Fun Facts of St. Barthelemy – Discoveries old and new

Ee-eat Me-ee-eee-ee...

Fact: The goats in St. Barthelemy are overrunning the island! They are cute, and they sound delicious, but the are causing erosion. Eat a goat today to save the island.

Fact: Boats can make you sick.

Another fact: If any deaths occur during a hurricane, the name of that hurricane is then forever dropped from those names that can be used for future hurricanes. So… that… makes… sense… er?

Here is another fact: People hitchhike all over St. Bart’s… you will see people of all ages, although mostly young people, thumbing for a ride at all times of day. Be careful not to run over anyone!

New fact: St. Barth’s was once a Swedish outpost. Isn’t that chef from the Muppets Swedish? Explains a lot.

A fact you might not know: There are like, 900 Portuguese living in St. Barth’s.

A fact you probably know: Mosquitos are very, very hungry here.

Another one: Lizards are everywhere.

Big fact: There are NO mosquitos on Saba, but that’s on another island so, what the heck is that doing here?

Fact: I was so happy in St. Barth's. You will be too.

Minor fact review: So there are too many goats in St. Barth’s. We already told you that. But it vanished when Laz was screwing around with our themes.

There is an ancient house (1700s) of the Ledee family on St. Bart’s. Next to it is a Leper house which is really where they kept their step mothers. Probably. (Source: two pina coladas).

Lala not happy

This page was definitely missing from my brochure of St. Barthelemy. Where's my cocktail? What's this crawling up my leg?

.

.

.

.

.

.

Advertisements

LAST GLIMPSES OF SAINT BARTHELEMY…

Fare thee well, St. Barthelemy. Nous esperons que nous vous voir la prochaine année.

Few laments have been written that could match ours upon leaving St. Barthelemy and all the fantastic folks we met there. After we woke up to the cold world of New York, which happened to be somewhat warm for the season we realized we had to put a little closure on this, our first chronicle of our various adventures. So the next few weeks will see us adding the various reviews and experiences we forgot… Until then…

Behold: Gustavia. Fare thee well, island town. Fare thee well, awesome Nungan, Papa Guyo, Martine, Cecile, Patricia, Jeannette, fire-dancers, les petites mooches, gun-toting land-barons, yacht owners, patisseries, les croissants aux amends et de la chocolate, the beaches, naked gay men, topless women… et al. By the way, French misspellings are not mine. It’s WordPress’s fault.

Goodbye, cow. Or goat. Or whatever you are. Did you eat those two goats that were here earlier? Cause that’s…not cool, dude. Not cool.

There is shopping in Gustavia. Great gouts of gushing gravy ($) get geysered from Gator-wallets in Gustavia. As Steve Martin said in his blog, he is just supporting the native artisans and indigenous culture when he shops at… Louis Vuitton. Laszlo and Lala do NOT shop at Vuitton. We typically get thrown out of such places for imposing our “performance art” (read: Laszlo dances with the mannequins).

Have you seen my hat? Laszlo? My pink hat? I can’t see anything in this sun.

Note to the wise shopper in St Barthelemy: shop with Martine in Azibi. We may have misspelled it. All respect to Martine: she has fantastic stuff, from Paris, St. Tropez, the Amalfi Coast, Capri, Switzerland, etc. Here’s the deal — the um… arrangement of her goods isn’t as chi-chi-consious as some of the neighboring stores. Don’t let that fool you. This woman has more fashion sense, artistic awareness, and female MAGIC than anyone on the island. Go see her. She will put you in wonderful things, and they will be gratifyingly inexpensive. (And less then some other stores I could mention, that peddle dyed cheesecloth). So. Remember: St. Bart’s shopping = Martine = Azibi. There. We LOVE you, Martine. We want to hang out with you next year. Or visit Laszlo in NYC. I have no room in my place.

Maybe next time she’ll give me a discount. Joke! Joke!

x

Goat Mountain. Several goats were observed doing goat stuff.

St. Barthelemy Yachts… are large.

A yacht. So there. It's not even big. I have bigger ones floating in my bathtub. And THEY squeak. Hey, yacht capitan, please put down the blond and the White Russian -- no, I mean... just drop both! Can your floating vessel squeak?

Palm Drama in St. Barthelemy — old families, private land, possibly a government conspiracy or two…

An orchard of palms prompts primordial ponderings in Laz.

Palm porn. The money shot, by Laszlo Von Glitz.

Lala dances prior to being ousted mostly non-violently by a scary land-baron who has an underground mountain colony that aliens may have helped found in the 80s or perhaps in the 1880s -- we don

THE TALE OF THE SCARY TRUCK PEOPLE:

So the story goes comme ca: Lala and Laszlo are driving around where they shouldn’t be driving. Only because Laszlo NEVER LISTENS TO LALA he didn’t notice this.
Lala, having taken multiple xanax with a pina-colada chaser was numbed to the drive at this point. So, although she may have gestured in a lazy way to the various signs that proclaimed: “CHEMIN PRIVEE” “KEEP OUT” “DOGS PRESENT” “THIS MEANS YOU, LASZLO VON GLITZ” — sadly, he didn’t notice.

And so we drove.

How Laszlo remembers it...

“I just wanted to get to the top of the mountain to take a nice photograph,” Laszlo asks me to mention at this point in our terrifying tale.

“That’s what the chicken said,” I respond.

“Just finish the damn blog,” says Laszlo.

So… there we are. Innocently nearing the summit of a not-too-populated mountain. I won’t say the name because I am afraid this dude and his alien ancestors and the chain gang of albino guinee pig-people he has down there (cue the David Bowie music) and their pick up trucks (gray) will come after us… Deep breath. So this dude comes out of no where, in a truck. He said something in a low voice. His lips barely moved. “Where ah you goink,” he said, louder. Tree frogs shrieked.

Laszlo did what Lala calls “prevaricating.”

“I didn’t see any signs, man,” he said, which, Lala, said, shaking her head, was true.

“He totally doesn’t see anything at all. I warned him. And he doesn’t listen.”

“There were signs?” repeated Laszlo.

“This is my family propety,” said weird guy in truck. “Thah ah signs everywhere.”

“We totally saw them, and we are leaving,” I said.

“You would totally sell me down the river wouldn’t you,” said Laszlo under his breath.

“It’s really not the time, honey bunny,” said I. “I think that man has a gun.”

(The following moments were full of tires squealing and much backward driving.)

Laszlo: Wow, babe, that was close.

Lala: You totally never listen to me.

Laszlo: I’m going back to get that photograph.

Lala: Okay, can you pick me up some Diet Coke?

THE NEXT MORNING:

Laszlo, solo, sans Lala, drives BACK to the other side of said mountain — the SAME mountain — in the same rental car in which we had been accosted the night before — and here is how he tells it…

Laszlo: “OMG. OMG. OMG. Lala. Get up. I’m scared. Get up. I’m totally freaked. You are not going to believe this.”

Lala: “Why are you shutting all the drapes and locking the doors?”

Laszlo: “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

Lala: “Just calm down and tell me what happened. No, never mind that, that’s just a martini glass I was using for water. Ice water. No, don’t smell it.”

Laszlo: “I made it all the way up.” (big hand gestures). “35% pitch.”

Lala: “What’s a pitch?”

Laszlo: “I”m talking here… 35% pitch. 6 foot wide pathway. I’m driving. (makes driving gesture). Up, up up! BEAUTIFUL vistas! BEAUTIFUL! I stop 10 yards from the summit. I’m snapping photos. There’s a hair pin turn there so I can’t see where the roadway goes.All of a sudden I hear a truck engine starting!

Lala: “You mean a car engine?”

Laszlo: “Pretty sure it was a truck engine. It was throatier.”

Lala: “Whatever. Go on.”

Laszlo: “As if it were in slow motion, a gray pickup, the SAME GRAY PICKUP, rounds the hairpin. Now it’s facing me.”

Lala: “Holy shit, what did you do?”

Laszlo: “I was scared. There were two gentlemen in the cab… I couldn’t tell if one was the same guy — but they were wearing similar hats to the guy’s yesterday. They didn’t say a word. I didn’t say a word. I just got in the jeep, and I slowly backed that mutha down that slope, at the pace of a snail … it was hard enough getting up it without falling over the edge… All the while, this truck was bumper to bumper with me, escorting me down, down down.”

Lala: “So your life was at risk.”

Laszlo: “Very at risk!”

Lala: “Did you pick up the Diet Coke?”

Laszlo: “What?”

Lala: “Nevermind, just keep going.”

And so it went on, dear readers, this confessional of fear. What were those strange men doing up there? We Google Earthed it and found there is NOTHING THERE for them to be guarding so assiduously. NOTHING.
WE concluded, like any red-blooded Americans, that there were certainly hidden tunnels and secret locations up there. Stuff is GOING on.

This is not what the gray truck looked like. Probably. But this is how Laszlo remembers it. Hey, dudes in the mountain? Can you not kill us? Cool.

Behold a St. Barthelemy Cock. Coq. Gallic Rooster. Whatever.

The unofficial symbol of France is “le coq gaulois.” We met one. He was a dumb little sucker trying to think about how to approach the concept of possibly considering the idea of crossing a road. Cocorico!!!

Two events today. One poulet-related. One literary-related…

Hopeful young writer in Japanese surf-duds, awaiting literary reinforcement.

At left… hope.

At right…disgust with self, universe, and overlarge appearance of thighs in Laszlo’s pictures.

 

It looks like a trailer screen shot from a J-horror picture. But it's simply the documented reaction to a rejection letter from "a leading muthafukin literary mag that rhymes with RAIN, SPAIN, and BAHRAIN, bitches!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The other event today was chicken related…

Poulet-poul coucher avec moi ce soir? OKAY. I ADMIT IT. I AM A COQ. So? How about it?

Mais, pourquoi? Pourquoi est-ce que le coq crosser la rue? Je ne sais pas, mon dieu. Laszlo:

 

 

 

Snorkle is another word for nausea

Don't think about sharks. Don't think about sharks. Don't think about sharks.

Yes, faithful readers — once again the weekend got in the way of posts. What is it about Sundays? Douglas Adams had it right when he called these times of uselessness “the long, dark teatime of the soul.” And yes, we are back again. So now that our teatime is through, yours can begin with us, Lala and Laszlo, your ushers.

Anyone who mentions sharks and ruins this for me gets thrown off the boat. To the sharks.

A totally useless Trumpet Fish. No defense against sharks at all.

Our story continues thus… a couple days ago Laszlo and Lala went snorkeling on the Blue Cat. Hosted by one lovely fellow originally from Strasbourg and another originally from St. Barth‘s, we mounted the blue seas, suppressing visions of shark attacks and wishing for Dramamine.

Sea Turtles do not like to be ridden, no matter what you hear.

Upon arrival at our snorkeling destination on the heaving Barthelemy seas, Lala and Laszlo were zipped into wet suits. Lala, who tends to present as skinnier than she is, from, er… the front view, was stuck halfway in and halfway out of a size small wetsuit. It was only when her rear was stuck at the zipper and refused to get into the suit that the charming Skipper said, “Ah, perhaps it is too small, no?” Damn it, said Lala, who was starting to feel the waves in the form of a hot flash and sweaty temples. Nevertheless, she sucked it all in and zipped it up. whew.

A shark. Since you brought it up.

Then the St. Barth’s man explained that sharks exist but they don’t kill that many people, and hey, we are in their territory anyway. Also he showed us pictures of trumpet fish, which have never once in history been recorded as fighting off sharks from innocent snorkelers, so were of no interest to Lala.

In any event, we had fun and I learned that if you have to throw up in the ocean, it’s best have eaten nothing but Haribo Gummy Bananas.

Our snorkeling experience was just like this... but with more vomiting.

Helpfully chumming the waters for our fellow divers.

L’Isola in Gustavia is so delish…

20120129-214144.jpg

An important part of the vegetable group. Take one orally twice daily for pink elephant viewing and the opportunity to believe you are better looking than you are.

So martinis with little fruits and veggies floating atop them are good after a long long day in the sun, working on stuff for Laz’s next art project.
L’Isola is hot this Sunday with Nungan jamming in the corner. Lots of people.

20120129-214605.jpg

Buckle the fuckle up or I will make you wear my headscarf. Also, I will explain why my face is so white. You WILL wish you hadn't asked. Actually, it's pretty simple: I don't want to get old so I put SPF 50+ on my face and I just let the rest age. I imagine the result will be quite alarming when I am 67. "Who is that young woman walking around on Jessica Tandy's body?"

Nungan. The band. They play an awesome rendition of "Bang, Bang." Not pictured: the photographer extraordinaire Laszlo. "Yes, sure, the headscarf looks GREAT, Lala, I am laughing at a funny thought I had... about ANOTHER girl in a headscarf..."

Hotel Christopher – The Day

Someone had good taste when they made this place. Now if only the people matched. Maybe that's why beautiful architecture is necessary -- to distract us from all the people around us. -- Said by Lala after she saw herself in the bad lighting in the bathroom, having just passed an indifferent super model on the way from the pool. "I didn't know the pelvis could get so small," she complained.

Laszlo: "Nice jugs!" (They have great jugs at the Christopher Hotel)

So Laz finally got around to uploading more photos from our little day at The Hotel Christopher on Saint Barthelemy.

A day pass cost $120 Euro each and included a lovely gourmet lunch, a drink, a bottle of water, a massage by a pert young French lass, and a totally amazing bed setup by the infinity-edge pool, that overlooks the ocean.

For what it’s worth, they give good Oriental Bikini Wax (ancient Chinese secret — I DID NOT SAY IT – My wax girl did) which is quite intimate.

Lazslo wanted to show off Lala so chose the center beds, even though Lala had spent all morning being irritable because she felt fat. Laszlo had to pry the chocolate croissant out of her hands at breakfast, as she was threatening to throw it over the wall. “It doesn’t deserve to live after what it and its kind have done to me!” she shrieked.

So, without further ado…

"Lala, can you please get out of the way of my view? You're legs are ruining my view."

Hiking in Toiny St. Barth’s – Have you seen the Leper House?

English: This is the local flag of Saint-Barth...

St. Barthelemy Coat of Arms. Because Laszlo says this blog has to have some information in it that is relevant to the world and stuff.

Not-so-fun fact of the day St. Barth’s: There is a leper house in St. Barthelemy, built in the late 18th century to accompany a family’s home. It’s tiny and spooky, really just walls (very thick) now. As we had gone running along the beach, we had no camera. Laszlo was sad. So here are some pictures of a Boulangerie where they serve yummy food and where there are no lepers.

These are slow lobsters.

Then we went to the beach for some photos that revealed what chocolate croissants do to the body when taken orally for weeks on end.

Here I am being so awesome and wearing my new swimsuit from Bamboo, plus a couple chocolate croissants around the equator... whatya mean this is a restricted area?!?

Narcissists at work.

You know, as an artist-writer duo, we kind of resent the way that all this glorious beauty impinges on our creative impulses. “I mean, how am I going to plunge the depths of my soul for moral cockroaches when I’ve got this to look at?” said Lala. “Look how fast that Windsurfer is going!” said Laszlo.

This beach sucks. The waters are so... electric. The sand is so... confectioner's sugary. The men are so... brown and yummy.

Hanging with the band Nungan and Papaguyo himself. Yeah. We know. We’re cool.

Some peeps: three of us our in our 30s. Can you guess which two were born the same year as Michael Jackson and Prince? Okay, gotta run, Laszlo is coming after me with what looks like a rusty machete.

May we PRESENT PINKY THE BRAVE! He was pink! He was fearless! He may or may not have emerged from the toilet! What we do know is that Laszlo had a camera with him in the bathroom for some reason! Due to the number of rusty machetes showing up in this blog, Lala is not asking why today! Go PINKY!

Reports have it that this lone critter survived Laszlo's visit to the loo after we had those Mahimahi enchiladas. Steady on, old fellow.