What can you write when the first thing you see out of your window on a Monday morning is an expanse of seas surrounded by an orange hue breaking through the dawn darkness? When your hear the water’s rhythmic waves wash up on the shore and slide back down into the ocean, drowning out all but the sound of birds flying nearby? My last memory before going to bed last night was seeing the Caribbean moon light up the night sky and ocean in the distance, and now I see the Caribbean sun peeking trough the clouds to announce the day. This is where we are for our 25th anniversary, an inclusio to this first quarter century that began on another little island halfway around the world called Okinawa and ends on another little island called Jamaica. I cannot help but think about our first year of marriage when I hear the sound of the ocean.
After arriving in Jamaica and picking up our luggage, my first impression of Jamaica is that they are not a purpose-driven people. They have not read the Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
. They do not adhere to project plans, schedules, and deadlines. We got off of the plane and got on the charter bus and had a little problem with the bus driver. After finding the driver sleeping, we boarded the bus and promptly sat for about twenty minutes waiting for, well, we were not exactly sure what. Two other fifty-something ladies had boarded as we had, and we sat on a bus that seated about 40. Marcia asked why we were not leaving, and the driver said he would lose his job if we left. Lose his job if he left? This was an interesting perspective that seems to be at the heart of what it means to be Jamaican. We tried to tell him that we were under the impression that it was his job to leave and take us to the hotel. And this counterintuitive response was all Marcia needed to flip the switch. At that moment she morphed from sweet Southern Illinois farm girl into the Devil Wears a Sundress from New Jersey. She went right after the inertia of Jamaican Bus Driver Mon in Yellow. She got the name of the supervisor and took a trip back into the airport terminal in to the desk where the supervisor sat among about eight people all in bright yellow polo shirts who were also taking it easy. The supervisor was no match; he wilted immediately and told her the bus could leave, especially after Marcia told him she was thinking of giving them a nice write-up on Expedia about her experience. But Bus Driver Mon needed to hear it for himself, so he got up, pulled up his pants--if he had grown up in the U.S. he would have been an offensive lineman for a football team--and ambled inside. He found out he had indeed cleared to leave, and we were on our way within five minutes of when Marcia took charge. This impressed the fifty-somethings.
“Where are you from?” one asked.
“Where do you think?” Marcia said.
“New York.” She didn’t even say it as if she were asking anymore. She just knew that people from New York always end up in charge no matter where they are.
“Yep, well, actually, New Jersey!” Marcia announced.
“Close enough,” the other lady said as the bus rumbled away.
Of our twenty-five years of marriage, I realized that sixteen of them have been spent in New Jersey. We usually tell people we are from Southern Illinois, but in Jamaica, I realized that is not true. Marcia is from New Jersey.
After arriving in Jamaica and picking up our luggage, my first impression of Jamaica is that they are not a purpose-driven people. They have not read the Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
. They do not adhere to project plans, schedules, and deadlines. We got off of the plane and got on the charter bus and had a little problem with the bus driver. After finding the driver sleeping, we boarded the bus and promptly sat for about twenty minutes waiting for, well, we were not exactly sure what. Two other fifty-something ladies had boarded as we had, and we sat on a bus that seated about 40. Marcia asked why we were not leaving, and the driver said he would lose his job if we left. Lose his job if he left? This was an interesting perspective that seems to be at the heart of what it means to be Jamaican. We tried to tell him that we were under the impression that it was his job to leave and take us to the hotel. And this counterintuitive response was all Marcia needed to flip the switch. At that moment she morphed from sweet Southern Illinois farm girl into the Devil Wears a Sundress from New Jersey. She went right after the inertia of Jamaican Bus Driver Mon in Yellow. She got the name of the supervisor and took a trip back into the airport terminal in to the desk where the supervisor sat among about eight people all in bright yellow polo shirts who were also taking it easy. The supervisor was no match; he wilted immediately and told her the bus could leave, especially after Marcia told him she was thinking of giving them a nice write-up on Expedia about her experience. But Bus Driver Mon needed to hear it for himself, so he got up, pulled up his pants--if he had grown up in the U.S. he would have been an offensive lineman for a football team--and ambled inside. He found out he had indeed cleared to leave, and we were on our way within five minutes of when Marcia took charge. This impressed the fifty-somethings.“Where are you from?” one asked.
“Where do you think?” Marcia said.
“New York.” She didn’t even say it as if she were asking anymore. She just knew that people from New York always end up in charge no matter where they are.
“Yep, well, actually, New Jersey!” Marcia announced.
“Close enough,” the other lady said as the bus rumbled away.
Of our twenty-five years of marriage, I realized that sixteen of them have been spent in New Jersey. We usually tell people we are from Southern Illinois, but in Jamaica, I realized that is not true. Marcia is from New Jersey.