Ghost Town By the Capital

Posted byrandy@letters-to-rachel.memorialPosted inAdrift in the World, Along the Way, Wish You Were HereTags:, , , , , , ,

Dearest Rachel –

This morning may have me finally adjusting to vacation mode, after a fashion. I’ve got no appointments or excursions to rush off to while here in Nassau, and Lars’ slower paced attitude toward starting the day and getting from one place to another is starting to rub off on me. As much as I might want to go ashore – because when am I next going to be here in the Bahamian capital? – I can’t think of any particular reason why I would be in any hurry, or what place compels me, to do so. It’s mostly shops and restaurants to attract the tourist dollars. But I have no need of things at this point, and I eat too much on the ship as it is (even though the two of us make a point to skip lunch as a matter of custom), so where’s the appeal of any of that?

So we’ve been idling about the ship all morning.  But we haven’t been completely idle; we do a lap around the track after a leisurely breakfast in Central Park.  The trouble with doing so is that, by the time we’re halfway around the track, we hear an announcement about how the watertight doors will be closed, and the crew will be summoned to their emergency posts for their weekly safety drill.  Well, the ship IS in its home port, after all; today is the ideal time for such activity.  But suddenly, we realize that we’re the only guests on the track outside the Promenade deck; if we don’t get ourselves inside, we might find ourselves drafted into the crew.

Inside, in what would normally be the busiest part of the ship, the Promenade is a virtual ghost town.  We’re not the only guests milling about, but nothing is currently open or operating, since most of the crew is at one lifeboat station or another.  The few that remain stand by outside various Promenade shops and cafes, presumably to act as guides for guests were this an actual emergency.

By the time we finally get off the ship, it’s well into the afternoon, and we’ve only got three hours to wander about.  But again, without any particular aim or purpose to our meanderings, are we really missing anything?

And everybody is going the opposite direction of the way we are; several of the ships must be leaving before we are, I can only imagine.

I should mention that I’m making these observations on the fly; Lars is the only one actually doing any shopping around here, as his nephews would like some souvenirs from his trip. As for myself, I can’t think of anything that Daniel would want of the wares on offer; it’s not like he hasn’t been here himself to decide on something to serve as a memento loci.

And let’s face it; for all the cute dresses that we came across (and these were just a few of many), without someone to stuff into them, it’s kind of pointless.
I find myself thinking that you and I would wander through the Straw Market and nudge each other about how the place looks like a giant island-themed dealers’ room.  

This note-taking is the closest I can come to doing any of that sort of wink-and-nudge snark. I really miss being able to do that; those kind of cracks on my part would probably distract from Lars’ own experience.

Speaking of which…

At a certain point, I begin to wonder if Lars and I should agree on a safe word, so I can rescue him if he finds himself overwhelmed by the sheer number or aggression of the souvenir sellers. Then again, once we get out onto the open streets and he shows me a place selling high-end cologne, and asks me if I would like a sample when the clerk offers him one, I reconsider.  He’s here for the full tourist experience, which includes dealing with the touts.  I can’t help him.
Then again, I have my own weaknesses that catch my eye.  Granted, after paging through the catalog on the pedestal, I realize there are no prices listed; and we all know what it means “if you have to ask.”  Still, I take a picture for reference, in case I decide to look it up back home (be that at the stateroom or back in Chicago).
Barely a block away, in a more “local” part of town, the prices are half what they are by the ship.  It’s logical, but still shocking as to how fast the prices drop.

While Lars continues to shop, we run into an older couple bearing numbered stickers, indicating they’d just returned from a coach excursion around Grand Bahama island.  When I admit that Lars and I were just off the boat and wandering around town, they reply that “you didn’t miss much.” I’m sorry for their experience, I guess, but I’m glad we didn’t waste too much time (and money) on a trip into the hinterlands of Grand Bahama, to come away with an opinion like that. Then again, it’s possible there’s no pleasing some people, as you and I certainly enjoyed our extended shore excursion, petting the dolphins and having the run of the waterpark by the Atlantis hotel and casino.

As for ours and myself, we were rapidly running out of shore-facing town, and given that we had but an hour or so before we had to be back on the ship, that was just as well. 

Just as we were about to reach the last cross street before turning back, I spotted a sign, advertising “shave ice,” and, remembering my time in Hawaii, thought I’d give it a try, and possibly introduce Lars to the phenomenon. it would seem that the Caribbean version was more like the snow cones we’re familiar with at home; no dollop of ice cream at the bottom, and fairly thin with the syrup, when all was said and done. To be sure, I was given a generous packing of ‘snow,’ unlike those back at home, so it’s not as if I didn’t get my money’s worth.

Lars, however, wasn’t interested; he’s not so fond of sugar syrup that he’d want to partake. He did wander around the seemingly empty shopping center that I was snacking on this in, and noted that very little renovation or restoration has taken place since the Bahamas were hit by a hurricane four years ago. maybe some places decided it wasn’t worth it, seeing as they would probably just get hit with another one in the near future. Then again, if everywhere that was subject to hurricanes came to that conclusion, no one would ever build (or at least rebuild) anything anywhere down here, and this place would look that much more like a ghost town.

Anyway, I’ll do what I can to keep in touch further, but for now, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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