My grandfather woke me up at 7am this morning to his singing. He is an undiscovered talented song writer whose this lyrics this morning consisted of "Coffee Time, is all the time, coffee time is every time." On repeat. My jetlag is starting to fade and am getting up a little later each day but with the help of my grandfather's musical talents, I'm sure I will stay on my early bird schedule. I sat at the kitchen table for 'Coffee Time' and nibbled on the cut fig and dry Raisin Bran breakfast spread that my grandfather had prepared for me and my grandmother.
Today is a national holiday in the Bahamas, the Emancipation. A day where former British colonies in the Caribbean celebrate freedom from slavery but according to my Grandpa, the holiday celebrates the beach. My grandmother looked at him with squinted eyes over her coffee as he continued to talk about 'Beach Day' when she finally interrupted "Where the hell are you getting your information from? Emancipation means freedom. Freedom from slavery, not beach day!" My grandfather nodded his head in slow and motion and in his thick Italian accent continued on with his point "I know, Dolly but it also means beach day. Today is Beach Day." Day 1 in The Bahamas and my grandparents are already natives.
My grandparents can't help but Italianize every kitchen that comes their way and so after an hour upon their arrival, the kitchen was already stocked with a block of parmigiano, mozzerella, roasted peppers, proscuitto di parma, olives and 10 boxes of pasta. My grandmother opens the fridge every so often and looks at the food and says "Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous" as she eyes the beefsteak tomatoes my grandfather bargained for at a farmer's stand under the Nassau Bridge yesterday.
The topic of Christmas came up and my grandparents said that since 'everyone' is married, that they would go on vacation for Christmas this year. Everyone? Two of my cousins are getting married this month and I have 2 other unmarried cousins, not to mention 2 unmarried brothers and then theres always me. So it begins, my Bridget Jones years.
My grandparents will without a doubt add another dimension to my tropical vacation and will keep me from thinking too much. And cooking too much, for that matter. This week will test my patience as I get asked what I am doing with my life, what happened with Monsieur Flâneur, why I insist on living in Paris when I can live on Long Island and a myriad of other annoying questions that they don't really listen to my answers to. Respire...
