There's Nothing Special About You

 

As the Regular Assistant to the Chancellor dies a little inside...

This Post is Explicit, Bitches

            I’m not much for acronyms.  I’d attribute that to a woefully dreadful job at one of the most tightly micromanaged corporations ever.  (If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about.)  Also, Facebook.  Facebook has ruined whatever redeeming qualities acronyms ever possessed.  So a combination of prolonged exposure to confusing overuse and unbearable misuse has left me with this knee-jerk negative reaction to most acronyms.

            That is not to say I don’t routinely (and enthusiastically) use the terms being substituted by the more commonly used acronyms.  And I don’t mean that I phonetically say the acronym—that is ludicrous.  Seriously.  That.  Is.  Ludicrous.  Why do people do that?

            By “more commonly used,” of course I’m referring to the WTFs and FMLs.  Often I find myself LMFAO, but since I don’t narrate my own non-verbal actions in real life quite as frequently as on Facebook, I don’t actually say, “laughing my fucking ass off!”  I just do… metaphorically.

            More than ever I’ve found the full-version abbreviations come out while I’m in Grenada.  Why?  Because the sorts of experiences you have in Grenada are so profoundly unexpected, your otherwise sharp mind is reduced to sawdust and you just say the first coherent statement that encompasses your dismay: What the fuck?

            The problem is America did not prepare me for Grenada.  Not at all.  Shame on America in all of its grande macchiato, $0.99 bargain bin, refunds with a smile, recognizable snack aisle, McFlurry, four-lane highways, even sidewalks, responsible pet owners, legal mace and adult toy store glory!  So I came to my foster home island with this bizarre idea that communication was a two-way street.

            This is a basic interaction you might expect when going to New York’s Finest Bagels on campus (some slight hyperbole included… for no charge!):

Hi!  Do you have deli cheese?

We have cheese.

Okay.  Do you have provolone?

No provolone.

Okay.  Do you have mozzarella?

No.

How about cheddar?

[nod]

Okay.  Do you have yellow or white?

[nod]

Great!  Can I have a quarter-pound of yellow cheddar?

No.

No?

No yellow.

Uh.  Okay.  What do you have?

Cheddar.

Right.  Do you have white cheddar, then?

[nod]

Let me get a quarter-pound of that.

No.

What?  Why?

Can’t sell a quarter-pound.

How about a half-pound?  Can you sell a half-pound?!

[nod]

Great.

[blank stare]

How much?

[mumble]

I’m sorry?

[incoherent] Monkey paw.

Wait.  How much?

No cheddar.

What are you talking about?

Sold out.

But you just said—

We’re closed.

You’re 24 hours!

Next!

            I’ve been here long enough that I’m starting to wonder if that is a normal conversation.  Maybe my turning and walking away dazedly, stringing what-the-fucks around me like Christmas tree lights is the wrong reaction.  Maybe, in Grenada, I just made a friend.  My response probably should’ve been a high five.  Do they high-five here?

            IMHO, IDK.  Prob, but TIG.  I mean, YOLO, k?  LOLs!

Buffy

Complacency in Grenada: You will Submit

            Grenada is not a country of great wealth.  Generally speaking, almost every local you meet is in some descending state of poverty.  With rampant destitution comes a definite lack of consumerism and demand.  This is basic economics, right?  It’s for this very reason that, at some point during your stay, you will need (define need) something that you simply cannot attain on the island.  If you are anything like the thousands of others before you, you will need many things that you won’t find on the island.  Of course the obvious reason for this—as alluded to above—is general supply and demand.  There’s not sufficient demand for many of the convenience and leisure items you’d like.  (Again, walk around Grenada, then define need.)

            So what happens when a small and temporary fraction of an impoverished country’s residents want and expect items or services that aren’t available?  Said fraction becomes petulant, defiant, and vengeful before finally fizzling out into reluctant complacence.

            Read this and think all that you want that you won’t ask for anything that isn’t available.  You will happily settle into the “simpler life” (how quaint that sounds before you’ve tried it) without complaint.  You will complain.  You will have one horrid, wretched day and want only one simple item—something, you’ll longingly remember, was carried at every convenient store back home—and it will not be anywhere on the island.  Then you’ll become the petulant, defiant, vengeful person you knew you would never become.

            Here’s the good news: you’ll get over it.  And you’ll become complacent.  Like all the other sheep that do their time here in Grenada, you’ll be defeated so much that you’ll stop recognizing the defeat and just start shrugging and saying cute little soliloquies like This is Grenada or What are you going to do or I guess that’s just how it goes here.  It’s not like you really needed that specific prescription medicine, right?  Whoops!  This is Grenada!

            The items that you can get your hands on are typically not offered by more than a couple vendors and those vendors are not usually right next to each other.  So, say you’re back home and you’re shopping at K-Mart.  Your favorite scent of body wash is available, but instead of buying it, you’re going to walk next door to Wal-Mart to see if it’s carried there for a lower price.  In Grenada, your favorite scent has never been available.  In fact, the only store in a ten-mile radius that carries body wash may only have two on the shelf (bottles, that is, not scents) and if you’re lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time and grab one, you will pay twice as much for half the quantity and the cashier will give you so much attitude, you’ll wonder, despite knowing better, if you’d done something to offend her.  After the worst service in your life, instead of vowing to never return, you’ll keep coming back every week because you have no alternatives.  And what’s worse—if you get that cashier again, to try to avoid her nasty attitude, you’ll be embarrassingly gracious and overly generous.  And she’ll still be sneering at you the whole time.  But, I guess that’s just how it goes here.

Buffy

You Drive Me Crazy, Grenada

A word on driving customs in Grenada: F&%#

Or, okay. Maybe it's more like three words, starting with the letters W.T.F. First of all, if you are planning to get a car in Grenada, please see the very helpful and basic tips for driving which are located on the awesome SO's of SGU website.

Unfortunately, not many of the local drivers that I've encountered on this picturesque island paradise seem to have read this very helpful post. Or if they have, they laughed it off and then continued about their way of driving like vehicular manslaughter is some kind of epic drinking game.

Especially not the parts about honking as a friendly greeting as opposed to a "Hurry the #%$ up, because you're only going ten km/hr over the speed limit instead of twenty" signaling device.

Or the part about the hand signals. The one that looks like a one-winged goose can sometimes mean "go around me, I'm having a nice chat with this lovely teenage girl by the side of the highway" and sometimes it seems to mean "don't go around me, because my buddy Alvin is running to catch up with us from three blocks down the road and you might run him over." Or sometimes, it could mean "hey my armpits are a little sweaty."

Or the part where "L" stands for Learner. But it ALSO stands for "Look the #%$& out, because who the hell knows what those crazy kids are going to do in any given situation." (Like drive into the ditch next to KFC when they're supposed to be parallel parking, for instance.)

At any rate, I find myself using a lot of really colorful words when driving in Grenada. But that's nothing compared to the black streak I used to swear as a pedestrian after nearly being run down by Reggae Buses and random motorists. And I don't care what any website says, I DO NOT WANT TO BE RUN DOWN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD LIKE A STRAY GOAT. Period.

Also, don't ever expect the taxis or RB's to give you right of way. Ever.

Once again, you're welcome.

Cordelia

Happy F@#*$% Holidays

For those of you who are from pretty much anywhere except California, the "spirit" of various holidays is very heavily dependant on weather.

Spring brings to mind images of mint green baby grass, pastel painted eggs and Easter baskets...

Summer means hot dogs, camping, and bar-b-ques...

Fall means sweaters, spices, scary movies and cups of hot cocoa enjoyed by the window as the leaves fall or the rain beats against the window...

And Winter, well, we all know what that usually means. Pine trees, snowmen, candy canes and Christmas Cheer. Or Hanukkah cheer, if you prefer. Maybe even Kwanzaa cheer. What-the-f@#%-ever, cheer is cheer. (And don't ask me why that's highlighted, because I have no idea.)

But in Grenada, there are only two major seasons: the "I'm going to melt into a puddle of sweat" season, and the "it's so f#@%ing hot, I can't even bring myself to put on underwear" season.

In case you were wondering, neither of these are particularly conducive to ANY kind of cheer, but especially not the Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa kind.

Which brings me to my point: there is no such thing as "Happy Holidays" in Grenada. You can dress up for Halloween if you want. You can make all the sugar cookies your nostalgic little heart desires. You can sing carols, watch all of your favorite holiday movies... you can even try escaping to a nearby island for a couple of weeks in December. But it won't ever feel as fun and festive as it does back home. No matter how much rum-laced eggnog you drink.

Here in Grenada, you won't see fresh-faced youngsters going door to door and asking for candy. But you will see kids at the supermarket, begging affluent-looking strangers to buy them a snack. You won't hear the holiday carols you've come to love, but you'll hear the bastardized Caribbean version of ditties like "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bells," with all-new lyrics about beer and palm trees, laid over a fat reggae beat. Are you a fan of Nicki Minaj or Ke$ha? Just WAIT until you hear "Smack yo b#@% for Christmas," to the tune of "the Little Drummer Boy."

If you're anything like me, you'll take a long look around and decide to pretend like it's June all year round. Or, if you're feeling particularly bitter, you can pretend to convert to one of those religions that ignores festive events (i.e. Halloween, Christmas, Birthdays) altogether. Either way, it's going to be a joyless couple of months.

Because "the Holidays" also mean "Obnoxious American Tourist Season" (aka Cruise Ship Season) in Grenada.

You're f#@%ing welcome.


Cordelia

Day Drinking and Other Worthy Pursuits

There will come a point, usually a few weeks in--or maybe months, if you've managed to distract yourself well enough--when you'll suddenly realize that all of this is your life. It's real. It's happening. Not for weeks, or months. But years. And you can't escape it.

Ever  heard of the Five Stages of Grief? Well these are the Five Stages of Grenada:

1. Confusion. Shortly after arriving to the island, your senses will be water boarded by a host of strange new things. Sights, sounds, smells, and of course there's the godawful, sweat-drenching and soul-sucking heat. For possibly the first time in your life, you'll be feeling completely out of your element, far-removed from whatever comfort zone you usually call "home." I don't care if you're from the U.S. or Canada or India. Dorothy, you ain't in Kansas anymore.

2. Irritation. Once you start to understand the daily workings of your new socio-economic and geographic environment, you'll probably be pretty pissed. No, the garbage doesn't always get picked up when they say it will. No, the local market will not always have the basic things that every market you've ever shopped at seems to have (such as milk, eggs, marshmallows, etc.). And no, drivers will not brake for pedestrians when they're crossing the street.

3. Counting. Unlike the "bargaining" step of the grief process, you're a Grenadian housewife, and so you essentially have nothing to trade. Your power and autonomy is so limited, sometimes you'll feel like Blanche DuBois, constantly relying on the kindness of strangers. Or, in this case, the begrudging tolerance of strangers. Impotent and embittered, you'll simply lock yourself away and begin counting the days... trying to brainstorm ways to make them pass by more quickly. Drinking helps.

4. Fantasizing. Eventually, your conscious mind will stop occupying itself with thoughts of eventual escape. Instead, you'll begin to idealize everything around you. The fruit is the freshest in the world. The children are the cutest. The roving packs of stray dogs are hilarious, and the uninsulated shack you live in is simply charming and rustic. Like Russel Crowe in A Beautiful Mind, you might even start to hallucinate some awesome new friends. It's not wrong, just slightly worrisome in a psychological sense.

5. Acceptance / Extraction. We see it all the time. At the end of the road, there really are only two options. No matter how tough the circumstance or uncomfortable the choice, you have to accept the life you've been given. Or you can leave. We see a small handful of people every term, fleeing back to their homeland with their metaphorical tail tucked between their legs. I, for one, have a hard time rationalizing this kind of premature exodus. But I do understand it. And on some basic level, I am jealous. But not jealous enough to leave the most important person in my life alone in Grenada.

In case you were wondering, I'm currently living in Stage 3.

You're welcome.

Cordelia

The Language of Grenada is English(-ish)

            People will ask you what language they speak here (the use of the term “they” and “those people” forevermore replacing the more polite, yet also more stuffy, term “Grenadians”).  After explaining your move to the West Indies, you are somehow understood to be an expert in all matters Grenadian and, instead of researching the country themselves, your friends and family nod enthusiastically as you regurgitate your Internet findings, with the air of someone who genuinely knows what they’re talking about: the primary language is English, though some residents still use a patois.  (Don’t forget to raise your eyebrows and draw out the last syllable of patois to really emphasize how charmingly foreign it all is.)  Maybe you really wring out the benefits of your research and add the little bit about a slight “lilting Caribbean accent” on that spoken English.

            When you get to Grenada, you’re going to have a hard time understanding the immigration officer, but you’ll get by.  You’ll turn red and get flustered because you don’t know if you’re answering his questions properly, but can only ask him to repeat himself so many times before your guilt forbids you from asking again and you just smile awkwardly.  He is so used to that awkward smile and the bewilderment, he’s not even fazed, though.  You’ll get through immigration relatively easily.

            Next you’ll come to customs and you’re going to have a harder time understanding the customs officer, but she’s also accustomed to being misunderstood and after repeating herself a handful of times, will just pantomime the rest of the process.  You, like a monkey eagerly learning charades, will remove your laptop, read off the serial number, pretend that you don’t own another electronic device, save that one computer, and pay your duty.

            By the time you get out of the airport, you’re probably feeling pretty good.  Sure, there’s that “lilting Caribbean accent,” but you can navigate through it to isolate the familiar English language that you’re used to.  You maybe start to think that you’ve got more sensitive hearing than others or an emerging ability to understand English, even through the thickest accents.

            You know that sound when Pac-Man dies?  That’s the sound your ego’s going to make the first time you jump on a reggae bus and a local attempts to engage you in conversation.  The immigration officer?  The customs officer?  Even the locals employed by the school?  They all have an uncanny ability of slowing their speech and adopting your accent to make you feel more comfortable and them seem more comprehensible.

            Unfortunately, you are bound to run into someone who doesn’t have experience chatting with foreigners and as soon as you realize you’re locked in a conversation with one of them, you’re going to go full-out Blank Stare on them.  At some point that conversation is going to lead to a question and the very pregnant pause that follows will be filled with little more than your soundless gaping.  If you’re lucky enough, you’ve got a friend standing next to you, with whom you can exchange looks of panic.  If you’re not that lucky, you’re just going to end up answering out of obligation.  And you’re going to answer incorrectly.

            The Caribbean accent renders the local English language virtually unintelligible.  If two Grenadians are within earshot and carrying on a conversation that you are not meant to be a part of, you will not understand more than the syncopated rhythm of their words and the almost lyrical pattern of their sentences.  Beyond this, you will know nothing.

            You may have heard that these people like to use words like de, ting, dis, tirsty, in place of words like the, thing, this, thirsty.  You may be able to reassemble words that are phonetically distinguishable as English-ish, like, hoos-waf is housewife and aim g’wan is I am going.  But once you string a whole mouthful of these words together, you will swear, up and down, that it is no form of English you’ve ever come across.

            The issues with translation (because that’s what all of this comes down to) is the lack of time necessary to dissect everything said until you’re sure you know what’s being asked of you.  Confusion and misunderstanding can lead to uncomfortable situations.  The guy that just screamed, “Welcome to fucking paradise!” may have actually just yelled to a friend, “We’ll come if the party is nice!” or, if his accent was particularly thick and you’re particularly paranoid, perhaps he just called out, “Where’s de kitty?”  Maybe.  You never know.  And that’s the moral of the story.

Buffy