Going back home: reflections on Negril

Another week in my second home has come and gone. I distinctly remember floating on that neon yellow raft Tuesday afternoon thinking 'this is fantastic, for once a vacation is actually not flying by. We've still got 4 more days here' and then I jinxed myself and someone hit fast forward and I'm waking up to a dreaded alarm at 6:ungodly30 AM Saturday morning stumbling into the shower so I don't smell like a walking drug lord, attracting every police dog at the airport. 

*It feels crucial to note here that smokin the dope stick isn't my jam, however I was at a local beach bar the night before where it was nearly everyone else's jam. And boy does that scent linger in your hair.*

Everyone always asks why I keep going back to Jamaica.... why I don't retire that 1552 mile trek after 8 visits. And sometimes I wonder it myself. Until I walk into the hotel and see Jamaican Husband come running across the patio as he grabs me in his arms. I wonder it until we're walking along the beach and play catch up with so many familiar faces of the locals. Until we're on a boat to go snorkeling and realize one of the crew members is the same one I sat atop the catamaran with 2 years ago soaking up the sun.

So I guess the real reason I keep wanting to go back, is because those strangers have become my family. While there were 16 of us that traveled down there, we really had a group of about double that size that hung out every day. It was nearly impossible to walk more than 10 minutes without seeing someone you knew, playing conversation catch up since the last time you were down in Negril. I don't just vacation in Negril anymore, I go back home to Negril! 

 

Each trip we spend less time at the resort, and more time wandering around "real" Jamaica. Each time I fall more and more in love with that little island country. 

Per usual, airfare scouting for the next trip 'home' has already begun. Until then, it's been real Negril 

The Jamaican Husband Story- Part 3: Mr & Mrs

Aren’t caught up on the Jamaican Hubs story yet? 
Go read Part 1 and Part 2 first!
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Ahh where were we? Oh yea... showing up to a soccer match with a hibiscus for your mister is a guaranteed hook, line & sinker. 

By the time Tuesday evening rolled around we were nearly going steady, atleast in Bachelor/Bachelorette terms we would be. 

 We did all the normal things a blossoming couple does on their first date – had shots poured down our throat as we got off the bus… played raunchy ‘pop-the-balloon-in-a-sexual-position’ games… wandered tipsy’ly through the Margaritaville gift shop arm in arm while convincing “mommy” we were gonna have a “chocolately smooth Jamerican baby”

 

 Ahh. Young love. 

 

When it came time for ring shopping, hubs’ perseverance began to show.  As we wandered through the shops on the beach one sunny afternoon we stumbled upon a table full of rings made from conk shells. Much like Goldilocks, he tried every ring after ring atop that table until finally settling on one that fit my finger. But of course, he was on the clock, so this was between keeping score at a beach volleyball game, and busting out into the clubdance.

But alas, seashell jewelry adorning my finger, we were official. Well, official minus the other things that make a marriage official. You know… the license, the kiss, the consummation part.       Eh minor details.

Much of the day was spent gallivanting around the resort, accepting congratulations from most and the occasional sidelong glance from those who couldn’t take a joke.

We rounded out the week with a trip to a local beach bar, Alfred’s. Arm in arm we enjoyed the sounds of a reggae band, while watching mom get hit on by countless Rastafarians. I don’t think there could have been better entertainment.

I still talk to the hubs nearly every day, a good mix of texting, facebook chatting, skyping or phone calls make for a prospering marriage. Who knows, maybe I’ll even make it back down to Negril to see him one more time before he moves to Canada this fall for performing arts school.

So that, my friends, is the Jamaican Hubs Story. Chelsea + Shadrick = 4eva. Or at least until the next cute girl shows up at the resort!

Oh, and the chocolaty Jamarican baby… mom is still waiting on that one. No doubt in my mind that she will graciously accept another grandchild with open arms!

The Jamaican Husband Story - Part 2 : It's the Little Things

[If you missed part 1 - catch up here!]

I was awoken from my post aerobics nap by someone pulling the earbuds out of my ear.  It was him again. The bouncy Jamaican, not the Italian. “Come on… we’re playing beach volleyball” he said, reaching for my hand. Luckily I was able to talk myself out of that one. Don’t they know my whole point of coming to the beach is to lay on my butt and get a tan?! He stuck out a pouty lip as he popped up off my beach chair and walked off to retrieve the volleyball.

I may have pulled the 'I look like im napping on my belly, but really I've got one eye open watching this volleyball game" trick for a few minutes, until I really did doze off again, but not for long! Both their game and my sun-baking session were cut short as an afternoon shower rolled in. Mom and I packed up our stuff and headed towards the lobby.

During the short bout of ‘liquid sunshine’, mom and I were relaxing in the lobby taking advantage of the wi-fi access when Mr. Shaddy comes strolling through.

"HI MOMMY! HI BOO!" he shouted out when he saw us.
We rerouted him to a chair near us, since he was on his way to play soccer but it was raining, he excitedly asks if we want to play dominoes. I, equally as excited, respond YES! I love dominoes. Love them. The 2nd  time I was in Jamaica we played them nearly every night with the locals at a bar across the street from our resort.

He hopped up out of the chair and bebopped his way out of the lobby (no really, I wish I had video of him walking. He’s so damn peppy all the time.)

About that time, Mom wandered back to the room/bar/bathroom to do something or other, and Shadrick comes back, plops down and asks for my room number. Jokingly I ask if he’s gonna send flowers there, although really he just needed it to ‘check out’ the dominoes set from the resort, the flower joke got legs and turned into a full blown discussion though spanning topics such as how boys like flowers too. Mom appeared back at some point and we started playing.

It only made sense that a small bet was born, and when Shadrick beat me by a few games I jokingly agreed that he would get flowers. After about our 5^th game we had learned that Shadrick is a dancing machine (that explains his constant peppiness) and that he had recently gotten back from Europe where he was on tour as a backup dancer for Beenie Man. By that time, mom was clearly kicking both of our butts in dominoes and the weather had cleared up, that’s when  Shadrick shot me that familiar face. “Come on, come play soccer with me”

Let’s momentarily back up. I’m not really all that athletic of a person, I mean I played softball, did gymnastics and can toss a football… but I’ve always absolutely hated soccer. HATE. No interest in it whatsoever. Except for the mere fact that Chrstiano Ronaldo and David Beckham happen to play that godforsaken sport.


So I did what any soccer-hating chick would do… laughed, and said “I’ll meet you at the field in 5 minutes”.

Imagine my excitement when Mom and I stroll back to our room only to find our bathroom adorned with hibiscus flowers.

I was about to make one Jamiacan gentleman very, very happy – compliments of our maid.


TO BE CONTINUED! [updated : find out part 3 here!]

The Jamaican Husband Story - Part 1 : First Encounters

On our second morning in Negril, as I’m standing with mom waiting on her omelet to finish cooking at the omelet bar a particularly enthusiastic fella comes bebopping his way over to us…

(Borrowed from facespace)

 “Hi mommy!” he spouts out to my mom, and then turns to me with a “you look grumpy”. No shit Sherlock, I just rolled outta bed 10 minutes ago and your happy ass is a bit much for this hour of the morning! “Just a little sleepy still” I sweetly replied back, and flashed my best half smile. “What’s your name?” he asks, and no sooner had my name left my lips did I get the quintessential “ooh like the football team!?”. Yes, yep that’s it. My parents named me Chelsea after a bunch of sweaty ball-kickin men. Precisely.

“I’m Shadrick” he replied, extending a hand. “Chadwick?” I asked? “Shhhadddrrrickkk” he corrected. OOH. GOTCHA I thought to myself. As I watched him throw out a few fancy-footed dance moves in the middle of the restaurant. Bouncy boy.... Stand still please.

“I’m leading beach aerobics in a bit are you going to join??” As if my blank stare didn’t answer his question, he waited eagerly for a response. I held back laughter as a YEA RIGHT came out. He smirked and started to turn away. Not before one more quick look back, and a “haven’t forgotten my name yet have you?” “SHADDDRRIICKKK” I answer.

Shortly thereafter I was finally getting all settled into my beach chair, sunscreen applied, ipod on the perfect playlist when I feel a hand tapping my arm. It’s our second day. I haven’t made any friends yet. Who is bothering me now!?

Damn Italianos. “I’m Roberto… come with me!” I can barely even ask him where before I’m being pulled up outta my lounge chair and into the shallow ocean water. Beach Aerobics. Of course. With SHADDRRICKKKK

Me in the white. Roberto in the blue next to me. Shadrick nice and dry on the sand.

And next thing I know we’re jogging on the beach. Do I look like Bo Derek to you?! Believe me…. they both got their fair share of glares that morning!

After a rough thirty minutes of flailing around in the waves, we all huddle up for a group chant. Because if publicly displaying your out-of-shapeness in front of an entire resort isn’t embarrassing enough, a huddled mass of sweaty folks shouting at the top of their lungs will surely garner some onlookers!

Apparently my bubbly personality, athleticism and grace all impressed SHADDRRICCKKKK though, as that wouldn’t be my last encounter with him that trip. Hook, line and sinker.

TO BE CONTINUED!

(Updated: Part 2)