The southeast region of France is a land of contrasts. Its vast range of landscapes and rich culture cannot be summed up in one word, which is why it needs three: Provence-Alpes- Côte d’Azur. And what can be said about the exquisite cuisine? By last count in 2020, the region boasted a staggering 86 Michelin-starred restaurants. Additionally, Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur is the 4th wine producing region in France.
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While I’ve never been a fan of the tourist phrasebook — perhaps because I have yet to find myself at a stranger’s dinner party where inquisitive locals want to know how many siblings I have — I do believe that learning key phrases enhances your travel experience.
Before arriving at my destination, I try to memorize a few key phrases, in addition to the four essentials of hello, good-bye, please, and thank you. And preparing for my trip to Aruba was no different. I was pleased to see that English and Spanish were widely spoken (check and check), but the official languages of Aruba are Dutch (hallo!) and Papiamento (*crickets*), one I was not familiar with.
Bon Bini to Papiamento
Like every curious traveler, I scoured books and online resources for more about Papiamento, which, by the way, is also spoken in Bonaire, Curaçao and Saint Eustatius. There are several theories as to origins of Papiamento. The majority of scholars say it was born from the Cape Verdean language that arrived to the Caribbean as a result of the slave trade. The vernacular expanded to include Portuguese words, including the name Papiamento itself, which is derived from the Portuguese word “papear” (to chat). It later expanded to include words and phrases from other languages and cultures, including the Arawak Indians, to weave a beautiful identity of its own.
The language became widespread and adopted by the Portuguese and Spanish occupiers, until the arrival of the Dutch. In 1815, Papiamento, the language of the majority, became a forbidden language and Dutch became the only language of instruction that was permitted in the schools.
It took almost 200 years for Papiamento to gain the status of official language in the Islands. Aruba came first. In May 2003, the Aruban government declared Papiamento an official language. Curaçao was the second country, turning Papiamento into an official language in 2007.
The Dushi Experience
To the ear, it sounds like Portuguese, Spanish, Dutch and African Creole – and I could not get enough of listening to it on the island. This combination of languages conspired to create a word that admittedly at first made me giggle, but then continuously charmed me: Dushi.
Dushi is a Papiamento word that is sort of a catch-all, much like “aloha” is in Hawaiian. It literally means sweet. I was called Mi dushi, a few times as a term of endearment, similar to sweetheart or darling. And if there was ever a word to describe the sugary architecture and delightful locals of Oranjestad, it’s that word.
Watch the reaction of shop attendants when you say, “bon dia!” the daytime greeting in Papiamento, or when you thank the café staff by saying, “masha danki.” This seemingly small gesture goes a long way for an Aruban.
Ban Goza (Let’s Enjoy) Aruba
Papiamento has a rhythm of its own, so it’s important to put the emphasis on the right syllable. But, don’t worry, you’ll be able to pick it up quite quickly. Whether it’s Papiamento or any other language, the effort of speaking to locals in their language adds a new layer to your journey.
Papiamento Pocket Guide:
Welcome Bon bini
How are you? Con ta bai?
Fine, thank you Bon, danki
Thank you very much Masha danki
You’re welcome Na bo ordo
See you later Te aworo
Very good Hopi bon
Sweet Dushi
My darling/sweetheart Mi dushi
A Kiss Un sunchi
Have a nice day Pasa un bon dia
Goodbye Ayo
Good morning Bon dia
Good afternoon Bon tardi
Good night Bon nochi
Scandinavia continues to be the world’s happiest region, with Finland, Iceland and Denmark firmly holding on to the top three spots in the World Happiness Report of 2020 – despite the uncertainty of the pandemic. That same year, the Finnish sauna was added to UNESCO’s Cultural Heritage list, a sign of how integral the sauna is to almost every Finn’s household.
Is there a correlation between happiness and warmth? Perhaps.
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Apologies for the pun.
As a long-time fan of the television show, Golden Girls, Sicily was at the top of my travel list even before I officially formulated a travel list. From a young age, my favorite way to start a story was, “Picture it, Sicily, 1922…” the same way the acerbic matriarch Sophia prefaced hers.
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From cunning seafarers to merciless warriors, the myths and legends of Vikings have captured the imagination for generations. It is documented that they reached faraway shores from Newfoundland to Constantinople, yet nowhere else in the world can you truly get a sense for their fascinating way of life than in Norway.
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Driving between sublime places like Florence, Siena, and Lucca, you can catch a glimpse of the mundane side of Tuscany. The strip malls, the car dealerships. The industrial parks with empty loading docks. The barren fields with crumbling structures festooned with graffiti. The red tiled roofs of homes that dot the side of the highway. Details that never make it into brochures or into the stories you’ll share with your friends when you get back home.
I, on the other hand, was desperately trying to memorize it all. Making note of landmarks and highway signs, as they zoomed by the window of my ambulance.
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A continuous curtain of water battered my car for the first thirty minutes I was in the great state of Georgia. Coming from Southern California where it never rains, it seemed like an unnecessary show of force. Okay, I get it, you have water here. A few minutes before I was attacked by extremist clouds, I photographed a bright blue billboard with an anatomically correct peach that offered an official welcome from Nathan Deal, who was not the owner of a car dealership or host of a game show, but the governor. This sign was strategically placed over a highway rest stop that I thankfully had the foresight to patronize, otherwise, I would’ve had a repeat of what will forever be known in my house as the ‘Arizona incident.’ Five days ago, when I left my home in Los Angeles, I got caught in an epic, two-hour traffic jam somewhere near Flagstaff. And, while surrounded by a sea of idling cars on historic Route 66, I was left with no choice but to open my car door and hover my pants-less body over the steaming hot pavement until I heard drops turn to a cascade and then back to drops.
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I spent the Christmas holidays strolling through SoHo, hailing cabs on Broadway and taking in the elaborate window displays down 5th Avenue. It was the eve of the New Year and the new decade, and I was feeling hopeful about what 2020 would bring. I was also feeling particularly proud of myself for having cleverly paired my New York trip with a quick jaunt to Bermuda. Culminating my vacation with my feet covered in pink sand was the gift I was most eager to unwrap.
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After two shots of the Pfizer vaccine, I boarded a flight from D.C. to Miami, breaking my 18-month abstinence from airport travel. While I hoped to find a new utopia of conscientious flyers, the cynic in me anticipated that getting to my gate was going to be like that final scene in World War Z where Brad Pitt’s character attempts to walk by the zombies without getting chewed on. However, neither scenario proved true.
TL;DR Everything’s the same, except the snacks are worse.
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When traveling, I try to remember important information about the places I visit. However, after a friend called me to ask for my advice on a certain vacation spot, I’ve discovered that the information I have amassed over the years is absolutely no good to anyone.
Seriously. Useless.
Here’s a sampling of my most inappropriate recommendations to date:
Hey, I’ll be in Denver a few days. Anything I should do?
There’s a mall on 16th Street called…the 16th Street Mall. And the airport has the highest quality public bathroom toilet paper that has ever touched my vagina. You’ll be very high the entire time you’re there, so everything will be interesting. If you did Denver right, you’ll come out of your fog while sitting at a roulette table in Black Hawk.
Is Seattle a cool place?
You must be thinking of Portland. Just kidding! Seattle is for cool kids. Make sure you pack plenty of graphic t-shirts and colorful sneakers to match beanies of every color. The true mystery of Seattle isn’t where the mystery soda machine went (Google this later), but it’s that somehow, every store you walk into has an amazing soundtrack. From the Jimmy John’s to the CB2 to any of the 133 Starbucks, everywhere you go, your favorite songs mysteriously blare throughout the establishment. Except in Pike Place.
You lived in Atlanta for a while, do you think I’ll enjoy my visit?
Everything, and I mean everything, is legal in Atlanta. Las Vegas, NV has more restrictions than the capital of the Dirty South. Gun powder in your drank? Coming right up. Walking on the highway? Casual. Outright stealing? As long as you’re white and polite. Dance party in an abandoned, underground rail station? Who needs ventilation?!
Should I plan a family vacation to D.C.?
If by family you mean you, your husband and the twink you share, then yes. Otherwise, there’s nothing for straight people to do in this town.
Where should I stay in Boston?
It doesn’t matter. Everywhere you go, you end up at the same place. It’s like being inside an M.C. Escher drawing, while on some amazing ‘shrooms. Their “T” is the Cadillac of public transportation, but you haven’t lived until you’ve been a passenger in a cab that drives on the sidewalk. Cabbies will do this for five bucks extra. Oh, and don’t stand next to or touch the statue of John Harvard. If you inhale deep enough you can smell why.
San Francisco is so nice this time of year…
San Francisco is nice any time of year. But what is really suspicious to me are the locals. Everyone there is too nice. Like they are up to something. So, if you haven’t been, you should go, seriously, it’s beautiful. Just don’t talk to people. They are aliens. Also, of note, the homeless and vagrant population tend to not be so nice and may, on occasion, toss cups of their urine in your direction.
This year, I’m staying close to home. I’m thinking Houston for a weekend. I have a few friends there and they’re always talking it up.
Houston smells in a way that can cause you to contract cancer through your nose. It’s like getting shot-gunned by 30 chain smokers inside an elevator at the Excalibur in Vegas. Yet, the Margarita’s are amazing. Ah-ma-zing. You’ll need to drink them continuously to soothe the burning sensation in your throat.
I dream of traveling to Hawaii.
Go to Maui, for sure. It’s like walking around in a postcard. From the trees to the weather to the birds, everything is perfect. And it gets really old after a while. “Is that another rainbow? Geez. These gays and their agenda have gone too far.” It is worth it to endure this torture only to have the world’s best hummus at Athens Greek Restaurant in Lahaina. Yes, you heard right. Eat Greek food in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
I know I live 15 minutes away from Miami Beach, but I want the experience of driving a few hours to bathe in the same beach, but a little more north.
Then head to Jupiter, FL. It’s a beach town very, very far from South Beach (a whole 90 minutes up I-95). It is also very, very far from New Jersey (a whole 17 hours down I-95). Making it the perfect place to hide former witnesses from the Gambino crime family trials. There is one fine dining Italian restaurant where dinner for two costs about $200. A price I gladly paid to be seated by Bartolomeo “Bobby Glasses” Vernace’s widow.
I’ve never been to New York City.
Fear not. People that actually live in NYC have seen less of the city than you. My first piece of advice is that unless you have drank water in Cancun, you do not have the proper intestinal bacteria balance to eat a hot dog from a vendor, a cheese pizza from a bodega or a slice of cheesecake from a diner. Continuing on the food theme, stay away from the Pig & Whistle. And, most importantly, you will never get tickets from Tickets for the show you want to see.
For as long as I’ve known my wife, she has asked me for one thing and one thing only: a monkey.
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Everything went silent. I couldn’t hear the officiant. I couldn’t hear the waves. I couldn’t hear the seagulls. I was in a complete sound vacuum, as I watched her lips. I wanted to absorb the moment she said, “I do.”
Everything up to that point was chaotic. A whirlwind of ridiculousness, from a late start to a long drive caused by a disastrous manicure to a traffic delay due to weather and hunger. All of this compounded by an additional 25-minute tour of all of Key West’s dead-end streets in an effort find our hotel, which was outside of the purview of our GPS, but somehow still under the control of President Truman.
From the moment we finally set our bags down in our room, we had exactly 30 minutes to get ready. Thirty minutes. Two brides. One bathroom.
“I need the eyeliner,” she said
I looked in the monster make-up bag I had packed just 5 hours prior. But there was no use, I knew the moment she said eyeliner that I forgot to pack it.
Nearly fourteen years of togetherness are all riding on getting through the next 19 minutes and counting. I was not about the let a shitty black crayon get in the way of marrying the woman I love. I contemplated a few options, like sticking one of her thin make-up brushes into the mascara tube or just handing her a pen.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said, full knowing that she would believe it.
Profuse apologies followed and then her half-acceptance of them, but really, we didn’t have time to fight about eyeliner. We barely had time to look at each other. And every time we did, one of us would get teary-eyed, so I think it was a good thing we didn’t have the stupid eyeliner.
We made it to the beach exactly two minutes before our scheduled time, but our officiant was already there, which meant I didn’t have time to tell her all of the things I wanted to say. I couldn’t tell her that she looked more beautiful than ever. I couldn’t tell her that I loved her. I couldn’t thank her for planning this beach wedding because I was too much of a princess to get married in a courthouse where Alex Hanna was fighting traffic tickets at the next window. I couldn’t tell her that she made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I couldn’t apologize for forgetting to pack the eyeliner and all of the other countless stupid shit I do on an hourly basis. I couldn’t say a word. We were too busy making small talk and going over forms and making transactions.
And the more I desperately tried to slow down the moment, the faster it seemed to go. Before I could get my bearings we were under a palm tree holding each other’s hands. This was really happening. I was really marrying her. Officially. Legally. Forever.
I was asked to say, “I do” first. The words fell out of my head like the contents of a plastic Easter egg. Two words have never been said more clumsily. I could’ve as easily said, “Yeah, yeah.”
But now it was her turn. The person that swore marriage wasn’t for her. The person that argued the concept of marriage was antiquated and patriarchal. The person that even to this day feels like we are rushing into things when we make plans six months in advance. The most private person I know is now being asked to publicly affirm that she was completely cool with having a wife forever. For. Ever.
“I do,” she said in her softest, most graceful voice.
And with that my hearing returned. The roar of the ocean, the click of the camera, the officiant’s memorized speech about the significance of a ring. All of it came back and louder than ever.
Since then life has been just a little more bright and just a little more loud and just a little more perfect.
Here’s to another fourteen years…this time we get to be newlyweds.
a little cuban goes a long way 