I talk a lot about expat life and the people who are like us, the other expats. But there are others besides those expats who have molded our life; not “others” like the scary kind in Lost but, nonetheless, important characters that are a part of building the story. In our time here, our life has been touched with the presence of these others, the non-expat people who have, just by their constant presence, become part of the fabric of our life abroad, whether meaning to or not.
I was eight months pregnant when I got to Santo Domingo and when my prego appointments meant weekly visits to our medical office building; for every appointment, The Godfather of Parking was always there. He was there whenever we arrived and there when we would leave; there when we had morning appointments and there for afternoon ones. As far as I was concerned he ran the place. After we delivered our daughter, we had monthly appointments. The following year when she turned one and her monthly appointments ended, I was pregnant with our son, so the monthly appointments continued… followed by weekly appointments and then our son’s round of the monthly check-ups. And through all of that, The Godfather of Parking was there. Always smiling. Happy to see us. He gives my husband high-fives and sticks his whole head in the car window to greet both kids. Every single time. If he’s having a bad day, we’ve never known it. In the strangest way, he’s seen us grow into our family. He’s seen my bellies become newborn babies that grew into toddlers who are zooming towards real, full-blown kids with sass like teenagers. The Godfather of Parking whose name I don’t know but who I will never forget has become a page in our family story.
And he isn’t alone. Daniel owned the pharmacy next to our first apartment building and still gives us 10% off our bill when we come in because, well, I don’t know why, but he does. One particular colmado guy that delivered our water bottles always – ALWAYS – asked about la beba (our baby) and if he’d see me on the street would stop and talk to me even if he was in the middle of a delivery. Abuela, who lives downstairs from us now, isn’t actually my grandmother (or my kids’ grandmother for that matter) but our kids play with her grandkids and she treats them like they are. Elizabeth lived across the hall from me our first year here. She was a Colombian woman who had no affiliation to the school but who offered to help me with anything I needed as a new mother: help with housework or with watching the baby if I ever “just needed a break.” She even promised my mother to look after me. Elizabeth had had four children and knew how hard it could be. She gave me tips like using fresh aloe from the plant for diaper rash. She moved at the end of that year but planted an aloe plant in the small, grassy area in front of our parking space before leaving, just in case we ever needed it.
Salutiano, or Juanito, as many call him, is our fruit guy. He slices pineapples like a badass and has a smile that would light the darkest of caves – as would his good nature. He has a reserved spot across the street from CMS where he parks his fruit truck and we visit him there every other day. He knows our order before we get there but still sits through letting our kids order or letting Husband practice his Spanish fruit words: lechoza, piña, mango, and banana (pronounced banana). Lately, he’s been bringing his son to help run the fruit truck which feels like some kind of cosmic balance. It is only fair we know his family as well as he knows ours.
And then there are the watchies, the watchmen, who guard our buildings and are the first sense of security we have upon arrival. Esteban is our watchie now. He wears army fatigues that are a size (or two) too big and make his small 5-foot-nothing frame look even smaller. He moves slow but the other night I came running into the building to grab something I forgot, and there he was – ready. “Ready,” he told me, “just in case you were was running from someone.” Before Esteban there was Gi-Jo and Frank, our watchies at Kury, our very first abroad apartment. Gi-Jo, God Bless him, speaks like a cross between a Dominican Christopher Walken and the Charlie Brown parents with their blur of mumbles. It is unintelligible but he speaks with such excitement that you can’t help but go with it. Then there was Frank. He washed our car, helped with grocery bags, and is, apparently, the Watchie of Enriquillo. All the other watchies in the neighborhood, came to our building to hang with Frank, making me feel guarded like the Fort Knox of Los Cacicazgos. When I would get migraines and go into hibernation, he would ask our nanny, how La Doña, or The Misses, was doing. Both Gi-Jo and Frank welcomed us to the building and then welcomed both of our babies too, who might possibly be the first CMS babies to have been born into the Kury family. They have known our children, and us as a family, just as long as anyone has. I still honk my car horn and wave out the window when I pass the old place and they still let me park in the lot if I’m stopping by.
These others may not be savvy about all of the details of my past and they may only be small characters within the story of my life, but make no mistake, they are as much a part of my story’s backdrop on this island as the salt water and the Caribbean breeze.