As part of their efforts to bring the past into the present, the Annaberg Ruins host local artisans to demonstrate island crafts several days a week.  The day of our visit, a master gardener took us on a tour of a perfectly maintained plot.  And atop the hill, an old-school chef treated us to fresh johnnycake.  

Bananas, Bay Leaf & Ripe Guava

Of many tastes offered, the sweetest was sugar cane!

It’s not easy maintaining a garden on St. John.  With rocky soil, a long dry season, and steep hills, it takes a patient and persistent master gardener to bring fruits to hard labor.  There are some, though, including the gentleman who helps keep Annaberg in bloom.  The garden there includes papaya, bananas, guava, and mango trees.  And lower on the ground, many herbs like bay leaf (“smells like Old Spice after shave”) and lemon basil flourish.  

There was plenty to taste, including the herbs and sweet guava.  But best of all (especially for the kids) was sliced up stalks of sugar cane.  “You can chew and suck it, but don’t eat it!”  

Fresh Johnnycake Cooked in a Hot-Coal Pot

The chef served up a delicious taste of tradition.

Johnnycake is a local delicacy–a sweet, flat bread that can be cooked or fried.  Our chef prefers to bake it, and the warm, crumbly samples were so delicious I’d not change a thing.  Hot-coal cooking is still popular with locals, perhaps to keep the heat outside the house.  Light coals, spread them out, and then place a large cast-iron pot over it.  You can cook most anything in there, from stews to fritters to, of course, johnnycake.  

This chef added the extra step of putting a cover full of hot coals on top of the pot.  That way, the heat comes from all directions–and makes for a nice, crispy crust.

Yep, there are wild donkeys on St. John. They’re not that wild, actually, and sometimes look lazier than statues. But they’re feral. And even though most tourists are tempted, it’s best not to to feed them. Or pet them. Or even get close. They’re aggressive and have bad breath.

Beware the feral donkeys, and their do-do.

Why are they here? Like so many locals, they arrived long ago and got stuck.  Like being on island time. Not that donkeys have anywhere else to go.  

Most folks say they were used for farming—way back in the 1700s and 1800s, when 75% of this hilly place grew sugar and spices for shipping back to Denmark.

Nowadays, they mostly harangue tourists, nosh on dumpster chow, chomp on landscaping, and have loud sex in the middle of the night. (While two procreate, the others cheer them on.)

They’re not entirely useless. Local “bush doctors” watch them for clues on what bark they chew on when arthritis sets in. St. Croix (USVI) requested and imported some for their own local color. And one enterprising US escapee used to offer rides on a tame one to gullible vacationers.

She went out of business and moved back to New Jersey. As for the donkeys, they’re still here, providing an moving-target driving hazard and making asses of themselves.

Call me crazy. Call me foolish. But I could stare at the sea, sunflakes, and sailboats till bedtime. That’s why I’m here.

Staring at the sea...even better than TV.

And although the digitalia get plenty of action in my posse, the TV has yet to turn on–I’m pleased to say. Yet that’s not the norm. And the attraction and addiction to screens shows no sign of abating…

• 30 Percentage of in-home online activity that takes place while simultaneously watching TV.
• Source: Nielsen Media Research

Like so many migratory creatures before us, we’ve fled the north and headed south. There are many benefits to this shift, of course, but the one I am appreciating most today is the extended daylight—a welcome contrast to home, especially on this, the shortest day of the year.

A sweet St. John solstice sunrise...

For better or worse, I’m usually in Minnesota for the Winter Solstice. The sun rises just shy of 8. It’s down by 4:30. On a cloudy day, the world can seem so dark that the streetlights never turn off. It’s enough to make a large percentage of the population very, very SAD.

Yet lots of people celebrate this Pagan holiday at home. So my mind turns to the commemoration that feels out of place on a tropical island, and I send a toasty-warm toast to my frigid friends Up North, along with this…

Top 11 Reasons I Love the Winter Solstice

1. Saunas make perfect sense—followed by a jump in the snow.
2. The Akavit and beer stay cold outside.
3. You can walk on (frozen) water.
4. For six months, the days keep getting longer.
5. For 12 months, they’ll be longer than this one.
6. Green grass that turned brown is now covered in white.
7. Full-bodied red wines are fully in season.
8. No nasty sunburn or skin cancer risk.
9. Fire (a la candles and fireplaces) bring light into darkness.
10. You can sleep in and still see the sunrise.
11. Finally time to give up on last year’s New Year’s Resolutions.

One of the Missions of this Sabbatical is to try home schooling. All parents dabble in it, but now’s the time to put up or shut up. Perform. Leave no child behind. Show proof of one my oft-stated boasts: A kid will learn much more on a trip like this than in the classroom.

Although there are endless educational possibilities, my to-do list distills down to 5 simple activities: Math; Reading; Writing; Photography; Music.

For a change, the Idea here is to present the tools, then get out of the way. So far, so good. School is on holiday break at home, but we’re definitely logging daily learning here.

• Math…We’ll finish two month’s worth, then shop around next year’s worksheets.
• Reading…He’s sucked up two vampire books. Now on to local lore.
• Writing…His blog is up and running before mine: http://breakawaykid.wordpress.com/
• Photography…While not a master of his camera, things are starting to click.
• Music…The Martin mini-guitar arrives soon; he’ll finish his string bass book first, then improvise. (The bottom four strings are the same tuning, but you knew that.)

Oh sure, he’d rather be e-chatting (OMG!) or fondling his iTouch. We need the digi-sitters and downtime, so, fine already, but not more than, say, 16 hours a day.

One major challenge: The sports thing. He is, of course, a Star Athlete. (Aren’t all kids these days, but—really!—mine is!) Thus the 6A Traveling Team will play five tournaments without him. Yet we schlepped a pump and basketball which we diligently inflate and deflate every time we move along.

So what’s foul? Coral Bay courts. Sorry, but they’re pathetic. Blame vandalism. Blame the shrinking youth population. Blame cutbacks or plain old neglect. But when the rims are bent, the backboards are rotten, the hoops are holey, and the blacktop is cracked and muddy, it’s hard to get in the game. There is no game.

Can't do P.E. here!

(Last night at the local choir’s concert, I saw an AMAZING 17-year-old trumpet player. Somebody is mentoring him to excellence! What will happen to the native young basketball phenoms if there’s nowhere to play?)

For our P.E. class, one Mission is improving his shooting percentage and taking thousands of free throws. Now it’s Mission Impossible. That’s all I wanted: To shoot around and shoot some more. No coaches yelling. No criticism. No pressure. Just old-school shootin’ around til the confidence swishes.

Maybe on the next island? But I doubt it. When scratching beneath the surface, one quickly finds scores of sorry signs of poverty and scarcity in the Caribbean.

Oh well, we still have baseball. I even cut a string the exact distance of mound to plate—to work on pitching. That can happen any place there’s flat space, though that’s also rather rare in these parts. Problem is, he throws so hard now it bruises up my hand. And that knuckleball? When it drops and bounces into the crotch…ouch!

But there’s more to life than sports. That’s why we’re here. You can sweat in smelly gyms every winter. But you can learn about tropical flora, fauna, and culture only now and then.

Retiring Now and Then does NOT mean doing nothing. We’ll see what AllBoy can learn about self-motivation and self-education. And if his parents are up to the test.

Next experiment: Educating CurlyGirl.

PS Being miles away and taking all this on brings on deep gratitude to the many good people back home who helped make Home Schooling happen: Mrs. S, Mrs. B, Mrs. F—and also the passionate coaches through the years, all winners: You know who you are!

As anyone who travels knows, you can meet the most interesting people when you BreakAway from your daily grind. Today’s proof arrived in the form of Bob & Jen Westerfield.  

While beaching at scenic Trunk Bay, this handsome couple strolled by with grins on their faces and pink drinks in their hands. They paused to admire AllBoy and CurlyGirl body-surfing (it’s common that the kids break the ice) and we began to chat. Soon the sun was moving across the sky. And I learned all about “The Dart Vacation.” Wow.

Bob & Jen, vagabonds & entrepreneurs.

The concept is simple: Every year on January 1, they throw a dart at a US map—and that random landing becomes a vacation target. No exceptions. No rejections. They are five-for-five in five years. So far, this courageous twist of destiny has taken them to…

Marsh Islands, California
Happy, Texas
Zuul, New Mexico
Two Buttes, Colorado (population 45)
Superior, Nebraska

Next year, they will circle their wagons at Circle, Montana. (What goes around comes around?) And like this year’s vacation in Nebraska, the next outing will include their twin sons, now age 1.

They MUST spend some quality time in the place the dart landed. No matter what. That’s not always easy: In the case of Marsh Island, California—which is actually a game reserve with no humans—they had to court a local car dealer and attorney to take them out in a boat.

The price for this slice of bliss and chance? One case of beer.

Once en route or in the area, they do allow themselves to meander, get lost, and see the sights that speak to them. Those broadminded guidelines have taken them to the likes of New Orleans and Wrigley Field. And though their list may not make Conde Nast’s Top Ten lists, they describe each place as fun, appealing, and beautiful.

No wonder they make friends wherever they go, and have even made the front page of a local newspaper—along with their twins and rented Winnebago.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Nor can you concoct the many connections we found within less time than it takes a pelican to find a decent supper.

They vacation at Lake Superior too (on the other side). They also have kinfolk in Brookings, South Dakota (OMG!). And they are also self-employed and hacking their own rules.  In their case, hard work is balanced by frequent and extreme outings of all kinds.  

Sabbatical? Radical? NOT! This spirited couple wins the award for Most Radical Escape Artists.

Face it: 12-hour travel days do not a great BreakAway make. But we survived it, as did the luggage and children. Air travel becomes increasingly bumpy, so to speak, but that’s survivable too. (So far.) It’s all about managing expectations.

Finally. We made it. The journey has begun.

That said, a Sabbatical-taker or schemer might be well advised to repeat those five words often. I’m just happy to be HERE, on the isle of St. John (and yes, I Love St. John), in tranquil Coral Bay—overlooking gumdrop mountains and islands, feeling cool breezes and soaking up the sun. Did I mention the popcorn clouds and bobbing sailboats?

I’ve got a feeling (“a feeling deep inside”) we’re not in Minnesota any more. But like life in Minnesota, an escape like this still features pesky “to do” lists…

• Work. There’s always work to do, of all kinds: Job work; Life’s work; house work; parenting work; home-school work. Most of that is more challenging here, and can seem out of place.
• Mission. Modern BreakAway theory holds that a hiatus holds some responsibility to self: Why ARE you here? In my case, the Mission list is long. This site tops it.
• R&R. After unpacking, meal plans, grocery runs, and internet grapplings, each day should hold some “down” time. Wa-a-a-a-y down. Read. Do music. Talk. Listen. Chill (but not in a Feeling Minnesota way.)
• Learn. Most days in most places have much to teach. Here, the observant participant can experience nature, culture, history, new friends, and maybe a little local libation and color.

A popular t-shirt here says, “Coral Bay…2,000 miles from reality.” While that’s true, everyone knows that Reality actually follows you wherever you roam. As troubador Harry Chapin sang,

You can travel on 10,000 miles, and still stay where you are.

So you can’t run away, really. But you can get away. Even BreakAway. A respite is a time set aside for revering reality—while re-creating it too. The journey has begun.

Time to get UP! That alarm sure sounds rude at 4:30. Especially when you were packing past midnight. Particularly when the slumbers weren’t golden anyhow. And most of all when the guy who is supposed to drive you to the airport doesn’t show up—making you wonder why am I up? Hate to say it, but…

Traveling Ain’t What It Used To Be

Oh sure, we’re schlepping 8 bags and 2 kids—and going away for 69 days to five faraway islands. Still, shouldn’t this be, like, exciting? Not just exhausting? Wishful thinking. But there’s too much beyond your control.

Hiring “A Driver” Ain’t What It Used To Be

Like our driver. Let’s call him Dean; he owns an airport service and has been slightly more dependable than the utterly erratic cabbies we’ve called in the past. Today, he sent “an associate.”  Who came late. In a too-small car. Amidst an icy snowstorm.

Once we realized that the Associate couldn’t possibly carry all of us and our baggage (physical and metaphorical), we called and ranted to Dean…who offered all kinds of lame excuses–but no adequate transportation to the airport.  

Now, Dean used to arrive in a big fat Town Car. Cool! Then he moved on to a Lincoln Navigator. Fine! Now? Who knows. Wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up next time in a K-Car, just for Kicks. We’ll never know. We’re done with Dean. And after the the requisite cell phone yellfest, I reckon he’s done with us too.

Anyway, Dean put on his problem-solving hat and did what we should have done in the first place:  He called a cab. So two of us went ahead to the airport with the Associate, already dangerously late, to check in the luggage and start schmoozing the airline. The children and I awaited the cabbie. This forced me to feign calm, since the kids were picking up on our peaky freakiness.

Cabbie did come and was charming, albeit even dangerously later. Thank goodness he liked to drive fast. And pass. Never mind the ice on the roads and the cars in the ditch.

Flying Ain’t What It Used To Be

Luck happens. So we made it through Security (even all the metal in my left leg), hijacked a ride on a too-small cart, and wheeled our way to the gate—where we were well past last call. They let us on anyway, on to a flight that was oversold and bursting at the seams with carry-on luggage.

Back in the day, traveling by airplane seemed exotic and exciting. It’s still exciting—but for all the wrong reasons. What happened? I mean, flight attendants don’t even referree arguments about whose seat is whose. Food is lousy and expensive or, worse, nonexistent. No breakfast for a 7 am flight? Come on!

We’ve learned to carry sacks of food for the kids. Fruit, nuts, granola bars, cheese sticks, whatever. They have a knack for being irrationally ravenous at innopportune times. Heck, everyone carts their own meals onto planes anymore. Somebody’s “meal” always smells better than mine.

Note to self:  Business Idea:  Bring on lots of excellent food with aroma-appeal and auction it off to famished flyers.

The plane was held together by duct tape.

Lunch came, though, sort of. But they quickly ran out of the “entrees” they’d been describing ad nauseum. “Always our most popular lunch!” one steward beamed at me (for the only time). Paint was peeling. Carpets too. The 1970s TVs that hung from the ceiling not only didn’t work, but were held together with duct tape. See for yourself! 

Staffers did, though, aggressively sell $7 drinks, Skymag schwag, and their very own Mastercard. Who needs TV when the flight sounds like QVC?

Island Service Ain’t What It Used To Be

Still sane, we made it to St. Thomas, found our luggage (eventually), tipped the porter and were plopped into a crowded cab/van to rush to the ferry. Now, please understand that the routine to get into a cab at this airport typically includes much yelling by the porters, expediters, and cabbies, and others. In thick Island Patois.

It scares first-timers and children. It entertains veterans like ourselves.

They will send you back and forth while a van driver wants you, then says he has no room, then makes room and insists you return. But by then, another cabbie may have started loading you into his van, so they yell at you and even tussle over your suitcase. It can go on and on, while you wonder if you’ll make the ferry dock in time.  It’s hurry, then wait.  Welcome to island time.  

(One time, a driver told me to unload the luggage of a couple getting off at a resort, so he could take a pee. Which he did, about five feet in front of the vehicle. He then barked at me to fasten my seat belt, though he refused to wear his own. He told me how pumped he was that we were his last ride, “Gonna drink me some rum tonight!” Ya mon!  {My reply.}  We exchanged the island handshake.  Get the picture?)

No worries. As usual, we made the ferry. Dudes drive like NASCAR wanna-bes, and are colorblind when it comes to stoplights. Fortunately, locals know to get out of their way. Ours parked in the middle of a busy street, dumped our luggage, and overcharged us by at least $10. We couldn’t hand over that extortion fast enough.

Ferries, Jeeps, Left-Lane Driving, and Finally…“Home”

The ferry ride was uneventful, but only because we sat indoors instead of on the roof, where a serious sundown squall drenched everything. We + luggage barely fit into our Jeep, but after enough re-puzzling, we did. The drive across the dark island and its hairpin, mountainous roads was gut-wrenching. But soon, we were “home.” Sweet home.

By the way, you drive in the left lane on St. John. Ask a local “why?” and know what he’ll say?

Because everyone else does.

Home now is Coral Bay. “Where tired angels go to rest.” I’m no angel (to quote Bob Seeger). But we could all use some rest. After a burger and a beer at the closest joint, we all headed back up the hill. And straight to bed, where–despite the cacophony of chickens, frogs, donkeys, and goats–the slumber would last for 9.5 hours.

Can’t remember the last time that happened. May it be the start of a trend.

Need I write more?  Can’t.  My fingers are too frozen.

It’s dang cold and snowy here.  That makes escaping to warmth more inviting, but also complicates the daily grind and last-minute errand runs.  Two days before take-off.  HELP!  I’d like to fall on the floor and cry in my beer, but there’s no time, and not much beer, and beer would only slow me down and we CAN’T have that.  Okay, maybe just one…

Snow is pretty, but makes for slippery slopes.

Ever have one of those days when everyone in your family is snitty?  (And nobody is volunteering to shovel the new snow?)  Tempers flare; the house is a train wreck; nothing works?  That’s us.  Except, it’s been that way for about a week.  There is this sense of chaotic desperation in the air.  And it’s amazing the things that choose to break down NOW of all times…

• The kitchen sink backed up, and needed a thorough roto-rooting.  Gross!
• The freezer ceased.  As in, melted ice cream and al dente ‘frozen’ vegetables.  Ish!  
• The security system went nuts.  Decided there was CO2 in the air and the alarms refused to stop.  (I think it was wrong, but it’s hard to tell exactly what is killing all the brain cells these days.)
• The Apples have been rotting.  Needing new batteries, more RAM, updated iLife, iTunes triage.  
• More, but who cares?  Thank goodness for supportive friends and Angie’s List.  

The kids are excited, hyper really.  Cute, but it can make things worse.  AllBoy is bouncing basketballs, like our heads, off the walls–which just ain’t right when the snorkelware and Nikon gear is underfoot and M and D’s patience is kaput.  CurlyGirl is packing 16 tons of Polly Pockets.  Things are getting lost.  Lists are getting longer.  Breaths are getting shorter.  

• 5 words:  We’ll be on that plane.  (That we just learned serves NO food and charges for ALL luggage AND beverages). 
• Countdown:  29 hours (til we leave the house).  
• Ostacles:  At least 2 of us are sick; one goes to an eye specialist for an infection in the morning.
• Biggest Scream:  Airlines.  They just keep changing the rules, and I don’t mean lifehacking.
• Biggest loss:  Holiday merriment.  What holidays?  What merriment?  Maybe later?
• Last night of good sleep:  I can’t recall.  
• First thing I’ll do on the islands:  A big Iowa Yee-ha scream and seek a Heineken.  
• Soundtrack ahead:  Reggae.  Tree frogs.  Men yelling in Island Patois.  Drunk tourists.  Goats and donkeys.  Roosters (all night long).  Wind.  Waves.  
• Note to self:  Keep the faith.  (“It’s all small stuff.”)
• ODDS OF GOING TODAY:  98%  (a new high).