I could’ve easily spent my entire time in Paris strolling through the extensive world class museums with my rainy day mix playing through my headphones. But I hardly even scratched the surface because the weather was too perfect not to be getting lost outside. Oh and that whole “I have no money” thing was a minor factor. But I did make it a point to check out the Louvre and Musée Rodin, and make the trek out to the Palace of Versailles.
The Louvre was majestic. The perfect architecture was complemented by the perfect landscaping. The interior was like a fairytale palace adorned with pieces only fabled in the art history books of my college years.
Really, the Louvre was just Louvrely. Okay I apologize for the cheese. I’m done writing. Forever. Actually no, that’s a total lie. But I’ll spare you the lame puns and share some pics.
What a Louvrely tree!I want to slide down that glass so badOh this interior garden area was disgustingly ugly, clearlyWhen I build a house I’m going to make the front entrance like thisCupid’s Kiss (aka second base)Turning the corner and seeing this literally took my breath away. Without a doubt my favorite piece I’ve ever seen in any museum, ever.So beautifulSize doesn’t matter in the art worldFinally pushed my way to the front for a picA semi-awkward pic of me outside of the Louvre
On my last day in Paris we were trying to dodge the intermittent showers by hiding out in museums so we bought a pass for admission to the Rodin Museum and the Marmottan Monet Museum. I just wish we hadn’t stopped for cheese and whiskey in between because we ended up getting to the Monet Museum four minutes after the last admission. And there was no refund. Fail.
The ThinkerRoses in the gardens at the Rodin Museum
The Gates of HellReally awesome use of mirrors hereI can almost hear a screamMonet!These expressions are mildly frightening but fully awesomeLooks like more than just a kiss to me…The Thinker
One particularly warm day we jumped on the RER and headed out to Versailles. The palace was almost overwhelming with its elegance. It was ridiculously ornate and as expected, absolutely gorgeous. After touring the inside I highly recommend renting a bicycle and biking the gravel pathways for the afternoon. Just don’t do it in a short dress like I did.
For a second I questioned whether or not I was actually dead and standing at the gates of HeavenLaying in the grass after a sweaty bikerideThe pristine landscaping at the Palace of VersaillesEndless windows and plenty of natural light, no big dealA little bummed that we didn’t catch a fountain showWardrobe malfunctionThese made me hungry for BBQ ribsThe massively gawdy yet beautiful Hall of MirrorsChandelier in the Hall of Mirrors
I’ve heard tons of stories from my friends who’ve supposedly gone to Paris and lived off wine and bread for something ridiculous like $3 a day. So even with the shitty USD to Euro conversion rate I wasn’t too worried about going to Paris without much more than a Sub Club card in my wallet. Well I’d like to know where the hell they were getting their wine and bread, because it definitely wasn’t that cheap for me.
To say I was on a tight budget would be an understatement. I had no budget. Technically I couldn’t afford to spend a single dollar so the majority of my trip was spent touring the city by foot. I didn’t get to experience nearly as much food as I’d wanted, and the one time I did “splurge” on a steak dinner it tasted like a freezer burnt patty of mystery meat. Fail. Breakfast was almost always a pain au chocolat and orange juice. Lunch was a ham and cheese sandwich or Croque Monsieur, and dinner was usually a bottle glass of red wine and a banana and Nutella crepe. Yes, I missed out on the perfectly prepared fish, steamed mussels and endless cheese plates. But that just gives me a reason to go back!
Mmm Croque MonsieurI don’t think the French take home leftovers. Thankfully the waiter was able to dig up this container for my broke, fat assA mediocre cheese plate that was made worse by pairing it with an Irish WhiskeySidewalk wineMy last meal, au revoir Paris!
I never even thought twice about hitting the pavement from sunup to well past sundown because I could literally spend days on end gawking at the architecture around Paris. Everywhere you look, gothic style. Flying buttresses. Pointed arches. Prime photographic opportunities. No matter which way you turn there’s something to look at.
I want to live hereBeauty of epic proportions
I was completely content with just playing tourist the entire time I was in Paris. Notre Dame, The Louvre, Champs-Élysées, the Seine River, biking at Versailles. Every day was filled with gorgeous sites. I won’t bore you with the tourist info that you can find on just about any other site, but I will say that even the most touristy sites in Paris still maintain a touch of class. Take note, USA!
Couples. Everywhere.I couldn’t figure out how to dodge past that constant flow of traffic to get to the Arc de Triomphe…Autumn in Paris. And the infamous metro signs.The lovely Luxembourg Gardens. Give me a good book and I could stay here all day. Like this guy.Strolling down the brick road along the Seine RiverI would be honored to live under this bridgeI felt like I was in an Adele videoThe view was totally worth the climb up the spiral staircase of Notre DameHow can you not love this city?Sacré Coeur at nightMoulin RougeI’d also be plenty happy living right here too
I had an epiphany in Paris. I realized that I absolutely love Gargoyles. Seeing them keeping a watchful eye on the city from the top of Notre Dame was mystifying. Their faces are oddly realistic and they give off this vibe like they’re about to jump to life and start shrieking in a Tales From the Crypt manor.
Sacré Coeur in the distanceMy favorite juxtapositionThe scariest Gargoyle of them all
For the first half of my trip I was paying $50/night for a room in an apartment that I found on airbnb. It was in the trendy sixth arrondissement, and there was another New Yorker, Mike, renting out a second bedroom in the same apartment. One night we went out on Rue des Canettes, a small side street where you can get drunk and fill up on pizza and crêpes without walking more than 10 steps. Does it get any better than that? We went into Comptoir des Canettes for a glass of wine and to check out the cave-like windowless basement, but left before dying of suffocation. We did a bit of bar hopping after that, everything from pubs to dance clubs, meeting tons of locals and toursits along the way. I don’t know what I expected, but it was almost weird how natural it felt to be in these establishments.
This was right before I was scolded for taking wine outsideMike and I taking a break at some super loud club. I felt oldThis Parisian Jerome and I suffered severe language barriers
“Aimer et être aimé sera la grande affaire de toute notre vie.” -Rousseau
Paris. The city of romance. My first day in Paris started out just like a fairytale. A newly single, blonde American girl sits down at a sidewalk cafe. Within minutes, straight out of your favorite “that doesn’t happen in real-life” romantic comedy, there’s a glass of red wine on the table from the dark-haired French man inside. Before you know it he’s sitting beside her at the cozy, romantic table for two, as she listens to the deep tones of the romance language infused with broken English. That free glass turns into an entire bottle, then another, while gazing out at the Eiffel Tower. Sounds romantic doesn’t it?
Hardly.
The man who’d sent me a drink wasn’t exactly a Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds look-alike. Or even a “more my type” David Duchovny or Jon Hamm look alike.
My uninvited date
Now I don’t speak much French, but the language of creep is internationally understood. And there was nothing romantic about having absolutely no idea what the hell he was saying since he didn’t speak a word of English. Especially since he couldn’t understand the fact that I had no idea what the hell he was saying. He looked like he was involved in a serious conversation of head nods with my simple attempt at stringing together “Je suis désolé, je ne sais pas” and “Je parle anglais.” Each time I tried to excuse myself the glass was refilled, and I’m not one to say no to free red wine. So I ate dinner, drank wine, and feigned interest in deciphering francophone tongue (no, not the good kind/making out).
My simple but delicious early dinner
Once the bottle was empty I managed to escape with a respectable buzz. I’d planned on spending this perfect Parisian date night with myself, the Eiffel Tower, and some good music so I raced back to the lawn. I staked my ground to the tune of Eric Clapton and watched the light of the sky disappear behind the glow of the Eiffel Tower in a moment of pure drunken happiness.
I didn’t know the Eiffel Tower could get any more beautiful—until the lights turned on
It wasn’t long until I was cursing my afternoon alcohol binge. Drinking would be so much better if it didn’t have to seek revenge on your bladder. My heart wanted to stay on that lawn all night. But unfortunately my shotglass-sized bladder would only allow me to do so with wet pants. So I gathered my things and started making my way back to the apartment before realizing two things: 1- I would never make it all the way to the apartment with dry underwear, and 2- I had absolutely no idea where the apartment was. So I set out to relieve the more imminent problem at the nearest café. Everything was closed.
I made my way back to the place I had lunch and thankfully they were still inside closing up. Apparently the guy who’d been giving me free drinks was a friend of the bartender so there was a group of 5 men slamming some after hour cocktails. I banged on the door in panic and luckily they remembered me. The bartender opened the door and the creepy fellas offered me their drinks. I tried a combination of using the word “bain” and holding my crotch while crossing my legs to convey the urgency of my need to pee. It worked, and I went in the back to take the most amazing urination ever experienced by mankind.
When I came out the drunk men tried getting me to stay for a drink. I told them no and thanked them for letting me use the bathroom. But they insisted. When I tried to walk away they pulled me back and handed me a drink. I set it down and turned away once again. One guy got in my way and offered me another drink. They weren’t at all forceful, but rather cheerful and well, wasted. But I’m not a fan of large men trying to hold me somewhere against my will. The bartender sensed this, smacked two of the mens’ arms out of the way and escorted me out with a smile on his face. I waved goodbye, and navigated my way back to the apartment rather successfully.
L’Hôtel national des Invalides on my journey back to the apartment
I’m not gonna lie. There was a brief moment inside that bar where I was wishing that my dad was Liam Neeson. But that moment of concern passed quickly when I remembered that I had finally seen the Eiffel Tower.
The Eiffel Tower. One of the most iconic structures in the world. To some it’s a symbol of romance, to others a structural eyesore. To me, well, I’d been waiting for longer than I can remember to see the iron beauty. I’ve had a longstanding fascination with bridges so Eiffel’s bridge-building influence in creating this glorious tower is the kind of design I love. I could stare at the thing all day long. And I did.
For years I’d tried planning my first international trip to Paris. But as life goes, things kept happening and the trip never happened. So I promised myself that as soon as I got my first real job the first place I was going on vacation would be Paris. So for years I’ve had these reoccurring dreams where I’d travel to Paris but right when I’d turn a corner to get a peak at the Eiffel Tower, something would happen. Either I’d wake up, the helicopter I was in would crash, the city would blow up, someone continuously averted my attention in some other direction, or I just couldn’t find it. I never once got to see the Eiffel Tower in my dreams. I always took this as a sign that I may never see the Eiffel Tower in real life.
On September 6th I took a morning train into Gare du Nord from London. I was determined to keep my eyes glued to the scenery of the French countryside until the Eiffel Tower appeared in the distance. That way just in case I was murdered or “taken” (cue Liam Neeson) on the way to the place I was staying, or a nuclear bomb was dropped on the city, I would have at least died after seeing the Eiffel Tower. I couldn’t bare the thought that I would have traveled all the way to Paris only to have it end just like my dreams. But since I’m like an infant aboard any moving vehicle, I fell asleep on the train and missed the entire ride.
I woke up at Gare du Nord and made my way to the metro, jumping on for a short ride to the place I was staying on Rue de Grenelle. It was only about 4pm so I dropped my bags off and immediately set out for an evening with one simple yet daunting goal in mind: see the Eiffel Tower.
I walked down Rue de Grenelle and up Rue Des Saints-Pères before running into the oh-so-romantic Seine River. With no GPS and too excited to plan ahead, I wasn’t entirely positive where I was going, but I took an educated guess and started walking E/NE. About 20 minutes later I was freaking out. Why could I not see the Eiffel Tower standing out above the rest of the city? Had it spontaneously combusted while I was on my journey? Was I much further away from it than I thought?
Then, it appeared. The tip of the Eiffel Tower. It was unreal. That moment of seeing it for the first time and just walking towards it as more and more of it emerged, until finally I was at the base, staring up.
So here’s my ode to the Eiffel Tower. A series of photographs I took of the beauty herself. No more words are necessary.
And switching it up a bit, the gorgeous view from the tower.
Who would’ve thought that my favorite part of London would have absolutely nothing to do with the city itself? On my last night in town we went to a Ghana and Brazil football match at the Fulham Football Club.
I’ve been to my fair share of concerts. That’s pretty much all I did from age 14-19. I’ve been in the mosh pits trying to prove that girls are just as tough as guys. I’ve spent sizzling afternoons squished against the front row barricades and sweaty, overweight, BO-reaking men in the 100+ degree heat at Ozzfest in the middle of July. I’ve been pushed to my knees and had my face squeezed against a barricade through an entire four-minute song. I’ve been squeezed into the crowd at a Rage Against The Machine reunion tour so tight that you think you actually start to feel your ribs cracking one by one (which is weird consideirng there’s no room to take a proper breath large enough to expand your lungs and snap your ribs in the first place). Well the crowd OUTSIDE of the arena waiting to get in for this Ghana vs. Brazil match was even worse. I was 5’2” in a sea of 6’+ men stemming from Africa (I’d assume since we were on the Ghana side).
The game was intense. That’s a huge reason why I love football, the passion. The fans were constantly roaring and stomping their feet to the point where I started to question how sturdy the seats were.
We had pretty good seats, I just wish I had a better lens. That’s something I need to invest in soon. Right after I take [another] photography class to learn how to use my camera a little bit better.
The view from our seatsI should’ve gone streaking
In the end Brazil took the 1-0 win, making me wish I were on the other side with all the celebrating fans and Latin men. The overall experience was comparable to a hockey game, and only solidified my feelings that I need to move to a country that appreciates football a bit more than the USofA.
The only thing on my London must-do list was going out to Abbey Road for the ultra cliche Beatles pic. I woke up excited but pretty bummed that it was raining. I debated not going at all but I knew I’d regret it later. Besides, it was a light rain. It’d clear up, right?
When we got off the train at St. John’s Wood it was like a monsoon walking up Grove End Road. The grey skies had been sprinkling all morning but this was just cruel. There was me, at a vertically challenged 5’2” tall, walking with my friend Jonathan who is over 6’ tall. I was the only one with an umbrella and of course my “I’m way too nice for my own good” self felt bad, so I let him carry it so he could stay dry as well. Note to all other short people: never let someone who is a foot taller than you carry the umbrella because it will do you absolutely no good. I was soaked.
We reached the intersection that we may have otherwise passed up had we not seen other tourists dodging across the street in between traffic. There’s no light at this intersection. And if you wait for traffic to completely let up you’ll never get your shot. You just kind of have to go when you get a sort of chance and hope that the cars slow down and let you take your dorky picture. Every time this happens a line of people gather on either side, and just when there’s a break in traffic the designated photographers run out into the street and the line of walkers begin walking across the street. Stopping, posing, and then onward. But common sense would tell you that you can’t go too close to the person ahead of you otherwise you’ll ruin their shot. Like some chick did to me on my first walk.
Then of course once I felt we had enough shots, I had to re-do it once again with my shoes off like Paul.
Greg was standing around watching from under his umbrella and I kept making Jonathan run out between cars and snap more photos. I wish it hadn’t been such a shitty day so we could’ve gotten some better shots, but if I made him take any more pics I would’ve had to start paying him. I did what I could to horribly Photoshop together this little gem:
Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to go back out there and take some better photos. Until then, I’m happy knowing that I’ve walked in John, Paul, George and Ringo’s footsteps.
I always told myself that as soon as I got my first big girl job, I was buying a plane ticket and jetting off to Paris for my first vacation. So I set out to make that happen. And when I found out that a coworker was going to be working abroad in London for a couple of months during the same time, I jumped on the chance to stop and see what London was all about along the way.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was just ending a five-year relationship and moving the accumulated remains of three years of cohabitation into a place that was nearly twice the price of my previous rent. Plus that up-front cost of three month’s rent wasn’t friendly on the wallet for a girl with no safety net. Then the weekend I had planned to move (five days before heading out of the country for ten days), Hurricane Irene set out to destroy NYC, trapping my ex and I in our tiny one bedroom apartment that was brimming with tension, packed with boxes upon boxes of shit.
Wall-to-wall crap in my UES apartment
I ended up moving on a weeknight after work, just days before I headed to Heathrow. The previous roommate hadn’t moved out yet, so I dumped all of my shit in the living room and crashed on the couch for a few nights. I packed my bags and set out for the UK, leaving a mess of boxes in the living room for my new roommates to push into the bedroom once it was empty. I bet I made a horrible first impression on my new roomies.
All my shit in the living area of my new apartmentThe state of my bedroom that I came back to. Full of boxes and no bed
Putting my messy New York life on hold, I set out on a Friday evening redeye to London for a long weekend. I’d like to think of my 72 hours in London as sort of a tease. I stayed in East Putney, so most nights were spent heading back early before the trains stopped running. I got to see some of the main tourist attractions, but I really feel like I missed out on the heart of London culture. I didn’t even have fish and chips while I was there. I did, however, have sushi. And steak. And beer.
Tuna and salmon goodnessMmm…steak and Hollandaise SauceI’m a sucker for sweets
Let me preface this story with another: Thanksgiving day in 2010 I went to see the Jets play and ended up sitting next to a lonesome Brit from Bristol named Greg. We chatted throughout the game, and thanks to Facebook we kept in touch. When I knew I was heading to London I let him know, and he came into the city for a couple days of hanging out.
Greg & I at the British Museum
While we were out for drinks one night we were mid conversation and Greg’s words came to a halt. He mumbled something along the lines of “bloody hell, hold that thought” (totally a guess, his British accent made it hard to decipher) and ran to the other side of the bar like there was free beer up for grabs. Confused, we looked over and were just as quickly trying to figure out whether he knew the guy he’d run off to so quickly, or if he was just having a conversation with himself in a mirror.
Greg & his doppelgänger
Since we were all a few drinks in, this was the most amusing thing in the world. We made the guys swap friends and we spent some time hanging out with new Greg before parting ways for the evening.
Sadly, none of his dopplefriends looked like any of usMildly creeped out by this dopplefriend
The rest of my time in London I spent wandering around by foot, checking out the traditional touristy stuff in downtown London: Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, St Paul’s Cathedral, and I added Millenium Bridge and Tower Bridge to the list of bridges I’ve walked across in my life. Typical tourist sightseeing experiences. One day in an attempt to kill some time, we stopped in at Founders Arms for some chips with garlic mayo, garlic bread and a lovely view.
Beer stop for garlic bread and “chips”The view from Founders ArmsThe London Eye along the Thames RiverShakespeare’s Globe TheatreHalf-assed artistic photo attemptTower BridgeWrought iron fences and incredible architectureWestminster AbbeyThis is why I’m fatThis photo does zero justice for seeing the sun set on Big BenSuch a London-ish photo op. Too bad I was the one behind the lensWaterfront on the Thames RiverTower Bridge in the distanceSt Paul’s Cathedral
The moon shining above Parliament at dusk
It was inevitable that I’d have at least one rainy day while in London. So aftergetting soaked walking across Abbey Road 478 times, we decided to spend a few hours in the British Museum until the rain let up. That place was amazing. I could live there. Since I studied at an art school, the majority of the museums I’ve been to have been art museums, so this was an awesome change of pace. Beforehand I had no idea what was even in the British Museum, so it pretty much blew my mind. A Moai statue from Easter Island. Marble sculptures from ancient Greece. The Mummy of Cleopatra. So many things I’d read about in school were right in front of me. All of a sudden I found myself wishing I had paid more attention in school.
The Rosetta StoneGreg getting in on a little fist bump actionPart of the Elgin Marbles from the ParthenonPart of the Elgin Marbles from the ParthenonThe teeny tiny Mummy of CleopatraMoai statue from Easter IslandThe Ginger Mummy in a reconstructed Egyptian grave pit with bits of flesh, hair, and nails which had miraculously not decayed
I’m aching to go back and explore more of what London has to offer. I want to catch a home football match. I want to have afternoon tea. I want to spend a Saturday browsing through the Designers Makers Market. I want to check out all of the vintage shops and boutique markets I’ve been researching and writing about for the past year at work. I want to get a feel for all of the different neighborhoods. And eat a tasty snack from Lily Vanilli.
I hate to admit it, but I was completely oblivious to the full moon parties of Thailand before booking my trip to the BVI. But thanks to the internet, a quick Google search showed me photos: minimal clothing, flaming jump ropes, glowing body paint, endless shots, and sand-covered bodies passed out in the sand. Though it did look like an STD-ridden, overcrowded, sweaty mess, I was tempted. Sign me up.
So you can imagine my excitement after learning about the Full Moon Parties at Bomba’s Shack in the BVI. But another Google image search showed me hardly the same scene: tame partying, sober faces, and a bit more conservative crowd of Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt donning tourists posing for photos. But Bomba’s Shack was just up the hill from our resort, so we spent our final evening in Tortola partying with the locals.
Get naked, get a free tshirtBomba’s truck
Bomba’s shack is exactly that—a shack built from what appears to be tons of scraps and debris that has washed ashore. Tattered, dirty underwear adorned the walls that look as though the slightest breeze will send it crumbling right into the ocean that lies just steps away. There’s Sharpie-scribbled writing on nearly every conceivable surface, and of course, everybody is on island time. Oddly enough, it did look like the kind of bar that’d be jam-packed any given night in the LES of New York.
Bomba’s ShackThe panties
Intrigued by stories of others’ Full Moon Party celebrations, and intoxicated by the hopeful anticipation of a wildly fun evening I’d be struggling to remember in the morning, I got suckered into buying the $50 wristband for a night of unlimited alcohol and mushroom tea. It seemed like a good excuse to ignore my rational self from trying to keep my shit together as much as possible for my early AM flight. I figured I’d leave it up to the fate of my “how much I can drink : how many hours until the 6am ferry” ratio.
I immediately bee-lined past the flashing lights, live music, and drunk dancing, straight into the dark, secluded corner of the lot to get some tea. There was a makeshift bar set up thats only light was from the full moon and the flame beneath the boiling pot of mushroom tea. The guy serving up the tea was the exact image of a guy you’d normally steer clear of if you saw him walking down the street in New York in broad daylight. Even if it means walking a block out of your way. He was speaking gibberish and he wouldn’t give me any tea unless I walked over to him behind the bar.
The teamaster, succeeding at freaking me out
Having never done drugs in my life, I was a bit nervous about the effects of this mushroom tea so I was double fisting a scalding hot mug and a backup vodka pineapple. Suddenly my mind was racing. Was it strong? Would I trip instantly, or is it the kind of thing that would take a while to set in? Would I realize I was tripping? Would I trip at all? Having not done my research, I didn’t know if it was strong stuff, nor did I really want to find out when I’m 1,700 miles from home with no cell service, and an early flight to catch. So after I started to feel the vodka kick in I called it quits after one cup of tea.
Before long we were dancing in the crowds of people to live music, and I felt a dog suddenly nibbling on my toes as they kicked out of the sand. We were there just a week after carnival so apparently most of the tourists had left by then, but every other person we had met during our 5 days of island hopping was at this party. We met tons of people, including some guys from New York that I was so nice as to get free drinks with my unlimited wristband, and this guy who’s souvenir was to have everyone sign his shirt. So I drew a smiley face along with my name around his nipple.
My dancing partner, who thought my toes looked like dog treatsSouvenir nipple signing!
Then hours of dancing followed by an increase in being hit on, until most of the couples were calling it a night and the locals were out to pick up any leftover single, drunk tourists they could run off with. The Full Moon Party was coming to an end. And I wasn’t nearly as drunk as I’d thought I’d be for $50.
Guys who claimed to be from New YorkStephanie & I with Eric our cab driver
We headed back to the room to finish packing up the remnants of a wonderful vacation for a 6a ferry back to the airport in St Thomas. Luckily we made it on time with only mild hangovers, but the BVI’s couldn’t send us off without one last adventure: the ferry caught on fire in the middle of the ocean. We didn’t see any flames, just choked on the thick smoke that was pouring in from under the floorboards. Luckily it wasn’t too bad, and after vocalizing several Titanic-like concerns, we were able to swap ships and make it to St Thomas just in time for our ironically delayed flights.
I love boats. I’ll take any excuse to head out on the water on just about anything that at least partially floats (unless it involves Rose Dawson and a life-or-death situation). I love gliding across the water towards a seemingly endless horizon to the hum of the boat’s engine, feeling the crisp wind steal the breath right from my lungs. Especially when the 360° view is nothing but deep blue waters laid like a welcoming path through the perfectly spaced mountains. So it only made sense to spend some time island-hopping down in the Virgin Islands.
As luck would have it, on one of the nicest mornings of our trip our speedboat journey was canceled due to mechanical problems with the boat. So rather than sit around on the beach, we headed over to Road Town and jumped on the ferry to Virgin Gorda.
The tree-covered mountains looked soft and lickable
After gliding through the sea and mountains, we docked at Virgin Gorda and frankly, I was struggling to see what the big deal was. Sure it was nice, but it looked no different than the numerous islands we’d just sped past. So we hopped in the back of a poorly-marked pickup truck and made our way to the Baths, hoping for something to change.
We jumped out at a seemingly desolate area with signs leading us towards a gravel path that weaved through a patch of trees. We started on our way, encountering a few peculiar chameleon-esque lizards along the way (which also looked lickable for reasons other than the mountains).
Clearly these lizards aren’t that good at camouflaging
Then we reached the top of the baths and it all made sense. We were staring out at slivers of beautiful, postcard-worthy beaches peaking out from gigantic boulders. I mean huge boulders. The luxurious, P-Diddy style yachts anchored just offshore looked laughable in size compared to these boulders that were strewn about the beach.
Does anyone else see the angry face in this one?
Ohhh, so THIS is what Paradise looks like!Posing for my “Little Mermaid” moment
There were plenty of nooks and bays to set up shop and do some sun-bathing, or go wading in the crystal clear water. Or you could take the more adventurous route and squeeze your way through the boulders along the Devil’s Bay Trail.
The sign leading you through an obscure 1ft passageway to enter the cave
We opted for adventure. Bikini-clad and barefoot, we carried our snorkeling gear and squeezed our way through the narrow passage to begin our journey.
Hunched over butt shot
The hike winds on for about 20 minutes through caves and pools of water trapped by enormous boulders. Beams of sunlight squeezed through every tiny crack, leaving some spots dark. Turning, crawling, climbing, squeezing through narrow passageways better suited for children. Or cats. Ropes and wooden ladders provided assistance at times, as crabs scuttled by without hassle.
Climbing through the cavesStephanie up ahead as I took 8 million photosProbably my favorite spot inside the cavesStopping to relax and snap a pic inside the caves. Yes we needed a flash
Once we made our way through to Devil’s Bay we did some snorkeling. Stephanie had had enough so I ventured on by myself. I’ve done my fair share of just-off-the-beach snorkeling, so I decided to get a bit adventurous and navigate my way through the caves. Floating serenely and completely lost in the moment, I saw a curious blue fish taking an interest in me. I started to follow it, unbeknownst to everything else around me. It kept looking back as if to say “hurry up!” (though I’m sure it was more like “what is that and why is it following me?”).
I can’t help but notice the sand patch lining up with the fish’s tail looks like a fart cloud
Before long, I was following an entire school of fish as they swayed with the current and made their way through a two-foot-wide opening into a canyon. I gave it a second thought, but before I could turn around the current had swept me in. The coral was so high all I could do was try to stay afloat while sucking in my gut, and try to master Jedi mind-tricks to push myself away from the rocks. I had a brief moment of panic, wondering if I’d be able to get out considering there was hardly enough depth to properly swim. And more importantly, do sharks hide in caves?
New friendsCoral lining the underwater entry to the canyon
Just when the water deepened and I was able to exhale, I turned to see a pinkish blob floating in front of me. I was in a state of confusion, intrigue, and general euphoria with the peace of the ocean, so I—and by I, I mean the current— decided to swim towards it. The pink blob was also interested in the flesh blob in front of it, so it lunged towards me in quick, assertive motions. Before I realized it I was face to face with a jellyfish, which appeared ready to latch on. Only knowing that these things can sting and I wasn’t ready to ask Stephanie to pee on my face, I turned around and swam as fast as my finned feet could take me, over the coral, through the canyon, around the boulders, and all the way back onto shore.
Yes I managed to snap a picture once I got a safe distance awayWhile I was battling my new arch nemesis, Stephanie was meditating in peace on this rock
After the threat of heart failure and subsequent/necessary relaxing on the secluded beach, we made our way back through the boulders and stopped for a quick bite to eat. I took part in observing an intense polarized conversation between Stephanie and a local: Stephanie, arguing for modern communication in a world that would fail without constant iPhone connectivity, against the BVI-born guy who’d spent some time in the overwhelming streets of NYC before moving back to his simpler, more enriching island life. Shit got real. Let’s just say I’m glad neither of them were packing heat.
I felt the need to ask the latter member of the argument for a pic to thank him for his troubles
The next day our boat charter was ready to go. Stephanie—the poor girl had to go all the way to the Caribbean to realize she wasn’t a fan of island time, beaches, boats, or water—wasn’t feeling up for the ride so I went solo.
The boats at Soper’s Hole, Road TownThe incredibly nice family from Barcelona I’d met, and wish I had a way to get in touch with
I was on a boat with about 9 other people from Arkansas and Barcelona aboard the Mystique, which I can’t speak highly enough about. The crew were all around great people. Helpful, fun, and they kept us happy with unlimited rum punch and snacks. We anchored out at a tiny secluded island no bigger than a soccer field for snorkeling on the way to Jost Van Dyke. Having grown some balls since the previous day’s underwater experience, I set out to explore the underwater world again. Thankfully this time was much less eventful. There was plenty of colorful marine life, but this time it was terrified of me, not trying to attack my face.
The Mystique, and some other random boatThat’s Captain Kim to you!Isolated ParadiseSnorkeling breakOne last pic before swimming back to the boat
We made our way to Jost Van Dyke for lunch at Jewel’s Snack Shack. Having a chat with Jewel, the hut’s vibrantly outspoken owner, and reading the words of wisdom that adorn the walls are both reason enough to stop for a drink. Plus it’s home of the fabulous “Party Punch,” which she calls “rum punch with a touch of class.” Maybe it was the convincing marketing, or the extra sprinkle of nutmeg on top, but this really was the best rum punch I’d had on the islands.
The words to live by left by fellow travelers decorate the walls at Jewel’sMmm…Rum Punch
After scarfing down a hot dog quicker than it took to heat it up, the bulk of us made our way over to the Soggy Dollar Bar. I grabbed a Virgin Islands Islands Summer Ale and kicked back in my first hammock ever, which, though it was extremely comfortable and just as relaxing as you’d imagine, the task of getting out gracefully proved to be quite daunting.
The Soggy Dollar Bar gets its name because they let you pay —you guessed it—soggy dollarsAwkward tourist photo in front of the Soggy Dollar Bar
Before I knew it, the day was coming to an end. I started making my way back to the boat before realizing that the only thing standing (technically swimming) in the way of me climbing onboard was a giant barracuda. Great. Jellyfish flashbacks ensued.
Ooo…Barracuda!
Luckily I made it back injury-free, and planted myself in one of the seats at the front of the boat. I was accompanied only by my decent buzz as everyone else hid in the shade. I spent the next hour speeding away from the sun with the wind in my face. And I struggled to remember a more perfect moment in my 26 years of life.
I am by no means a food connoisseur. Hell, one of my favorite foods is the Cheesy Gordita Crunch from Taco Bell. But I do have nearly 27 years of experience in eating. That’s gotta give me some credibility, right?
Living in New York for nearly six years has given me a slight tendency to judge and compare food and dining experiences based on the best meals I’ve had in the city. But from my accumulation of previous feeding time adventures in the Caribbean, I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when asking around for a nice restaurant to go to for birthday dinner. I’ve seen everything from folding chairs and paper plates, to fish covered with melted cheese. Several tourists and locals recommended the Bananakeet Cafe on top of Windy Hill, so we figured what the hell, why not? The name didn’t sound like much more than a simple grab-and-go spot for fruit and coffee, but we were told the view alone was worth it. With the tagline “The Higher You Get… The Better The View,” you can’t help but wonder what’s so great about this view. I can assure you, it did not disappoint my eyes or my tongue for my first dinner as a 26 year old.
Bananakeet Cafe, “The Higher You Get, The Better The View”
Described as “Caribbean fusion with a view,” the open-patio restaurant is situated alongside The Heritage Inn, with a tempting little pool between the two. The covered area near the bar opens up to a full seating area on the deck looking over the entire bay. And the infamous sunset. It could only be described as every cliche you would ever use to describe a perfect sunset, painting the sky with colors and dramatic clouds. The photos just couldn’t do it justice, but I kept snapping anyway. If you go to Banakeet Cafe, definitely plan on being there a bit before the sun goes down!
Sunset from Bananakeet CafeThe view changes every minute, it’s hard not to snap a million pics in one sitting
Plus another great part about being there during sunset, you get a free sunset shot. But let’s just pretend they were free birthday shots because everyone in the world was obviously pumped about my birthday.
The evolution of Corona adsHappy birthday dinner to me!
I was surprised to see a menu full of things that I couldn’t wait to put in my mouth. So I went with pumpkin soup, coconut fried shrimp, and sushi. Delicious, quality food, and an equally stellar presentation. Stephanie had the vegetarian pasta which she also said was incredible.
Pumpkin soupCoconut fried shrimpSushi with what tasted like a peanut-based sesame soy sauceVegetarian Pasta
The food was delicious and fresh, and the service was great. Our waiter was friendly and kept offering to take pictures of us, and totally understood when I jumped up in the middle of ordering and told him to hold on while I snapped “the perfect sunset photo.” He even gave me a free birthday dessert! It certainly wasn’t a budget meal, but entirely worth every dollar.
And besides, it was my birthday so it was Stephanie’s treat! Thanks Stephanie!
