ETA: Undetermined

I’ll never forget the day that I travelled to DJ and Meg’s Casa del Carp in the Caribbean, trading coats, scarves, and chapped lips for sundresses, bikinis, and uneven burns. After two extensive TSA searches and roughly four hours in the air, it looks as if the plane will swoop into the water, a gargantuan metallic seagull set against green mountains and glinted sea.

The Cyril E. King airport operates on one asphalt runway, the exit ramp a small set of steps that lead outside. An orange coned path leads to two Cruzan Bay sirens who allure happy voyagers with free shots of rum and a legal drinking age of eighteen: Welcome to Paradise.

I admire the nautical beauty of St. Thomas and my first cocktail, hardly noticing the scaly, mohawked iguana ready to pounce for my pineapples and melon. Thankfully, an older man engrossed in a book sets it down to rescue me. He flicks sand at the lizard, and it scurries off. I wonder if that’s how the locals feel toward tourists. Am I an iguana they want to flick sand at?

St. T thrives on tourism. Most shops close when the last cruise ship leaves the bay, and as my brother gives me a tour of the different areas–Charlotte Amalie, West End, Havensight, Red Hook–he explains that crime rates skyrocket as the sun descends.

I’m again reminded of the iguana when we see The Desolation of Smaug at Caribbean Cinemas. The stern, dark West Indies woman at the box office glares at me when I purchase my tax-free $5 ticket. DJ explains that it is customary on the island to greet service workers with Good morning! or Good night! before any business transaction. The woman recognizes me as another disrespectful continental; I am the criminal.

I recall this when I purchase $14 round-trip tickets for the ferry to St. John, where I grab a bite to eat at the crowded Beach Bar and join DJ and Meg’s youth group at Sail Safaris. A light drizzle and icy wind make the ride back to St. T uncomfortable but not unbearable. I’m mesmerized at the sight of sailboats and dinghies in the distance, a silhouetted armada against the cool violet horizon.

At Drake’s Seat, I remember this armada. I imagine its 1570. Sir Francis next to me, we exchange crude jokes and shots of rum as we eye the bay for pirated ambush. But Sir Drake is not here. It’s me and many more tourists, and the pirate ships in the distant waters are Carnival cruise ships.

My first vacation outside of the continental US, I decide that maybe I am a pesky iguana, but the fruit is delicious.