Home away from home. That’s what the Virgin Islands felt like. With Grans from the British Virgin Islands (BVI) and Gramps from the USVI, it’s a big part of my father’s large family. It’s also the first place I’ve ever traveled to—mainly because Dad missed his mother’s cooking.
When I was younger, I didn’t appreciate all of my grandmother’s delicacies. I traded her famous pea soup for Chef Boyardee. But I can still see her in her backyard, cleaning fish under the shade of a flamboyant tree. Or rolling dough for Johnny cakes in her kitchen cluttered with recycled food containers that didn’t always contain what was printed on the label. It wasn’t until I was older that I finally tried what everyone raved about. My first bite of her lobster salad felt like a rite of passage.
Any time I catch a whiff of cigar, I’m catapulted back to their front porch, my grandfather lounging in his favorite chair, listening to tree frogs bo-peep as the sun set over their ocean view. Any time he’d call me Gidget, I felt like a celebrity.
Having the last name Grigg also sparked local attention. We’d get recognized by taxi drivers and custom agents who knew our family. Once we reach, we’d get shuttled to the regular spots for pates and tropical drinks. Even after a long day of driving, flying, and ferrying, landing on the island felt like nothing had changed.
But over the years, that view from my grandparent’s porch has changed. More houses dotted the neighboring hillside on the left. A crusher yard crept closer and closer to their property on the right, and a gas station sullied the scenic panorama. But it was still a place my family and I would visit regularly to reminisce, feast, and soak in the clear blue Caribbean Sea.
It was strange traveling to the islands without the rest of my family. The first time I had to drive a rental on the other side of the street took a little getting used to. But I navigated the mountainside roads like I’d lived there all my life.
What was even more surreal was to witness what became of some landmarks after hurricane Irma and Maria in 2017. After a flight fiasco in Puerto Rico, Dad and I finally caught a charter to the closed Beef Island airport in Tortola. We were on a mission to help clean up as much of the family property as possible. It was almost a week without power and hauling cistern water for showers. But we were able to get my aunt back on track after losing her roof.
Now that the grandparents have passed and most of the family is living in the States, the Virgin Islands doesn’t have the same pull as it used to. Dad goes back every year to help Aunty around the property, and we spent a milestone birthday in a rented hillside cottage. But a piece of it will always feel like home.
Bình luận