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After my divorce was final, I decided I needed a change of locations. I wanted to lose myself in my work - I write for newspapers - and decided to get as far away from America as I could, even if it was just for a little while.
I checked the Internet for writing jobs available in far-off locations and found two that appealed to me. One was in Hawaii on the 'Flower Island' and the other was on St. Kitts in the eastern Caribbean. After contacting the publishers and getting copies of their newspapers, I chose St. Kitts because the newspaper obviously needed help to look better. I had been to Hawaii and loved the island chain, but had never visited St. Kitts and welcomed the adventure of living and working there.

My publisher's brother-in-law, George, picked me up at the airport. He introduced himself with a warm smile and loaded my two suitcases into his cab. William was a tall man with a gold tooth who had been born in Trinidad. He owned a tour service and as he drove me to my new two-bedroom home by the sea, he told me a few things about St. Kitts.
'Have you ever been to the Caribbean before?', he asked casually.
I answered no as I watched the small houses with colorful roofs flash by. We were following a road next to the ocean, with coconut palm trees waving in the late afternoon, and crashing waves rolling up on the white sand beaches.
'Well, you will have a car to get around,' he said. 'Here we drive on the left side of the road like in England. And there is no such thing as road rage.'
That drew my interest. No road rage? I had lived in Miami and Phoenix and had seen more than my share of road rage.
'Really?,' I said, letting disbelief show in my voice.
He laughed. 'Really. When a driver flashes his lights at you or blows his horn, he will generally do it with a smile. He is letting you know that it's okay to go ahead, that you have the right of way. You'll see. We do things differently in the Caribbean.'
I discovered George was right.
It didn't take me long to get used to driving on the left side of the road. George had also told me it was okay to pick up hitchhikers or people who were walking because 'unlike your country, the people here simply want a ride. They won't harm or rob you.' That took a lot of faith, but the second day on the job, I gave a ride to a sugar cane worker. He was in his 50s and was walking barefoot along the beach highway, a long rusty machete hanging from his hip. His name was William. We rode in silence for a while

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