Cap Juluca

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Searching for Elvis in Anguilla

Wednesday, July 31, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean | 1 comment

Photo by David Lansing.

The Band needed a break. We’d been practicing since…well, actually, we hadn’t started practicing yet. Which is why we decided we needed a break.

The Band’s official driver, Mr. Glennis Connor, the Anguillan Patron Saint of Lost Luggage, evidently needed a break as well since instead of giving us a musical tour of Anguilla, as he’d promised, he asked Lloyd to do it. Lloyd is good. Nothing against Lloyd at all. It’s just that he’s not Mr. Glennis Connor.

We told Lloyd our mission was to make a musical pilgrimage around Anguilla. Get inspired. Hear the sounds, dig the beat, feel the love.

“Well then,” said Lloyd as we pulled away from Cap Juluca, “I suppose the first thing you’ll want to see is Elvis’.”

We all perked up at that. Even The Man, who had had a very late night, sat up straight and opened his eyes for the first time all morning. “Is Elvis in the building?” asked The Man.

“That’s hard to say,” said Lloyd. “Sometimes Elvis is in the building and sometimes he’s not, if you know what I mean. But we can go by and see.”

Now it just so happens that Elvis’ is next door to Johnno’s. The thing is, Johnno’s is more of a jazz joint. On a typical Sunday there, you’re likely to catch Mo Melin on sax, Peter Sorton on bass, and Jaiden Fleming on drums (or sometimes Fred). Whereas Elvis, of course, is more old school.

Elvis’ Rum Punch.

We asked Lloyd how Elvis was doing. He said he’s good, that these days he’s thin and lanky, the way he used to be (before Vegas). And that if he was around, we’d probably find him behind the 16-foot-boat-turned-bar pouring his signature drink, Elvis’ Rum Punch (Mount Gay rum, Amaretto, oj, pineapple juice, guava juice, lime juice, bitters and nutmeg).

So we went to Elvis’. The bartender told us he was out at the moment. So we ordered a round of rum punches. And then another. Just, you know, for inspiration while waiting for Elvis.

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The band arrives in Anguilla

Tuesday, July 30, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean | 2 comments

The band, left to right: Me, Cricket, T-Bone, Bail-Out, Mrs. Pookie, and The Man. Luscious was taking the photo. I don’t know where our official band photographer was…Oh, wait! We don’t have one!

One by one the band arrived, although, frankly, Mrs. Pookie almost didn’t make it; she snagged a pro-golfer on the ferry ride over from St. Maarten and had to give a hard-think to whether she wanted to rock her viola with us or let the golf pro show her how to gracefully exit a sand trap, if you know what I mean. In the end, she chose the band (although she gave the golf pro her number, so we’ll see what happens).

Bail-Out, traveling from Boston, forgot to bring his mandolin. How do you come to Anguilla for band rehearsals and forget your mandolin? Anyway, as soon as he arrived, he hit the beach—sans sun screen. Just like him. That’s why he’s called Bail-Out. He’s our own little Steven Van Zandt. Part of the reason he’s so hard to schedule for band rehearsals is because he’s always doing some bit in an indie movie or some play in Boston. To be honest, I don’t think he’s really dedicated to his music.

T-Bone arrived right on time. Despite the name, T-Bone doesn’t do steak. Nor chicken nor fish. In fact, T-Bone grooves on a plant-based diet only—no cheese, no milk, no butter, no nada. She’s so tiny it always amazes me that she plays her electric violin with such gusto. But that girl can rock.

Mike “The Man” Espindle got held up in Rome or something, Luscious tells me. Driving a Jaguar around Umbria when he should have been packing his drum kit. He finally showed up in the middle of dinner last night, after way too many cocktails on the flight over, with some cutey on his arm who, evidently, just got married and is honeymooning here. And not to The Man. Have you ever noticed how drummers are always the flakiest musicians in a band (think Spinal Tap)?

Cricket, our keyboardist, lives on Anguilla. He’s the reason we decided to rehearse here, since he swore he could score us free rooms at the Cap Juluca resort (we’ll see what happens when we check-out). And, of course, Luscious, our vocalist and I (electric ukulele) have been here for a couple of days already. So we’re finally good to go.

Now if we could only figure out what to call ourselves. Oh, and write a couple of songs.

This is Luscious. You’ll have to ask her why she’s called that. Photo by David Lansing.

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Waiting for Happiness at Johnno’s

Friday, July 26, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean | 1 comment

Johnno’s at Sandy Ground on Anguilla. Photo by David Lansing.

Glennis drops us off at Johnno’s in Sandy Ground and tells us to wait there until Happiness comes to pick us up.

“When will Happiness be here?” I ask him.

“That’s the thing about Happiness,” says Glennis. “You just never know.”

While Luscious and I are waiting for Happiness, I wander in to Johnno’s. Glennis told me that Johnno’s makes their own hot sauce and it’s excellent. There’s not much going on in Johnno’s shortly before noon on a Thursday. There’s a man in a green shirt drinking a beer by himself and a young woman behind the bar washing glasses.

“I hear your hot sauce is pretty good,” I say to her.

“Our what now?”

“Your hot sauce. Glennis told me you make your own hot sauce. You know Glennis, right?”

“Oh sure. Everyone know Glennis.”

“Do you sell your hot sauce?”

“Do what now?”

“Your hot sauce…do you sell it?”

“Naw. It’s just…” and she reaches down beneath her and brings up a condiment jar of a murkey brown and gray liquid. “We don’t bottle it,” she says. “It’s just in a big pot in the kitchen.”

“Can I taste it?”

“Do what now?”

“The hot sauce…can I taste it?”

“Without no food?”

“Just a taste.”

She pushes the jar over the bar towards me. “I don’t suppose I could disturb you for a spoon?”

She finds a spoon and slides it across the bar. I dip it in to the jar of hot sauce and put the tiniest amount on my tongue.

“Well?” she says.

“It’s alright.”

“Alright? Alright?”

I shrug, shove the spoon back over the bar, and go back outside where Luscious is sitting at a wooden picnic table on the sand waiting for Happiness. She asks me what I’ve been doing.

“Eating hot sauce,” I tell her.

“Was it good?”

“It was awesome. But don’t tell them that.”

Luscious nods towards the dock where a small boat is pulling up. “I think that’s us,” she says, standing up and grabbing her bag.

“Happiness?”

“Happiness.”

Boat to Sandy Island in Anguilla

Happiness is just waiting to take us to Sandy Island. Photo by David Lansing.

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To Sandy Ground

Thursday, July 25, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean

Sandy Ground, Anguilla

The view above Sandy Ground, Anguilla. Photo by David Lansing.

Our band mates still hadn’t arrived so shortly after breakfast this morning, Mr. Glennis Connor, Anguila’s Patron Saint of Lost Luggage, pulled up in front of Cap Juluca to take Luscious and me to the dock where we were to catch a boat to Sandy Island.

I still haven’t been able to get myself oriented on the island. All the roads twist and turn, going this way and that, and one minute the water is on your right side and the next it’s on your left, so it’s all very confusing to me. I started to ask Mr. Connor a question about the island’s history but he shut me down.

“Don’t ask any questions this morning,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll do a tour of the island and you can ask questions then. But not this morning.”

Okay then.

We drove hither and thither and yon (I don’t think I’ve ever used that phrase before; it’s kind of nice) when suddenly Mr. Connor stopped the car along the side of the road.

“I’m going to show you something but I don’t want you to ask me any questions about it,” he said.

Luscious and I got out of the car and Mr. Connor took us across the road to a bluff. Nodding his head, he said, “That’s Sandy Ground.”

We were on a bluff looking out over a perfect Caribbean bay, the water six shades of green and blue, the hills an equal number of shades of green. Sailboats were anchored in the bay and a long dock extended like a bony finger across the green-blue water. Lovely. But nothing we could ask questions about.

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No lobster for Luscious

Wednesday, July 24, 2013 in Anguilla, Cap Juluca, Caribbean | 1 comment

A platter fo crayfish at Jacala in Anguilla. Photo by David Lansing.

So we’re dining at Jacala on the beach in Anguilla and Jacques brings out the whole snapper meunière which he’d pretty much insisted Luscious order. It looked nice, even though I’ve never been a big fan of eating animals who stare back at you. There was the little fishy, cloaked in a few bright spears of asparagus, and topped with a lemon hat as if it were wearing a yellow derby. Very pretty. Oh, and, of course, the meunière (which is really nothing more than browned butter with parsley and lemon).

Jacques stood next to Luscious, his arms lowered, his hands crossed, waiting for her to say something.

“Well…that looks nice,” she said.

Jacques, satisfied, nodded and quickly left the table. A minute later he was back with my Anguilla crayfish.

“Oh!” said Luscious when she saw it. “Oh! Oh!”

Now if you’ve ever had crayfish in New Orleans, you probably think of crayfish as being these little critters not much bigger than a finger that, after much work, give you maybe a single bite of food. But that’s not Anguilla crayfish which are actually a smaller, sweeter lobster (the spotted spiny lobster or Panulirus guttatus) than the traditional Caribbean spiny lobster.

I figured I’d get a couple of the gorgeous crayfish Jacques had showed me earlier. But no…I got six! A platter full of crayfish! A bounty of crayfish! A pot of crayfish! Which is why Luscious had gasped when Jacques brought them to the table.

So Luscious had her little boney bug-eyed snapper with a French sauce she didn’t want and I had a turkey platter spilling over with just-caught Anguilla crayfish.

Now some people in this situation might be tempted to share. To say to Luscious, “Hey, that boney goldfish you have looks really yummy. How about if we split our meals and I’ll give you some of my sweet, delectable, just-caught lobsters, since I have so many of them, for a bite or two of that gimlet-eyed fish you haven’t touched?”

But here’s another one of my rules when eating out: I don’t share plates. Ever. With anyone. If you just happened to order the crappiest thing on the menu because you don’t like to get the same thing someone else is getting, well too bad. No lobster for you. Sorry. I ordered the lobster, I’m going to eat the lobster. So keep your goddamn fork away from my plate. Oh, and bon appetit!

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