Some time ago I wrote about how an expat can become connected to the chosen community in which they live. Many will make the effort, but some will not. I belong to the former group.

When we decided to make Grenada our permanent home, I started to find ways to become involved in the life of the island. Many ideas were examined and many discarded. Eventually, I became involved with the Grenada Association of Retired Persons, I started working on an oral history of the island and I also began work on compiling information on folk medicine. Then I joined the Grenada Green Group and a few months later the Willie Redhead Foundation, a historic preservation group. Some things worked, I met wonderful people, other things did not, so I narrowed my activities down to what I could realistically manage.
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Not only do I enjoy the work of the Grenada Green Group and now my presidency of the Willie Redhead Foundation, but I now run into people I know all the time. More than that, I have learned of their families, their lives, some come and help me celebrate my holidays.
Grenada is a small island and everyone knows everyone else or is related to everyone.

I now find myself being in some way connected to many people and these connections place you in the minds of people. When mentioning someone, you are often asked “who was she?” or “is he from Mt. Moritz?” Since I do not have such connections, I am often identified by how people know me. The market vendors from whom I buy regularly, just call me the “white lady.” Since not too many white people shop at the market, that description immediately identifies me. The butcher from whom I buy my meat, just calls me “mummy,” an endearing way to identify me. Conversely, if a name comes up in a social context, I can identify that person by the family they belong to or where they live.

These connections make me feel that I truly belong here now and am accepted as part of the island.

Big cities are my thing. I was born in one and have lived most of my life in big cities, that is until almost ten years ago when we decided to retire to the small island of Grenada.
Still, our annual trips back to Chicago always felt like coming home, until it did not. I do not recall exactly when the change occurred but at one point, Chicago no longer felt like home, though still familiar and beloved.

I had occasion to spend a week on Miami Beach recently and the experience was not what I expected. The last time I visited was some years ago and though I knew that Miami had grown, I was not prepared for the shock I received on being there. Everything suddenly felt overwhelming. The eight lane highways, the density of the towering high rises –skyscrapers seems an apt name, the noise, the frenzy of traffic, people all come tumbling down on the unsuspecting.

Though Miami Beach is only a strip of land it is no less overwhelming. There is the size of the stores. Every single drug store, or pharmacy, as we call them in Grenada, could fit into one Walgreens or CVS. Same for clothing stores, shoe stores and supermarkets, etc. One is suddenly walking miles to find an item.

Restaurants are another size issue, not only the space but the size of the portions. Our friend explained that people like to take leftovers for another meal, but what about us hotel guests visiting for just a few days? 

There are few quiet hours here. As soon as the traffic, the tourists, the bars stop, the street cleaners and garbage collectors start. After five days, I was ready to go home to my little island. I missed my nightly concert of crickets and whistling frogs, I longed for the stillness of the nights and early mornings, the slow pace.

An island wraps its arms around you and holds you, the ocean soothes you, the slow pace allows you to be observant, to enjoy the beauty, the friends, all close by, the animals, all that surrounds you.

While big cities have an energy, a drive I can still enjoy, without question, I have become an island girl.