insomnia haiku

When vacation bites

Lest you get too jealous of my idyllic vacation, please know that I am covered in painful mosquito bites, from head to toe. Many of you already know that I am allergic to mosquito bites, or if that isn't the exact medical term -- seeing as how I don't have to be rushed to the hospital in a coma -- then I simply have a very, very bad and alarming reaction to them. (Mosquitos also seem to like me a great deal more than I like them.)

For example, of the eight bites on my left arm, two have swelled to an angry red mass about six inches in diameter; three have formed bulbous, oozing blisters that could frighten away children; the other three are just annoying. There are three especially vexing and painful splotchy ones on my left back, right under my arm. On my right leg it looks like I have chicken pox, except for the big red mass near my ankle. The bites do not itch. They hurt, and they throb and swell. I would document this with pictures, but then I feel this blog would qualify for horror movie status, and it'd have to be rated R. Also you would faint.

Well, such is the price you pay for paradise, and I guess I'll never be able to live here. Tonight, I sleep with the Ambien.

Of mangoes and locals

Monday: Ferry to St. Thomas, lunch at Gladys' Cafe in Charlotte Amalie. I was persuaded to have the house specialty, a mango colada, even though I don't particularly like mangoes. And GODDAMN. You know how I like making top five lists of foods? This drink shot straight to the head of my new top five drinks list. Fresh mango, blended, some kind of sweet rum on top, presumably some other kind of rum within. I sucked one down well before my food (a delicious plate of oxtail stew) arrived, then had another. What I wouldn't give to have a third right at this very moment.

Today (Tuesday): We hit Honeymoon Beach before noon and spent a lovely, lazy day there. I finally partook of Heidi's famed burger, accompanied by a couple beers and a bag of crunchy Cheetos. The water, once again, was blissful. I went in at least three times and didn't want to get out.

Got in some good conversation with the locals. One guy said he used to live in New York and did computer tech stuff; he now works on boats. When we retired to Joe's Beach Bar for piña coladas and margaritas, we chatted with the bartender, who was from Michigan orginally and moved here with two of her kids when she fell in love with Joe himself. Those kids, whom she homeschools, ran around cheerily while her youngest, a tow-headed two-year-old, wrapped herself up in a rope swing, buck naked. We grilled the bartender on how often she has to travel to St. Thomas (every day, she said with a grimace), whether there's any sort of mayor (nope), how many people live on the island (75 year-round, 200 in the winter), what people do for medical care (there's a woman who helps with newborn care, and there's a retired veterinarian). There's no police force really, but there is one guy who, if there's any sign of trouble, calls up "all the big guys" and they go take care of it. I told Mary, the caretaker, who was hanging out at Heidi's Honeymoon Grill with some other locals, that if I lived there I would worry that I'd start taking it all for granted. All three locals shook their heads. "Every time we start," she said, "people like you guys come down, and then we remember."

On this island, the biggest emergencies are beer emergencies

Today: Slumbered til 10 (sleep was hindered by the inevitable bug bites, as yesterday's dinner on the beach meant that I, too, was someone's -- something's, rather -- dinner on the beach), breakfast of eggs and bacon, then a short trek down to Sprat Bay beach, a private little nook we had all to ourselves but for the pelicans dive-bombing fish. Eventually some folks rowed in on a boat, doing what we were not sure. They had a net, so perhaps fishing?

We thought of taking the ferry to St. Thomas to have lunch and stock up on provisions, but we'd missed the 12:15 and the next wasn't until 3:15. So it was back to Honeymoon Beach -- more driving in the Gem car, whee! though lack of power steering and scant turning circle made all-too-frequent three-point turnabouts more like 17-point turnabouts -- for burgers and hot dogs on the beach courtesy of Heidi's Grill. Cooled off with a Caribe beer (my new fave) plus two dips in the ocean. The water was incredible. Warm as bathwater and just as tranquil; perfect for floating on your back, undisturbed, for long stretches of time. A group of Brits nearby was having a birthday fête; they sang Happy Birthday complete with ending "Hip hip ... Hooray!"s. People wandered into the ocean with drinks held aloft. Most of the small crowd seemed to be local and thoroughly convivial; it was, in short, the perfect beach.

Time for a drink at the adjacent rum shack, name unknown. (I think it's Joe's.) A middle aged man spun 70s and 80s tunes (wow, it's been a while since I heard Heart's "These Dreams"), I snapped a few pictures of a visiting iguana, and a woman came over to offer us some chili she'd cooked up. We waved hello to Mary, the caretaker. On our way out, a man barbecuing nudged me to point out, with pride, the largest steak I'd ever seen. "It's gonna be good," he insisted. I never had a doubt.

Home to make a dinner of Cornish game hens, potatoes, broccoli and wine. Then I fell asleep outside, waking up at 10:30 to wonder if I dared climb into bed and call it a night right then and there. Apparently the others have done so, and therefore, having occupied myself for a respectable hour, I shall now do the same.

Tomorrow: lunch on St. Thomas, possible wandering around, plus quest for non-gouging grocery or drugstore where we can buy Advil, bottled water and good cheese. I asked the woman manning the grill at Heidi's today where people went if they needed cash (there is no ATM on the island) or had some kind of emergency and needed to buy something. "What kind of emergency? You run out of beer?" her cohort said. Her follow-up response: "We just don't have emergencies." Ah, island life. Below: Honeymoon Beach. Better pictures (taken on real camera) shall follow, but not until I get back.

Welcome to paradise

Don't hate me. Much. (This is the beach at Sprat Bay -- our own secluded hideaway.)

The little electric car (a true Gem)

Who killed the electric car? Not I! Not yet.

Tropical Do-Nothing Vacation: Day 1

(Apologies for the imperfect grammar etc; I'm typing this on my iPhone.)

Long day. Packed until 3 am, napped until 5, took two flights, slept most of the way.

A note about the Charlotte, NC, airport: it kicks the ass of most other airports, or at least New York's. For one thing, Bojangles fried chicken! For another, white rocking chairs. In the airport. And then at our gate there was an actual airplane hanging from the ceiling. Dude. Go Charlotte.

We landed in St. Thomas, and the moment we walked into the terminal, there was a guy there with a tray of complimentary mango rum shots for all. Welcome to the Virgin Islands, indeed!

We had a rum punch at Tickle's, then bought provisions at the little market next door (sadly, most of what we bought was frozen and overpriced). Then took the little ferry to Water Island, which... Such a difference. We went from the land of tourists to a dock where the girl hanging out, waiting for her mom, told us she lived on a catamaran and hung out on Water Island because the beaches were better and St. Thomas was "dirty."

Got picked up in a jeep by Mary, the caretaker of the house where we're staying (in Sprat Bay). She's lived on the island 20 years, also lived on a boat for 12 years, and told us that they don't like telling outsiders about this place because it's their little paradise. And boy, is it ever. GORGEOUS. L had been here many times, but L's friend P and I couldn't get over it, especially when we got to the house, which isn't huge but marvelous and tastefully decorated with porches and a view and a tiny pool. And there's a hammock! I'm a sucker for a hammock.

We had stopped at the beach to leave out order for dinner at Heidi's, which is a food truck in Honeymoon Beach. They said they'd be serving dinner at 6, so we only had time to change before heading back down -- this time, navigating by ourselves in a miniscule, doorless, yellow electric car (picture tomorrow). I drove. Left side of the road, winding roads, steep cliffs, very little sense of if we were going the right way, 10 miles per hour. Super fun, though. I loved it. It was like driving a golf cart.

Unbelievably made it back to Honeymoon Beach after getting lost only once; had ribeye steak and Corona on the beach as the sun set. Damn. It's too beautiful to be real. Then back to the house for wine and conversation on the deck.

Tomorrow, I crack open Catch-22.

I am good at many things, but restraint in packing is not one of them

Heading off to vacation on Water Island in a few hours -- I've finally finished packing, and have once again done a horrible job. What I think I'll need with four pairs of shoes is beyond me.

And I'm taking five books, which may be a lot ambitious, but if it rains every day, then what else am I going to do? (Even if it doesn't rain all day, what else am I going to do?) I decided, in the end, after three bookstore trips, on the following: new Lorrie Moore novel, Frank Bruni's memoir, forthcoming (thanks, NV) Audrey Niffenegger novel, The World According to Garp, Catch-22. A nice mix, I think. Two hardcovers and three paperbacks; two women and three men; three new books and two classics.

I had made the decision not to sleep, since I have to be at the airport by 6:30 a.m. which means I have to get up at around 4:30 a.m.. But this decision is seeming less sound by the second. I'm fading fast.

There will be no Internet where I am, nor, possibly, any TV. But my iPhone should work (I hope), so watch this space and I'll post updates when I can, which will basically be whenever, since I -- again -- will have nothing to do. (Yay!) Then again, perhaps my muscles will atrophy so much that I will be unable to lift my iPhone or to type on it. The only time I will rouse myself, aside from getting up to retrieve more rum punch, will be next Saturday during the Cal-USC game, when I will be refreshing the college football scores every 30 seconds for news. Such is the price of paradise.

These are the books I'm contemplating taking on vacation

Can't take 'em all, of course. Suggestions welcome. (That one on the bottom right is Frank Bruni's new memoir Born Round.)

What it's like to have insomnia: a primer

There are some people who have never had trouble sleeping -- not once. They've told me so. I've mentally shot daggers at them through my mental eyeballs while smiling in fake delighted relief. "Good for you!" I hope they have some other kind of affliction that's equally foreign to me, like they can't tell right from left, or they feel sick around babies, or they fart uncontrollably in elevators and churches.

If you've never had insomnia (you lucky dog), this is what it's like.

It doesn't matter how tired you are. You could have gone without sleep for three days, and are just bone-weary tired, aching to lay your head on your pillow; but being tired isn't the same thing as being sleepy. Sleepy is when your eyes get tired. It's the feeling you have right after hitting the snooze button in the morning and falling back into bed, or when you're lying on your couch watching golf or the cooking channel and you're snuggled up in your afghan and your eyelids just pleasantly driiiiiift on shut. Or remember in class, when you would spend a good half hour watching that one guy struggle to stay awake, his head leaning forward before he'd jerk it back, then he'd start to sway again ... oh that was you? Well, if you've got that feeling now, you're good. If you have insomnia, then you're just tired. Taahrd. The body may want its rest, but the mind is completely awake.

Your mind goes everwhere. Contrary to what some people say, it is not that easy just to "let go your thoughts." Particularly if you have a lot on your mind, that's the stuff you're going to think about as you lay in bed, and it's going to go a hundred miles an hour and there won't be a break. On some levels, this makes sense. We're thinking people, and shouldn't bedtime be the one time you can be alone with your thoughts? But I believe the founding fathers of sleep meant bedtime was the time for little-t thoughts, like, "bunnies are cute," or "I like that freckle." Not big-T Thoughts like, "I still have to set up all the Emmys pages tomorrow and publish that other feature and close the poll and then publish it by Friday, WHEN AM I GOING TO SLEEP? oh and I have to get that video post done, when am I going to do that? WHY CAN'T I SLEEP? And shoot I forgot to contact the building manager, and forgot to kick that other meeting out of the room Friday so the IC guys can set up, and I need to update all the hubs before anyone notices, FALLING ASLEEP, ANY SECOND NOW and oh shoot when am I going to go to that store and do that thing and I wonder who won the election and ..." (Oh, did I put you to sleep? Yay!)

You forget how to sleep. This has always been a great mystery to me, this business of falling asleep. How? How is it done? I mean, one minute, you're awake, fully alert and conscious. And then you're just supposed to succumb to unconsciousness? What happens in the middle? It seems perfectly logical that your body and psyche would try to fight that off. And if you approach the loss of consciousness and realize you're almost there, then wouldn't that prick you back into alertness? I just have a hard time imagining willing myself into oblivion. Maybe I'm too curious for that. Wouldn't you want to know what was happening?

You feel everything. When I've eaten too late -- say, post 9pm -- I feel the digesting food in my stomach. When that's still the case by the time I go to bed, I can't sleep. I feel heavy, like a big pile of sand, and it's just not going to happen. So, too, do I notice every itch, every bug bite; my legs suddenly feel foreign and strange, which leads to ...

You're restless. Not confined to restless-legs syndrome, this phenomenon merely means that you toss and turn. Nothing feels comfortable, no position, no place in the bed. Too hard! Too soft! Too small! Man, I envy Goldilocks. She was no insomniac.

You lie there very still. You think, maybe this is the way to calm my thoughts down. (It doesn't). You try to think slower. Or think of a story from your past. You wait. You feel your heart beat, and the food in your stomach, and the mattress beneath you, and you're screwed. There's nothing for you.

You think about getting up. All the books say that if you have insomnia you should get up and do something else. But doesn't logic dictate that if you just don't quit, and keep at it a while longer, you'll eventually get to sleep? Doesn't work, though. You just spend another two hours tossing and turning and TRYING to think of nothing.

You take a pill. And here I am. The significance of this particular pill is that, since I only have one pill left, I was planning to hoard it, and deprive myself. But this evening what did I find underneath the bed but what looked like ... half a pill of Ambien. It looked gross. Covered in dust. Sitting there for god knows long. And what did I do? I washed it off in the bathroom sink and swallowed it down. When it comes to swallowing some dust and dirt vs. having insomnia, I'll take the dust anyday.

And here, if it's late and this is any help for you, some pictures of sheep, jumping fences.

Civic duty: my new hobby

I had a bit of a revelation this morning -- or maybe it was something I'd always known, but had forgotten. And that was this: I love voting.

I voted in the Democratic primary, going over to my normal polling place only to discover that the voting machine for my neighborhood (or section or whatever it's called) was broken. I was pretty disappointed about that, because my polling place still uses those non-electronic machines that are like a hundred years old, and I love the satisfying "thwunk" the red lever makes when you pull it, as if to say hell yeah, your vote's being counted. (Take that, chads!) But instead, they gave me a piece of paper with ovals I had to fill out, and I felt like I was back in college, poring over my Scantron form. Except using a ballpoint pen instead of a #2 pencil.

After I voted, I headed in to work, and I was actually a little early -- having allowed myself extra time to vote -- and it wasn't until I had gotten there that I realized something: I was in a good mood. There was a little bounce in my step. I felt ... well, I felt good. I felt proud of myself. I felt like maybe I had made a difference.

It's not like this was my first time voting or anything. I vote in every election. But presidential (and midterm) elections feel important because they ARE important on a national level, particularly the last one, which was, of course, historic. On the other hand, a Democratic primary in which the mayoral candidate doesn't matter, the biggest races are for positions most New Yorkers have probably never heard of (public advocate and comptroller), and the most exciting race is for my own teeny Brooklyn district's councilmember -- a race so close, I hadn't even decided whom I was going to vote for when I sat down with my ballot?

Maybe I was struck because I was voting for a candidate my friend was endorsing, and since the turnout was so low, I felt my vote actually might mean something. Maybe I was proud of myself because I was making a little bit of an extra effort, when most New Yorkers weren't bothering. Or maybe ... I don't know. But as my good mood swelled, I realized, not everyone gets to do this. And we're lucky. And then I felt a little ashamed that I don't realize that more often.

I know there are plenty of people -- people whom I know, even -- who don't vote. (I know someone who didn't vote in the last presidential election. I'm still flabbergasted.) I feel sorry for them. They think their vote doesn't matter, or they don't care about the issues, and that's fine. But they don't know what it's like to be a part of something so big, to feel like you're helping to shape the world around you, in no matter how small a way. It's a nice thing to be able to fulfill your civic duty in ten minutes, with a pull of a lever or the filling of a little bubble. It's satisfying. It's fun.

Thanks, Democratic primary of 2009, for reminding me of that.