Jules Nolan

My girlfriend has an extremely difficult task scheduled for this season; a full round of holiday entertaining followed by aging. I recommend that she muddle through the holidays as best she could, and then face this birthday sensibly, as I always have, with sand under her toes and a rum drink in her hand. And so, we are off to Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, to bid farewell to her 30s, strewn across the bow of some sailing vessel - while young men from the islands dash about making sure we are enjoying ourselves. This is not some “Stella’s Groove” trip, but rather two old friends facing the tough times together, weathering the storms of life, with a medicinal dose of steel drum music.

For my birthday of the same magnitude we went to Curacao. It was the fall of last year and I was in a bit of a funk. My favorite pair of jeans, which had comfortably welcomed my backside without complaint for more than a year, had suddenly become disloyal. They were hinting that one of us had better lay off the camembert and chardonnay. What a terrible betrayal right before my 40th birthday. I phoned Suz. “Suz, I’ve got trouble. It’s the pants…….and the birthday……and the new puppy that is coming for Christmas……I don’t think I can take it.”

“Don’t worry honey,” she replied. “There are flip-flops and lobster tails in your immediate future.” And with that we were off to the Caribbean.

The island of Curacao is the “C” of the ABC islands. Located in the Netherlands (Dutch?) Antilles, Curacao is the little-known sister to Aruba and Bonaire. It is a dry, hilly island filled with culture and history and surrounded by amazing coral reefs. The capital city, Willemstad, is lovely with its colorful Dutch architecture. Shop fronts in the sunwashed tropical colors of limes, tangerines and lemonade, line the canal that slices through the city. (or if you want to talk about two parts, are these districts? are there names for the two halves?). Legend has it that Curacao's first governor suffered from migraine headaches that were aggravated by the glare of the bright white houses. He ordered that all residents paint their houses in pastels, resulting in the colorful, quaint city that stands today.

There is a wonderful open-air market where fishermen gather at 4 am to sell their catch, and produce stands offer exotic fruits and vegetables from all over the Caribbean, as well as South America, India and China. We arrived around 10, when most of the fish had been sold and the rest was starting to smell suspicious. This was a carnival for the senses; the heady aromas of ripening mango and pineapple mixed with the spicy odors of cinnamon and peppers, cardamom and cloves. The vendors were fun and generous. They playfully encouraged us to try a taste of this, take a bite of that. I tried lychee fruit for the first time. The sweet, grape-like fruit from southern China burst with juice and dribbled all over my chin. A charming young salesman convinced us to try the boiled peanuts. These delicacies taste exactly as they look - like peanut M&Ms that had been relieved of their chocolate coating by the juicy tongue of a two-year old.

The market also held bizarre and disturbing offerings. A platter, three feet long, proffered pig snouts and ears; skinned rabbits hung from hooks in the ceiling; hand-woven baskets displayed a selection of severed chicken feet. In one section we saw dozens of tables holding bottles filled with every color liquid. When I asked what they were for, each vendor’s reply was the same: A wink, followed by the offer (promise) of “a potion to make your man strong… and interested in love.” (only ever use three ellipses dots ... ) I wondered what the problem must be with the men’s “strength and interest” that so much space was devoted to that issue. Later in the day I met a man named Ecco. He told me that every day of the week, from 4 am until 4 pm, he would sit at this bazaar and shoo the flies off of the platter of severed pig’s heads. Then in the evenings he would butcher the animals for the next day. Enough said –after a day like that I understand the lack of interest.

Our next adventure was taken directly from my personal “100 Things To Do Before I Die” list. I wanted to attend an authentic island “jump up.” During pre-Carnival season (when exactly, month, season?), the local people need to raise money to create the elaborate costumes worn during parades. One way they do this is to hold music festivals or “jump-ups,” which, it turns out, are fund-raisers unlike any I’d ever seen. Several times during the month, thousands of people – primarily native islanders - gather along a parade route and dance down the street for miles behind giant flatbed trucks playing loud music. We bought tee-shirts (essentially our ticket to the event) from a local bartender, and parked ourselves (or, took up our places) by the side of the road somewhere in the middle of the island. (The locals?) began to gather and wait for the flatbeds to pass by. As we understood it when you heard the music you liked best you were to “jump up” and join the crowd behind that band. It was a way of voting for the band -- The truck that had the most followers at the end of the route was the winner and would be featured as the best of Carnival that year.

We waited, somewhat conspicuously, being the only tourists I could see in a sea of local faces. Though we were wearing the same tee-shirts as everyone else, we looked completely different in them. The local women had altered their shirts into halters and dresses and strapless tops. They had re-designed and decorated these regular tee-shirts to some form-fitting sexy frock suitable for a night out at a dance club. Some had hand-sewn sequins all over them. Some had totally discarded the top half of the shirt and were holding it in place with only marabou spaghetti straps and ample bosoms. Women passed by swaying and gyrating down the street in 8 inch heels (and tight shorts?! swaying skirts?), feeling the rhythms like I had never seen. We looked at each other, with our neatly tucked tees, khaki shorts, and shiny, white Reeboks. Suzi shrugged, I shook my head, and we jumped in.

It wasn’t long before we were a sweaty, un-tucked mess, laughing our heads off and trying to follow the dance instructions chanted by the crowd “To da leff, to da leff, to da leff…” The young local girls were struck by the hilarious sight of these two gringas who couldn’t swivel their hips and move forward at the same time. One cluster of pre-teen girls pointed at us and doubled over with laughter. They shimmied up next to us barking instructions. “Like dis ma’am. No, like dis! You gotta move yo bahk side.” We kept up as long as we could, a respectable four miles, and then jumped out. The party, however, showed no sign of waning, and went on for six miles and eight hours. We watched much of it with our "bahk sides" seated in nice stable chairs at a table with cold drinks. .

I turned into a 40 year-old woman on that island; a 40 year-old woman who looks at birthdays less like aging, and more like making progress. And I think on this next trip the locals will be surprised to see just how well I have learned to move my bahk side