Caribbean Love Quotes

One word love: curiosity. You long for freedom. You long to do what you want to do because you want it. To act on selfish impulse. You want to see what it's like. One day you won't be able to resist.

I so love you! It is like my heart wants to be one with yours. I feel it melting inside of me, and like sunshine flowing out through cracks and streaming into your heart.

Midnight Omen Deja vu" - Because everyone should experience love in the Caribbean...at least once in a lifetime.

Lie is more worth living, more full of interest when you are likely to lose it. It shouldn't be, perhaps, but it is. When you're young and strong and healthy, and life stretches ahead of you, living isn't really important at all. It's young people who commit suicide easily, out of despair from love, sometimes from sheer anxiety and worry. But old people know how valuable life is and how interesting. - Jane Marple

We live in a world of unimaginable surprises - from the fusion energy that lights the sun to the genetic and evolutionary consequences of this light’s dancing for eons upon the earth - and yet paradise conforms to our most superficial concerns with all the fidelity of a Caribbean cruise. This is wondrously strange. If one didn't know better, one would think that man, in his fear of losing all that he loves, had created heaven, along with its gatekeeper God, in his own image.

Mr. Gibbs: Curse you for breathin' ya slack-jawed idiot. Mother's love. Jack. You should know better than to wake a man when he's sleepin'. Its bad luck. Jack Sparrow: Fortunately, I know how to counter it; the man who did the waking buys the man who was sleeping a drink; the man who was sleeping drinks it while listening to a proposition from the man who did the waking. Mr. Gibbs: Aye, that'll about do it.

She was with me the day I went to the paint store to pick out the color. I had a nice tan color in mind, but May latched on to this sample called Caribbean Pink. She said it made her feel like dancing a Spanish flamenco. I thought, "Well, this is the tackiest color I've ever seen, and we'll have half the town talking about us, but if it can lift May's heart like that, I guess she ought to live inside it." "All this time I just figured you liked pink," I said. She laughed again. "You know, some things don't matter that much, Lily.. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the over-all scheme of life? But lifting a person's heart-now, that matters. The whole problem with people is-" "They don't know what matters and what doesn't," I said, filling in her sentence and feeling proud of myself for doing so. "I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don't choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still so hard to choose Caribbean Pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.

So, you told them you’d do it.” “I did. Do you think that’s dumb?” “I think it’s dangerous,” he said, turning me to face him. “I think you’re crazy. But dangerous and crazy are two of the things I love most about you. So, no. Not dumb. Although I am disappointed that your condition for taking the job was reopening Hex Hall and not, I don’t know, a Caribbean vacation with your boyfriend.” He lowered his head to kiss me, and Jenna cleared her throat. “Um, hello? Pretty sure vampire sidekick should get some kind of perk, too.” Archer nudged Jenna’s shoulder. “Tell you what, when we get back from the Caribbean, she can take you to Transylvania or something. How does that sound?

The wind from the Caribbean blew in the windows along with the racket made by the birds, and Fermina Daza felt in her blood the wild beating of her free will.

In Paris, strolling arm in arm with a casual sweetheart through a late autumn, it seemed impossible to imagine a purer happiness than those golden afternoons, with the woody odor of chestnuts on the braziers, the languid accordions, the insatiable lovers kidding on the open terraces, and still he had told himself with his hand on his heart that he was not prepared to exchange all that for a single instant of his Caribbean in April. He was still too young to know that heart's memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.

One of the problems with the first date is that you know very little about a person, so you overweight those few things that you do know,’ the anthropologist and dating guru Helen Fisher told me. ‘And suddenly you see they’ve got brown shoes, and you don’t like brown shoes, so they’re out. Or they don’t like your haircut, so they’re out. But if you were to get to know each other more, those particular characteristics might begin to recede in importance, as you also found that they had a great sense of humor or they’d love to go fishing in the Caribbean with you.

What I see is the millions of people, of whom I am just one, made orphans: no motherland, no fatherland, no gods, no mounds of earth for holy ground, no excess of love which might lead to the things that an excess of love sometimes brings, and worst and most painful of all, no tongue. (For isn't it odd that the only language I have in which to speak of this crime is the language of the criminal who committed the crime? And what can that really mean? For the language of the criminal can contain only the goodness of the criminal's deed. The language of the criminal can explain and express the deed only from the criminal's point of view. It cannot contain the horror of the deed, the injustice of the deed, the agony, the humiliation inflicted one me.

No fucking way, Alexis. ” Ethan said, groaning. “You’re dating Batman.” I finally turned away from the window, but couldn’t return his smile. The smile fell from his face , and he threw his hands up in the air in frustration . “I take that back. You’re in love with Batman.” Was I in love with Batman? Did it even matter? It appeared that Batman was also seeing Caribbean Barbie, and it’s not like I could even complain about it.

You know, some things don't matter that much, Lily. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the over-all scheme of life? But lifting a person's heart-- now, that matters. The whole problem with people is--" "They don't know what matters and what doesn't," I said, filling in her sentence and feeling proud of myself for doing so. "I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don't choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still so hard to choose the Caribbean Pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.

Slavery is not a horror safely confined to the past; it continues to exist throughout the world, even in developed countries like France and the United States. Across the world slaves work and sweat and build and suffer. Slaves in Pakistan may have made the shoes you are wearing and the carpet you stand on. Slaves in the Caribbean may have put sugar in your kitchen and toys in the hands of your children. In India they may have sewn the shirt on your back and polished the ring on your finger. They are paid nothing. Slaves touch your life indirectly as well. They made the bricks for the factory that made the TV you watch. In Brazil slaves made the charcoal that tempered the steel that made the springs in your car and the blade on your lawnmower. Slaves grew the rice that fed the woman that wove the lovely cloth you've put up as curtains. Your investment portfolio and your mutual fund pension own stock in companies using slave labor in the developing world. Slaves keep your costs low and returns on your investments high.

Love is the self-revelation of two souls. Sometimes it comes in a blinding moment in only one day, sometimes after a slow awakening of eleven years. God takes no cognizance of the timetable.

I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don’t choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still so hard to choose Caribbean Pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.

There is a way to be cruel that seems Jamaican to me. But I’ve heard other islanders say the same thing, so maybe it’s a Caribbean thing. Though Africans and African Americans tell me that it’s a similar way with them, so maybe it’s a black thing. It’s saying exactly what you think, regardless of how it will affect the listener. Perhaps this is the language of the oppressed—the colonized, the enslaved. Maybe our kind doesn’t have time for soft words. My friend, from Jamaica same as me, says that she prefers this to people talking behind her back. I don’t know that I agree.

The Dilemma of Human Suffering Nothing external ensures freedom from suffering. Even when we human beings possess all the things we typically use to gauge external success—great looks, loving parents, terrific children, financial security, a caring spouse—it may not be enough. Humans can be warm, well fed, dry, physically well—and still be miserable. Humans can enjoy forms of excitement and entertainment unknown in the nonhuman world and out of reach for all but a fraction of the population—high-definition TVs, sports cars, exotic trips to the Caribbean—and still be in excruciating psychological pain.

This is sacred space. Libation . . . instead of pouring water on the ground, I pour words on the page. I begin with this libation in honor of all of those unknown and known spirits who surround us. I acknowledge the origins of this land where I am seated while writing this introduction. This land was inhabited by Indigenous people, the very first people to inhabit this land, who lived here for thousands of years before the Europeans arrived and were unfortunately unable to cohabitate without dominating, enslaving, raping, terrorizing, stealing from, relocating, and murder- ing the millions of members of Indigenous nations throughout Turtle Island, which is now known as North America. I write libation to those millions of Indigenous women, men, and children; and those millions of kidnapped and enslaved African women, men, and children whose genocide, confiscated land, centuries of free labor, forced migration, traumatic memories of rape, and sweat, tears, and blood make up the very fiber and foundation of all of the Americas and the Caribbean.

I was examining the perfumed, coloured candles guaranteed to bring good fortune with continued use when a lovely mocha-skinned girl came in from the back room and stood behind the counter. She wore a white smock over her dress and looked about nineteen or twenty. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair was the colour of polished mahogany. A number of thin, silver hoops jingled on her fine-boned wrist. "May I help you?" she asked. Just beneath her carefully modulated diction lingered the melodic calypso lilt of the Caribbean.

A slave’s life therefore was defined by his extreme powerlessness, over his person and the persons of his loved ones. This lack of autonomy engendered a sense of humiliation and dishonour. And this was the most pernicious heritage of slavery: that the slaves frequently internalized the master’s denigration and abuse and turned it into self-loathing, creating the mental slavery that imprisoned the slaves as surely as their shackles; what the Caribbean historian and poet Edward Brathwaite dubbed the “inner plantation.

The word cod is of unknown origin. For something that began as food for good Catholics on the days they were to abstain from sex, it is not clear why, in several languages, the words for salt cod have come to have sexual connotations. In the English-speaking West Indies, saltfish is the common name for salt cod. In slang, saltfish means "a woman's genitals", and while Caribbeans do love their salt cod, it is this other meaning that is responsible for the frequent appearance of the word saltfish in Caribbean songs such as the Mighty Sparrow's "Saltfish".

You know, some things don’t matter that much, Lily. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the overall scheme of life? But lifting a person’s heart—now, that matters. The whole problem with people is—” “They don’t know what matters and what doesn’t,” I said, filling in her sentence and feeling proud of myself for doing so. “I was gonna say, The problem is they know what matters, but they don’t choose it. You know how hard that is, Lily? I love May, but it was still so hard to choose Caribbean Pink. The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters.” I

Life down here is kind of a permanent Halloween where you choose a costume more fitting for your self-image than reality could ever offer. Do you want to be a captain or a cowboy? No problem. People will call you by whatever title or name you choose. You say you’re a reincarnated pirate queen or the abandoned love child of a famous entertainer? That’s fine with me. We believe each other’s stories about who we were and who we are. Being an expat means you can have a whole new life. It’s a little like being in the Witness Relocation Program only with flip flops and margaritas.

It was time to take the best bits from them all and build something delicious: the spirituality of the Hindus, the community spirit and family ties of the Muslims, the ancient wisdom of the Chinese, the love of freedom and equality of the Afro-Caribbeans, the work ethic of the Jews, the bloody-mindedness and wry humour of the Australians, the blarney of the Irish, the passion of the Scots, the unorthodoxy of the Welsh, combined with our own English love of justice, fair play and democracy. Put them all together and you had a vision for the future, a direction, which Bokononism could exploit.

When we hang up, I sigh long and look out the window to the darkness over the ocean, no delineation between water and sky. It's always disorienting when I speak to my mother, that pull of her voice back into our old life even though both of us have tried to move beyond it. In her soft Caribbean accent I hear my brother's laughter, see us both as children playing together in the backyard when it was still covered in crunch green grass and our toys were new. Mami's voice was the song of our home, even with no father, even as we lived with that black mass of the unspoken, even with the marks on our bones we didn't know we carried. Through all life's uncertainty, we felt anchored by the love in her voice.

When asked if he had a special feeling for books, critic-turned-filmmaker Francois Truffaut answered, "No. I love them and films equally, but how I love them!" As an example, Truffaut gave the example that his feeling of love for "Citizen Kane" (USA, 1941) "is expressed in that scene in 'The 400 Blows' where Antoine lights a candle before the picture of Balzac.' My book lights candles for m any of the great authors of this world: Chinua Achebe (Nigeria), Angela Carter (UK), Saratchandra Chattopadhyay (India), Janet Frame (New Zealand), Yu Hua (China), Stieg Larsson (Sweden), Clarice Lispector (Brazil), Mario Vargas Llosa (Peru), Naguib Mifouz (Egypt), Murasaki Shikibu (Japan), and Alice Walker (USA) - to name but a few. Furthermore, graphic novels, manga, musicals, television, webisodes and even amusement park rides like 'Pirates of the Caribbean' can inspire work in adaptation. Let's be open to learning from them all. ("Great Adaptations: Screenwriting and Global Storytelling," 2)

POEM – MY AMAZING TRAVELS [My composition in my book Travel Memoirs with Pictures] My very first trip I still cannot believe Was planned and executed with such great ease. My father, an Inspector of Schools, was such a strict man, He gave in to my wishes when I told him of the plan. I got my first long vacation while working as a banker One of my co-workers wanted a travelling partner. She visited my father and discussed the matter Arrangements were made without any flutter. We travelled to New York, Toronto, London, and Germany, In each of those places, there was somebody, To guide and protect us and to take us wonderful places, It was a dream come true at our young ages. We even visited Holland, which was across the Border. To drive across from Germany was quite in order. Memories of great times continue to linger, I thank God for an understanding father. That trip in 1968 was the beginning of much more, I visited many countries afterward I am still in awe. Barbados, Tobago, St. Maarten, and Buffalo, Cirencester in the United Kingdom, Miami, and Orlando. I was accompanied by my husband on many trips. Sisters, nieces, children, grandchildren, and friends, travelled with me a bit. Puerto Rico, Los Angeles, New York, and Hialeah, Curacao, Caracas, Margarita, Virginia, and Anguilla. We sailed aboard the Creole Queen On the Mississippi in New Orleans We traversed the Rockies in Colorado And walked the streets in Cozumel, Mexico. We were thrilled to visit the Vatican in Rome, The Trevi Fountain and the Colosseum. To explore the countryside in Florence, And to sail on a Gondola in Venice. My fridge is decorated with magnets Souvenirs of all my visits London, Madrid, Bahamas, Coco Cay, Barcelona. And the Leaning Tower of Pisa How can I forget the Spanish Steps in Rome? Stratford upon Avon, where Shakespeare was born. CN Tower in Toronto so very high I thought the elevator would take me to the sky. Then there was El Poble and Toledo Noted for Spanish Gold We travelled on the Euro star. The scenery was beautiful to behold! I must not omit Cartagena in Columbia, Anaheim, Las Vegas, and Catalina, Key West, Tampa, Fort Lauderdale, and Pembroke Pines, Places I love to lime. Of course, I would like to make special mention, Of two exciting cruises with Royal Caribbean. Majesty of the Seas and Liberty of the Seas Two ships which grace the Seas. Last but not least and best of all We visited Paris in the fall. Cologne, Dusseldorf, and Berlin Amazing places, which made my head, spin. Copyright@BrendaMohammed

No Language not only imagines a sexual politics as West Indian as the Caribbean Sea but also charts complex relationships between eroticism, colonialism, militarism, resistance, revolution, poverty, despair, fullness, and hope that explore the pliability necessary to imagine Caribbean same-sex loving politics differently, postcolonially. Myriam Chancy, in the first study of Brand’s poetry, writes her artistic vision as a rescripting of traditional poetics into poelitics: “A fusion of politics and poetry that recalls Lorde, who once wrote of the transformative power of poetry as ‘a revelatory distillation of experience’ and as an act of fusion between ‘true knowledge’ and ‘lasting action.’ ”8 Brand vocalizes quite lucidly the threat that this infusion of politics into poetics poses to both revolutionary and neocolonial Caribbean thinkers: “To dream about a Black woman, even an old Black woman, is dangerous even in a Black dream, an old dream, a Black woman’s dream, even in a dream where you are the dreamer,” she writes of reactions to her black lesbian feminist revolutionary artistic work by Marxists and conservatives alike. “Even in a Black dream, where I, too, am a dreamer, a lesbian is suspect; a woman is suspect even to other women, especially if she dreams of women.

Eight Bells: Robert J. Kane ‘55D died June 3, 2017, in Palm Harbor, Florida. He came to MMA by way of Boston College. Bob or “Killer,” as he was affectionately known, was an independent and eccentric soul, enjoying the freedom of life. After a career at sea as an Officer in the U.S. Navy and in the Merchant Marine he retired to an adventurous single life living with his two dogs in a mobile home, which had originally been a “Yellow School Bus.” He loved watching the races at Daytona, Florida, telling stories about his interesting deeds about flying groceries to exotic Caribbean Islands, and misdeeds with mysterious ladies he had known. For years he spent his summers touring Canada and his winters appreciating the more temperate weather at Fort De Soto in St. Petersburg, Florida…. Enjoying life in the shadow of the Sunshine Bridge, Bob had an artistic flare, a positive attitude and a quick sense of humor. Not having a family, few people were aware that he became crippled by a hip replacement operation gone bad at the Bay Pines VA Hospital. His condition became so bad that he could hardly get around, but he remained in good spirits until he suffered a totally debilitating stroke. For the past 6 years Bob spent his time at various Florida Assisted Living Facilities, Nursing Homes and Palliative Care Hospitals. His end came when he finally wound up as a terminal patient at the Hospice Facility in Palm Harbor, Florida. Bob was 86 years old when he passed. He will be missed….

I am not your mother. “No one in this world can love that girl like her mother,” they told me, the day I tore out my hair to hold you. My hair, the raft lashed with pitch darts that kept you. My hair, the mantle against less honourable creatures who blow kisses with crusted lips. They measure you for marvelous coffins. My dead hair was never your shroud.   My hair is the hundred thousand wires of my love and it holds you safe. In its jungle, you are queen. In it, you learned that ink and blood and salt, these three, grow the truest trees.   I

These diamonds in your face will chain you to the omnipotence of love. You will become a strange beast. The light that once dazzled your lover will leave him terrified of his desire for you.   She dances for me and I dance for her. We

when you find that real, inconvenient, all consuming, once in a lifetime kind of love, you don’t care about timings and logistics. ‘I

you don’t find love, love finds you. There’s no logic to it and once it has a hold of you, there’s no going back. I guess love doesn’t have to be prefect, it just has to be true…                                    

When a penguin falls in love with another penguin, he searches the entire beach to find the most perfect pebble. It has to be just right, like the perfect engagement ring.

Elizebeth: "There will come a moment when you have the chance to do the right thing." Jack: "I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by.

Elizebeth: "There will come a moment when you will have the chance to do the right thing." Jack: "I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by.

Where are the monuments to the enslaved people who built the wealth Britain benefits from today or the indigenous peoples in the Caribbean who were massacred and dispossessed of their lands to create sugar plantations for European enjoyment? Where are the monuments to the Windrush generation that—like the Turkish Gastarbeiter in Germany, or North African workers in France—helped rebuild postwar Britain, yet decades later were wrongly detained, denied legal rights and benefits (such as medical care and housing), and threatened with deportation (with at least eighty-three individuals wrongly deported) by Britain's Conservative government, in what became known as the Windrush scandal in 2018? Where is the seemingly ferocious commitment to not editing or censoring when it comes to those figures? Where is that much-romanticized—and much-instrumentalized—love of history when it comes to understanding just whom that history is actually built and peopled by?

Derek Walcott wrote in his 1992 Nobel Lecture about the enthusiasm of the tourist: What is hidden cannot be loved. The traveller cannot love, since love is stasis and travel is motion. If he returns to what he loved in a landscape and stays there, he is no longer a traveller but in stasis and concentration, the lover of that particular part of earth, a native. So many people say they ‘love the Caribbean’, meaning that someday they plan to return for a visit but could never live there, the usual benign insult of the traveller, the tourist. These travellers, at their kindest, were devoted to the same patronage, the islands passing in profile, their vegetal luxury, their backwardness and poverty . . . What is the earthly paradise for our visitors? Two weeks without rain and a mahogany tan, and, at sunset, local troubadours in straw hats and floral shirts beating ‘Yellow Bird’ and ‘Banana Boat Song’ to death. There is a territory wider than this – wider than the limits made by the map of an island – which is the illimitable sea and what it remembers. All of the Antilles, every island, is an effort of memory; every mind, every racial biography culminating in amnesia and fog. Pieces of sunlight through the fog and sudden rainbows, arcs-en-ciel.24

Lenny loved it. He felt his blood pressure decrease as he inhaled the Caribbean air. It was the kind of laidback place he could see himself after the adventures were done and the pace of youth lost its luster.

There are hints, too, of wider social trends. The first edition of the Dictionary contains more than thirty references to coffee, and even more to tea. Johnson would vigorously defend the latter, not long after the Dictionary was published, in his review of an essay by the umbrella-toting Hanway, who believed it was ‘pernicious to health, obstructing industry and impoverishing the nation’.2 Johnson’s love of tea was deep but not exceptional: the leaf had been available in England since the 1650s (Pepys records drinking it for the first time in September 1660), and by 1755 it was being imported to Britain at the rate of 2,000 tons a year. The fashion for tea-drinking, facilitated by Britain’s imperial resources, drove demand for another fruit of the colonies, sugar (‘the native salt of the sugar-cane, obtained by the expression and evaporation of its juice’). Tea also played a crucial role in the dissolution of the eighteenth-century British Empire, for it was of course Bostonian opponents of a British tax on tea who opened the final breach between Britain and colonial America. All the same, it was coffee that proved the more remarkable phenomenon of the age. Johnson gives a clue to this when he defines ‘coffeehouse’ as ‘a house of entertainment where coffee is sold, and the guests are supplied with newspapers’. It was this relationship between coffee and entertainment (by which Johnson meant ‘conversation’) that made it such a potent force. Coffee was first imported to Europe from Yemen in the early part of the seventeenth century, and the first coffee house opened in St Mark’s Square in Venice in 1647. The first in England opened five years later—a fact to which Johnson refers in his entry for ‘coffee’—but its proprietor, Daniel Edwards, could hardly have envisioned that by the middle of the following century there would be several thousand coffee houses in London alone, along with new coffee plantations, run by Europeans, in the East Indies and the Caribbean. Then as now, coffee houses were meeting places, where customers (predominantly male) could convene to discuss politics and current affairs. By the time of the Dictionary they were not so much gentlemanly snuggeries as commercial exchanges. As the cultural historian John Brewer explains, ‘The coffee house was the precursor of the modern office’; in later years Johnson would sign the contract for his Lives of the English Poets in a coffee house on Paternoster Row, and the London Stock Exchange and Lloyd’s have their origins in the coffee-house culture of the period. ‘Besides being meeting places’, the coffee houses were ‘postes restantes, libraries, places of exhibition and sometimes even theatres’. They were centres, too, of political opposition and, because they were open to all ranks and religions, they allowed a rare freedom of information and expression.

Then I’m thinking about shipwrecks on Caribbean islands, which I’m sure never happen. But I think about them anyway, as if they could. There’s this horrible situation, and about a million very real things that could happen, and you’re not exactly happy to be shipwrecked and you’ve got a lot of problems to solve and shit to work out. But you’re on this island, and in the middle of building your hut and hunting for fish and, like, doing basic first aid on your injured friend, you take a break and lie in the sand and look at the way the palm trees swing a little in the warm wind. And the sound of the ocean hitting the shore is lovely, and you’re in maybe the most beautiful place you’ve ever been. So in the same moment you’re terrified and amazed at the sobering reality of the world around you and the purity of the beauty. Would you trade in that moment? Would you risk being shipwrecked, to be able to see the most beautiful section of the human world? I guess that’s just a long way of saying I’m happy to be here.

But no matter how tough a filming day can be, I’m grateful, and I look at it as getting paid to have dinner with my family. I am blessed. I’ve also realized, now that I’ve been blessed with a good paycheck, that I think I’m like my dad, and I really don’t care about money so much. It doesn’t make you happy. I had a great childhood, and I never even had my own bedroom. What does make you happy is doing for other people. Whether it’s taking fresh deer meat or ducks to some neighbors in need down the road or flying down to the Dominican Republic to help build an orphanage, it’s people that matter, not money. When I went to the Caribbean with Korie a while back to help build the orphanage, I came with bags full of new Hanes underwear and T-shirts. When I handed out those little packages, worth just a few bucks each, the kids literally fell to the ground, crying with happiness. They were the happiest, funniest little kids, grabbing my beard and smiling big. They have nothing, and some free underwear made them happy. It was a big wake-up call for me as I realized how much I have and how a little inconvenience like the Internet going out can ruin my day. I don’t want to live like that, like the world owes me a comfortable life and I’m not happy unless I have all the conveniences. I want to live a fulfilled life, and I want my kids to live a fulfilled life too. I want more for my kids. I want to show my kids how to have faith in Jesus, how to use the Bible as their guide to life, and when they grow up, I want my kids to change the world. I also want Jess and me to continue to learn how to love each other, and I want us to grow old together and be just like my mom and dad. My idea of happiness is being with my family in a cabin in the woods or at a campout, sitting around a campfire telling stories, roasting marshmallows, and watching the fireflies.

I’d rather be snorkeling in the sea of love. But instead I’m stuck here, in a fully paid, all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean.

The Abortionist’s Daughter Declares Her Love Here is the church. These are the doors that open to the sea. My grandmother once knelt here, awed, a special guest to an exorcism.   It is nothing like the movies would have you think, she told me, and I believed her.   They have called me many things between these aisles, she told me, and I believed her.   That is the trouble with our trade, she said. When men aspire to terrible jobs, we offer them hushed respect, the blushing necks of virgins.   Women wearing the same gloves, sorting the same straight-backed pins between the prayers of their teeth, are taught to deserve nothing more than an acreage of sorrow.   Why

Separate vacations have become more popular among married couples. We don’t think this is a good idea. Over time, doing your own thing will cause you to lead separate lives. We are not talking about a three-day trip to Florida with your sister or best friend—if you want to take small trips like this, feel free to. But if you want to take a major vacation—say, to spend two weeks in Europe—your husband should be your travel companion. But suppose your idea of a fun vacation is going to Europe or lying on the beach in the Caribbean, while your husband loves tours of historic sites and museums. Our advice is to figure out a way to do a little of both. One year, you can go to the beach, the next year you can do a tourist package together, or go on a trip with a beach near some sites of cultural interest. Once you start planning separate vacations, you become like roommates, not lovers.

The chief character in this narrative is the Caribbean Sea, one of the world's most alluring bodies of water, a rare gem among the oceans, defined by the islands that form a chain of lovely jewels to the north and east.

Porter’s next new Hollywood work, MGM’s High Society (1956), was second-division Porter. It hit his characteristic points—the Latin rhythm number in “Mind If I Make Love To You,” the charm song full of syncopation and “wrong” notes in “You’re Sensational.” Porter even turned himself inside out in two numbers for Louis Armstrong, “High Society Calypso” (the Afro-Caribbean anticipation of reggae had just begun to trend in America) and, in duet with Bing Crosby, “Now You Has Jazz.” And the film’s hit, “True Love,” is a waltz so simple neither the vocal nor the chorus has any syncopation whatever. This is smooth Porter, the Tin Pan Alley Porter who wants everyone to like him, even the tourists. Everything about High Society is smooth—to a fault. Armstrong gives it flair, but everyone else is so relaxed he or she might be bantering between acts on a telethon. These are pale replicas of the characters so memorably portrayed in MGM’s first go at this material, The Philadelphia Story, especially by Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. In their first moment, the two are in mid-fight; she breaks his golf clubs and he starts to take a swing at her, recalls himself to manly grace, and simply shoves her self-satisfied mug out of shot. This is not tough love. It’s real anger, and while Philip Barry, who wrote the Broadway Philadelphia Story, is remembered only as a boulevardier, he was in fact a deeply religious writer who interspersed romantic comedies with allegories on the human condition, much as Cole Porter moved between popular and elite composition. Underneath Barry’s Society folderol, provocative relationships undergo scrutiny as if in Christian parable; his characters are likable but worrisome—and, from First Couple Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly on down, there is nothing worrisome in this High Society.

I think it’s quite natural. Life is more worth living, more full of interest when you are likely to lose it. It shouldn’t be, perhaps, but it is. When you’re young and strong and healthy, and life stretches ahead of you, living isn’t really important at all. It’s young people who commit suicide easily, out of despair from love, sometimes from sheer anxiety and worry. But old people know how valuable life is and how interesting.

slow, rich roll of his Caribbean accent. Some of his ‘t’s were closer to ‘d’, as was his ‘th’. It was a voice that sent a tiny shiver down her spine. She was surprised at how hypnotic she found it, but knew she wanted to hear more. ‘Come on.’ Dot started to trot along the pavement. Sol tried to keep up. ‘You got quite a wiggle there, girl.’ Dot glanced to her right and smiled again, unaware that she had ‘quite a wiggle’. She felt a bubble of happiness swell inside her. ‘Where are we going? Selfridges?’ ‘Maybe, eventually, but I thought we could get a coffee first. It’ll warm you up and before I introduce you to people I work with, I want to get to know you a bit.’ ‘That sounds like you’re giving me an

People always ask me what is my favourite thing about Trinidad. It is a hard question because ! love the beaches and the music of Trinidad, but... I think the food is the best of all!

Discover the captivating life of Robert Orr, the ingenious mind behind Black Mountain Stove and Chimney. Hailing from Black Mountain, NC, his passion for wood and gas appliances is rivaled only by his love for travel. From hiking trails to diving in the Caribbean, Robert's adventures reflect his commitment to a life well-lived and homes filled with warmth.

I chose to trust him when he said that the sharks were like the “dogs of the sea” and took aim, plunging into a shark-less patch of ocean. The water stole all my senses in a second, then a tail called them to attention, whipping my legs as I surfaced among the bubbles, my heart pounding.

I kissed him, throwing my arms around his neck. I didn’t think twice about it. I didn’t hold back my love. I wanted him with every part of my being. His energy pulled me down to earth and sent my legs growing into the ground like the roots of a tree. He spoke about us having 'vibes' and tried to explain it to me as though I wouldn’t know what he was talking about, like I didn’t know the language of souls, like I hadn’t noticed that when we sat next to each other the air buzzed between us.

Blacksmith Will Turner teams up with eccentric pirate ‘Captain’ Jack Sparrow to save his love, the governor’s daughter, from Jack’s former pirate allies, who are now undead.”—Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl

In the Book of Genesis it says, ‘It is not good for man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.’ I’ve known this woman most of her life and know that she is more than up to the task. Russell and Julie, as you prepare to take these vows, give careful thought and prayer, for as you make them you are making an exclusive commitment one to the other for as long as you both shall live. Your love for each other should never be diminished by difficult circumstances, and it is to endure until death parts you. Hand in hand you enter marriage, hand in hand you step out in faith. The hand you freely give to each other, is both the strongest and the most tender part of your body. The wedding ring is a symbol of eternity, it is without end. It is an outward sign of an inward and spiritual bond which unites two hearts in endless love. And now as a token of your love and of your deep desire to be forever united in heart and soul, you, Russell, may place a ring on the finger of your bride.

There is indeed compelling evidence of a series of massive glacial surges at the end of the last Ice Age. These correlate with meltwater pulses and peaks of sea-level rise, recorded, for example, in 'drowned' reefs of Acropora palmata from the Caribbean-Atlantic region near the island of Barbados. Acropora is an efficient tracker of rising sea-level because it is a light-loving coral that dies at depths greater than about 10 meters. The Barbados reefs were drowned three times at the end of the last Ice Age -- at approximately 14,000, 11,000 and 8000 years ago -- and so suddenly and deeply on each occasion that they now form three distinct steps, one for each flooding peak (rather than having crept towards shallower water as would have been the case with more gradual sea-level rises).

Quiet men, said Miss Marple, are often attracted to flamboyant types. Conversations are always dangerous, if you have something to hide, said Miss Marple. When you're young and strong and healthy and life stretches ahead of you, living isn't really important at all. It's young people who commit suicide easily, out of despair from love, sometimes from sheer anxiety and worry. But old people know how valuable life is and how interesting.

The definition of happiness is skewed at that point. So now your partner is up against all of these false expectations, which are negative forces. It impacts your commitment to your partner and weakens the vows you made to each other.” Laura’s eyes were as clear as the waters I’d just left in the Caribbean, and so was her theory. “It impedes your perception of happiness, but if you stick in there… serve the vows, your bond as man and wife will strengthen. Sometimes strength, not perceived happiness, can get you through a stormy night.

I have seen disparaging comments on social media toward my fellow African American and Afro-Caribbean people throughout the diaspora. People saying things like, “they’re wearing beauty shop dashikis” or “they’re grasping at straws because they don’t know anything about Africa.” Listen, we get our healing the way we need to. And if I put on a beauty shop dashiki, it’s because that is what I have access to. And I will rock it—proudly—and be connected to my motherland and my Source in the way that my womb energy tells me is connective for me.

The use of the mullein plant to put the fish to sleep had been prohibited by law since colonial times, but it continued to be a common practice among the fishermen of the Caribbean until it was replaced by dynamite. One of Florentino Ariza’s pastimes during Fermina Daza’s journey was to watch from the jetties as the fishermen loaded their canoes with enormous nets filled with sleeping fish.

Papaya-Banana Muffins This recipe is a solution to the problem of too much ripe tropical fruit. These muffins have lovely color and flavor, and are nice and moist. 12⁄3 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda 1⁄4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg 1 egg 1⁄3 cup oil 3⁄4 cup sugar 1 cup mashed ripe papaya 1⁄2 cup mashed ripe banana (1 large banana) 1⁄4 cup chopped walnuts (optional) 1. Preheat oven to 375°F and grease a medium-sized muffin pan or line it with muffin papers. 2. Combine dry ingredients and set aside. 3. Beat egg with oil, sugar, and mashed papaya and banana in a large bowl. 4. Mix in dry ingredients and walnuts (if using). Scoop mixture into prepared muffin pan. Bake in preheated oven for 18–23 minutes, until toothpick inserted in the middle of a muffin comes out clean. Makes 1 dozen Tips • If the papaya is quite ripe, it will yield a lot of liquid when mashed. Drain off this excess liquid before adding the fruit. • You can make the muffins entirely with papaya if you like; just increase the quantity to 11⁄2 cups. The muffins will have a slightly moister texture and a flatter top.

Taxes, corruption, and race. My old man’s litany. Anybody at all, people from all over the country who couldn’t care less about the fate of Newark, made no difference to him—whether it was down in Miami Beach at the condo, on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, they’d get an earful about his beloved old Newark, butchered to death by taxes, corruption, and race. My father was one of those Prince Street guys who loved that city all his life. What happened to Newark broke his heart. “It’s the worst city in the world, Skip,” the Swede was telling me. “Used to be the city where they manufactured everything. Now it’s the car-theft capital of the world. Did you know that? Not the most gruesome of the gruesome developments but it’s awful enough. The thieves live mostly in our old neighborhood. Black kids.

The web of enslaved labor was vastly interdependent, and each ingredient stemmed from another person's forced labor. Wheat was grown, harvested, and milled by enslaved farmers to provide flour to the cook to use in the kitchen. Brandy was made from fruit gown and harvested by slaves then fermented by the enslaved cook. Rum came from the Caribbean, starting as sugarcane planted, grown, cut, and distilled by enslaved hands. Feasting in Virginia meant consuming the labor of slaves, literally eating the fruits of their labor. To dine at an elite plantation during the antebellum and late colonial periods meant that one was, without question, intimately involved with slavery.