with the first of two Cessna planes to hope around the islands and to a Ft. Lauderdale airport.

And I am now waiting to board a large plane thus embarking the final stage of my voyage. I'm at the busy airport where I see a mass of people, coming and going, and each person busy enough with. . . You know, it's an airport. It's an airport with a Chili's where I sipped three Diet Cokes along with quesadillas. I talked some with my parents about my room furnishings; we talked about my plans for school; we talked about a lot.

I'm sitting at the B3 gate of Ft. Lauderdale Intl. Airport, and I'm looking at a woman who looks frazzled enough from the busy surroundings. She twists her hair. She's kicked off one sandal. And a young boy runs in front of me chasing a soccer ball, with a shrew little voice talking nonsense. Then he gets up with his mother and walks away. I look back to the disturbed woman, but she's gone too.

Testing. Testing. 1 2 3 This is gate B3 of Ft. Lauderdale's Intl. Airport. Our flight is heavily booked with no in-class meal being served. I never care for airplane food. Who cares for airplane food? Our baggage has been x-rayed—just like our shoes—and federal law prohibits the carriage of hazardous materials. A violation can result in five years imprisonment and penalties of $250,000 or more (49 U.S.C. 5124) Have a nice flight!

c April 2006