Nouméa, New Caledonia
I arrived this morning in New Caledonia expecting either an unfriendly reception or a too friendly reception from the local residents – unfriendly because the native New Caledonians aren’t pleased with the way their French colonizers have treated them (and I look more French than I look native to the South Pacific), or too friendly because they’d want to sell me stuff. Instead, I found a remote island with delightful people who say “bonjour” to you on the street just because it’s the social thing to do. I wish Seattlites were more like New Caledonians.
I wandered the streets of Nouméa wondering if I could ever move to a place like this if I were French. Given the island’s history, I’m not sure I’d feel morally comfortable doing that, but I found myself wishing the United States had an equivalent tropical paradise. Then I remembered we kind of do. It’s called Hawaii. But there’s a laid back air to New Caledonia’s capital that seems more sincere than the commercialized “hang loose” mentality I encountered in Honolulu last January.
At first glance, downtown Nouméa is an awkward mix of palm trees and concrete buildings with an almost ramshackle feel. The center of town isn’t all that picturesque. I groaned when I spotted McDonald’s. But the beach, a short bus ride away, is flanked by a much cozier town. Lunch today was locally caught prawns in a coconut curry sauce and a pitcher of the house sangria.
At the end of the meal, the waitress asked me if I was French. How she missed my bumbling grammar is beyond me (my French is absolutely not at native proficiency) but I wanted to hug her for the question. I whined that I only had one day on her island. She told me I must come back and stay longer when I’m not working. Easier said than done, given the location, but I’m realizing here, like I did in Hawaii, that in mainland America, we have a tendency to trivialize tropical islands and view them as nothing more than touristic beachfronts. Beneath the commercial surface lie some of the world’s most underrated cultures.
My friend Lisa is along for the ride, courtesy of the cruise line. She’s here with the blessing of her boyfriend, who has promised not to kill me when we return home. I couldn’t help snickering about my own love life today as I dried myself off at the beach. In the last couple of years, a couple of different women have strung me along and then ended things abruptly with the sort of social skills one might expect from a 14-year-old. (“Oops, I guess I haven’t really broken up with my last boyfriend after all.”) Lisa asked me to call and thank them for dumping me.
I have the next two days off from lecturing. We’re at sea all day from tomorrow. Next port of call: Fiji.
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