One Year, One Love

The Journey

It is amazing how quickly a year can go by. I can’t believe that more than 365 days ago have come and gone since I packed up my things and moved “down South” to Atlanta, aiming to document and examine Afro-Caribbeans and lives in the southern metro area for my dissertation research (for the non-academics, this is the big research project/paper before you get a PhD). A few weeks after I arrived, I decided to start this blog as a fun and easy way to write up my data, while sharing with others my experiences, as a Caribbean American researcher, in Atlanta. Knowing that scarcely anything has been written about the growing Caribbean community in Atlanta, I thought a blog would be a great way to immediately present information about this growing community in the Atlanta area.

Ideally, I thought I would be able to give daily, or at least weekly, accounts of my Caribbean experience in the A—from going to Caribbean parties and events, eating at Caribbean restaurants, talking to other Caribbean people, and navigating southern life as a Caribbean American. However, as you can see from my few posts over the past 12 months, neither the daily nor weekly blogging happened. I didn’t even get close to monthly blogging (*embarrassed face*). I let other things, such as interviewing, observing, eating, sleeping, watching TV, staring into space, among other seemingly important things, come before my first priority, as an academic: writing.

It does not dome much good to go out, talk to people, and collect data, if I do not write it all down in the end. As an academic, my career advancement is pretty much dependent on how much I write (i.e., publish). I need to write to get a professorship. I need to write to get research funding. I need to write to get to tenure (that oh so coveted lifetime job security). But, most importantly, before all of that, I need to write to get my PhD (I want to see that DR in front of my name, baby!!!). In short, no written dissertation equals no degree.

The paucity of my blog posts is a visible sign that I have been slacking on my writing. To be honest, I have been damn near avoiding it like I owe it money. Fortunately, my avoidance of writing has not translated to an avoidance of my research. Over the past 12 months, I have spent countless hours attending Caribbean events, talking to Caribbean people, eating Caribbean foods, listening to Caribbean music, and exploring my own Caribbean identity. I have even presented some of the things that I have learned about Caribbean life in Atlanta at two different academic conferences this summer; thus far, my work has been very well received by my academic peers.

Knowing that my work is well received in the academic world fuels my desire to have my work well received by the public—the people I write about, the people I want to read my articles and books, and the people who follow me (hopefully still follow me) out there in the blogosphere. So, from here on, I promise to try my best to update my blog as regularly as possible. I now know that I am not going to be able to post daily like I had originally hoped last June, but I can try, with the help of a good writing schedule, to post weekly about specific topics, events, observations, etc from my yearlong experience in Caribbean Atlanta.

I hope you will join me on the new phase of my life journey/academic endeavor and check in each week to read about the observations of this Afro-Caribbean in Atlanta.
My next topic will be about the Caribbean club scene in the ATL.

Heading towards the next phase

One Love

Atlanta Carnival: The Afterparty

A few hours after leaving Atlanta Carnival, we (Janelle, Nevis, Paris, Nevis’s friend Jason, and I) piled into Nevis’ car and headed to Stone Mountain---Caribbean central of metro Atlanta---for a post-Carnival party at Club Intrigue, which was located in a mall of mostly Caribbean clubs, that included Club 426 (my party destination during my first night in town), Party Room, and Safari Room (an African club if you couldn’t tell from the name). Later, I would learn that Memorial Drive in Stone Mountain, like Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, is a major destination for Caribbean products and people in the Atlanta metro area. If you want to find Caribbean clubs, restaurants, or businesses in Atlanta, you will find all of them (ok maybe not all of them but definitely most of them) on Memorial Drive.

As we approached the club, we were met by a throng of cars heading towards the parking lot that served the clubs in the mall. It looked as if everyone in Atlanta was on Memorial Drive, trying to party at one of Stone Mountain’s Caribbean clubs. There were so many people, and cars, there that the parking lot was full. The parking attendants were directing cars to the nearby gas stations to park. I will tell you that before that night I had never seen people park at a gas station to go to a club. In fact, the only time I had seen people parking at gas stations for an event had been during game days at Fenway Park (Go Red Sox!!). Anyways, we parked at the gas station and walked over to the club. As you might have guessed already, there was a long line of people standing outside of the club. Luckily, Paris knew someone at the door so we went directly to the front of the line. After showing our ids and paying the $20 cover (yikes!), we all entered the club.

Inside, Club Intrigue consisted of two rooms: a large main room and a smaller room on the side near the entrance. We entered into the main room, where the DJ booth and the bar were located at opposite ends of the room. Immediately, we headed towards the bar to order drinks. Partygoers were lined up in groups along the bar, so we had to split up to find an empty space at the bar. It took me about a minute to find an empty space at the bar to stand and order my drink. Once I got a space at the bar, I had to wait what seemed like forever to get the attention of a bartender. With a drink in my hand, I turned away from the bar and scanned the room for my party crew. A few seconds later, I spotted Nevis and Jason standing a few feet away from the bar. I walked over to them and was soon followed by Paris and Jenelle. Standing in a semi-circle, we watched the crowd and sipped on our drinks.

The club was filled with people, from the bar to the dancefloor. The sounds of reggae, soca, and dancehall filled the club. People were whining down, jumping up, and backing it up. The vibe in the room was good---bacchanalian. After few minutes in the main room, Paris suggested that we move to the smaller room because it seemed to have more room for us to dance and socialize. We followed her to the smaller room where the party really started for us. We danced, laughed, talked, and had an overall great time. About 2 hours later, we were all partied out and ready to go home. It was a great end to Carnival day.

Carnival in the A-T-L, pt 3

Judging from what I saw at the carnival village, I am pretty sure that my father would not have enjoyed himself at Atlanta Carnival. The atmosphere was for the most part very laid back, not high energy or bacchanalian. When we arrived in the performance area, a band that I didn’t recognize was playing Kassav’s “Zouk La Sé Sel Medikaman,” an old, popular zouk song, and one of my favorite songs. A noticeable number of people were dancing and waving their flags to the music, but the majority of the people were standing around watching the performance. There was no jumping, stomping, backing up, or whining down. It seemed more like an outdoor concert than a Caribbean carnival. Everything you need for a good carnival experience was there—people, music, space, and food---, but things didn’t feel right. The carnival spirit seemed to be missing. The tone of an event can have dramatic effects on people’s behavior. If the event is high energy, people will be high energy. For instance, when I would see people jumping up and enjoying themselves at New York Carnival, it would made me want to jump up too. The laid-back vibe at the carnival village made want to just sit back and watch. From a research standpoint, this made it much easier to closely observe the event because there weren’t too many things going on at the same time or anything to distract me from my research duties.

As I looked around, I noticed that the crowd was very diverse, ethnically. I saw flags from St. Kitts & Nevis, Jamaica, Barbados, St. Vincent, Dominica, Antigua & Barbuda, Trinidad & Tobago, US Virgin Islands, Grenada, Belize, St. Lucia, and Haiti. It was very nice to see so many islands, especially the smaller islands, like Dominica, represented at the carnival. Based on the relatively small size of the carnival, and my lack of prior knowledge of it, I assumed that mostly residents of metro Atlanta attended Atlanta Carnival. I didn’t expect anybody, except for the invited artists, to travel to Atlanta for its carnival, like they do to Boston, Washington, D.C., Toronto, and, of course, New York for their carnivals. But, to my surprise, I found that some people do travel to Atlanta to experience its carnival. Nevis and I both ran into people that we knew that traveled from cities in the Northeast to Atlanta for its carnival. Notably, the two people that we ran into, while walking around the carnival village, were attending the carnival for the first time. The person I ran into was a fellow Dominican-American (the second Dominican I had encountered during the 4 days I had been in Atlanta). Similar to me, she heard about the carnival and decided to come down to Atlanta and check it out. In fact, it was the first Atlanta Carnival experience for our entire group---Nevis, Nisha, Janelle, and me. As I mentioned before, I decided to move to Atlanta in late May so that I could be there for the Atlanta Carnival festivities. I thought it would be a perfect way to start my research on Caribbean life in Atlanta, since Atlanta Carnival would allow me to view the pinnacle of Caribbean culture in the southern city.

After about 20 minutes of watching the performers on the stage, we decided to go over to the food stands to get something to eat. Since I paid for Nevis’ entrance into the carnival village, he was paying for my food. We walked back towards the underpass and looked at each food stands’ signs, which advertised the foods they offered. I was attracted to a food stand that offered conch fritters. A month prior, I took a family trip to Nassau, Bahamas, where I first tasted the popular Bahamian dish, conch fritters, and added it to my favorite Caribbean dishes. I pointed out the stand to Nevis and we walked over to it. There wasn’t a line so we immediately ordered. To my dismay, they had run out of conch fritters. This was the only stand that I saw advertising conch fritters, so instead of looking at another stand, I settled for a Jamaican chicken patty.

Nevis and I took our food and ate as we walked back to the performance area of the carnival village. With Nisha and Janelle, we stood at the back of the performance area, directly facing the stage. The mood of the event had changed noticeably: it was livelier. The music was good and people seemed to be having a good time. At points, people were jumping up and waving their flags, creating a rainbow of bright colors bouncing in the hot Atlanta air. Unfortunately, we had missed the performance of my cousin’s band, WCK. We did see Trini Jacobs and The Red Hot Flames, but besides them, we had not seen any of the big artists, such as Destra Garcia and Denise Belfon, that we were advertised to perform. The MC kept saying that these artists were going to perform soon, but the hours passed and they had yet to perform.

By 8pm, it had started to drizzle and Nevis, Janelle, and I were ready to go. Nisha decided to stay because she wanted to see if the other artists were going to perform, but Nevis, Janelle, and I had seen enough. I later found out from Nisha, who stayed until 10pm, that the rest of the artists did perform, but during the last 30 minutes of the carnival, for 2-5 minutes each and that the MCs encouraged the crowd to attend specific clubs, which were charging up to $40, to see full-length performances of the artists. Though the carnival had its moments of energy and excitement, I thought it was quite tame. I was hoping for a day of excitement, good music, happy, shiny people, and great food and I only got it in bits and pieces. The pre-Carnival parties were fun and exciting, but the carnival itself didn’t match their energy and excitement. Atlanta Carnival was over, but the Carnival festivities were far from over. Janelle, Nevis, and I left the carnival village and headed back to our respective homes to get ready for the post-Carnival parties that were taking place later that night.

One Love

Carnival in the A-T-L, pt 2

Dressed in black shorts and a green, red, and yellow (colors commonly associated with the Caribbean) t-shirt, that had on it Dominica’s flag next to a picture of beach scene (a coconut tree on a mound of sand under the sun), I was ready for my first Atlanta Carnival experience. When Nevis and I drove into the downtown area, near West Peachtree Street, where the carnival was supposed to take place, we didn’t see any signs that indicated a Caribbean carnival was occurring there: no music, no masqueraders, no signs/banners, no crowds of people seemingly walking towards or away from a common destination, and no extra police officers on the street. Nothing. In New York, as soon as you get within a few blocks from Eastern Parkway, where the New York Carnival takes place, you are inundated with images, sounds, and smells indicating that you are at or approaching the carnival. The sounds of soca, calypso, kompa, and various other Caribbean musics fill the streets, traveling from the large speakers tied tightly to each band’s truck as they slowly roll down the parkway. The smell of Caribbean dishes, such as curry goat, jerk chicken, and oxtail, from the many food stands waft through the air, enticing those walking by to stop and eat.

But, we didn’t encounter these things as we approached the carnival area. As we drove around downtown Atlanta looking for cheap parking, it looked a bit deserted. There were several cars in each parking lot we passed, but there were few people on the street---early signs that this carnival was going to be very different from what I was used to. After 10 minutes of driving around, we found $5 all day parking several blocks away from the carnival village, which was at the intersection of Jesse Hill Jr Drive and Auburn Avenue. We waited there for another 10 minutes for Nevis’ friend Janelle. Soon after she arrived, we made our way towards the carnival village. As we got closer to Auburn Avenue, I slowly spotted small groups of people—men, women, and children---walking in the same direction as us. Looking more closely at the people, I saw that some were holding Caribbean flags or wearing apparel with a Caribbean country’s name or flag on it. When we were a block away from Auburn Avenue, I finally saw the first major sign that an event was happening there: police officers and barricades. We walked around the barricades. After a few steps I finally saw vendor stands and a crowd of people. The music began to fill the air. My heart started to race because I was finally going to experience Atlanta Carnival.

At the intersection of Jesse Hill Jr. Drive and Auburn Avenue, there were metal barricades and table with three seated people at it, collecting the $10 entrance fee for the carnival village. Facing the cashier table, there was a long line of people waiting to pay and enter the carnival village. We walked along the intersection and joined the end of the line. As we waited, Nevis’ friend Nisha joined us in the line, and after 10 minutes, we reached the front of the line. Janelle and Nisha paid and entered the carnival village. I approached the cashier table and the hiccup that always seems to happen when I enter a line happened—they ran out of change, as I am about to give them my $20 dollar bill. I couldn’t believe it. How can you run an event where you collect money and not carry enough cash to give change, especially when the fee is $10 and most ATMs only give out $20 dollar bills? To avoid standing in line any longer, while they scrambled to find change, I paid them $20 so that Nevis and I could enter.


On each side of Auburn Avenue, a two-lane cobblestone street, there were small crowds of people standing around vendor stands, selling cds, dvds, clothing, and crafts. After several feet, the vendor stands turned into food stands, which were located under a highway underpass. We walked past the stands towards the other side of the carnival village. As we passed the food stands, the smell of different island foods filled the air. Many of the stands offered similar Caribbean dishes, such as curry chicken, curry goat, oxtail, patties, and jerk chicken. A few offered fruit smoothies, Caribbean icies (snow cones), and curry crab legs (so yummy!!). One stand was selling funnel cake (or fried dough, for my New Englanders), which is not a Caribbean dish but is common at outdoor events, such as street fairs or amusement parks. Although my stomach was rumbling, I decided to wait until I saw the entire carnival village before I ate.


On the other side of the underpass, there was a stage in the middle of a circular area. Scattered around the stage, there was a few more food stands and a large crowd of people. A band was performing on the stage and people, young and old, were swaying to the sounds and waving flags from various Caribbean islands, including my beloved nature island, Dominica. Although the carnival was smaller, from the crowd to the space, than I was used to, I was happy to see Caribbean culture represented in Atlanta. An ethnic festival or parade is major signifier of a group’s presence in a locality.


To put together an ethnic parade or festival, you need sponsors, city permits, and a significant number of attendees to justify the event. Locations of Caribbean carnivals, outside of the Caribbean, map out the growing Afro-Caribbean Diaspora: New York (the largest), Miami, London, Toronto, Boston, Washington, D.C., San Francisco, Atlanta, to name a few. The fact that Atlanta’s carnival is over 20 years old is very telling about its history with Caribbean migrants. It means that there has been a significant concentration of Afro-Caribbeans in Atlanta since the late 1980s. I had never heard of Atlanta Carnival until I started doing preliminary research for my project in 2009. However, unbeknownst to me, my father (Mr. Carnival), who has traveled to various Caribbean carnivals from Canada to the Caribbean, knew about Atlanta Carnival for several years but had never attended.

Carnival in the A-T-L, pt 1

After three nights of jumping up, whining down, and drinking rum, the day I was waiting for finally arrived—Carnival day in Atlanta. Though I got home at 7am from partying all night at the non-wet fete, I was excited about hitting “de road” and jumping up in a band. Despite a weary body and slightly red eyes, I was ready to hit the road at 11:30am. I called Nevis but he didn’t pick up. I assumed (correctly as I would find out later) that he was asleep, since after partying all night, he also had to drop everyone home. Normally, I would have been in bed too after a long night but I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to jump up in “de band”. I found out that unlike New York’s Carnival, or even Boston’s Carnival, Atlanta’s Carnival had bands on the road for only 2 hours (yes I said 2 hours, it is not a typo), and not all day (i.e., 6am -7pm). According to its website, Atlanta Carnival consisted of two parts—the parade of bands (12pm-2pm) and carnival village (10am-10pm).

Before I continue, I will explain what I mean by bands for those who don’t know. In Caribbean carnivals, bands usually consist of two major parts: 1) the live band and 2) the masqueraders. The band (or in some cases, DJ system) plays on top of a large flatbed truck, while the masqueraders are on the road either in front or behind the truck, dancing and showcasing their costumes to onlookers, as they parade down the carnival route (this is commonly referred to as “playing mas”). Masquerader costumes range from large, masterfully built costumes, which a masquerader stands in and pushes around, to coordinated t-shirts. Since I was a little girl “playing mas” with my preschool class in Dominica, I understood “playing mas” as being the oldest and the largest part of carnival.

I was shocked, and extremely disappointed, when I found out that at a carnival that was over 20 years old, the parade of bands was such a small part of the carnival experience. I really wanted to see the parade of bands and masqueraders, but I realized that it would be a waste of time to rush Nevis out of bed to go see it. It was 11:30am; by the time, we drove down there, found parking, and found the carnival route, the parade would probably be over. The only thing that I would realistically be able to attend is the carnival village. It was open all day (until 10pm) and was supposed to have food, arts, crafts, and performances by various soca and calypso artists, including WCK (DA MASSIVE!!!), The Red Hot Flames, Denise Belfon, and many others. The carnival village is an integral part of most Caribbean carnivals. In Dominica, the village hosts the majority of the other carnival events, including all-night concerts, the Calypso King competition (music competition), and the Carnival Queen pageants (special shout out to my mummy and my cousins Samirah and Michelle who have won the title of Carnival Queen/Teen Queen). So, attending the carnival village seemed like a good way to get a sense of the carnival experience in Atlanta, especially since it made up the majority of Atlanta Carnival.

Around 4pm, Nevis picked me up and we made our way down to downtown Atlanta for the carnival. Since neither of us had ever attended Atlanta Carnival before, we didn’t know what to expect. We had been on “de road” together at several New York Carnivals in the past 5 years and had similar views about (American) Caribbean carnivals. We both revel in jumping up in several bands as we make our down the carnival route. So, when I tell you about what we found, you will understand why it disappointed both of us.

The Driest Wet Fete Pt 3

After we finished eating, we walked back towards the house. We laughed at the lack of water at this wet party. Nevis and Austin suggested that we jump into the pool and start our own wet fete. Paris and I vehemently disagreed with their suggestion. First, the water didn’t look warm. Second, I refused to be seen as the crazy group of people that jumped in the tiny pool at a dead party without a close-by getaway car. Well, maybe it wouldn’t have been crazy to jump in the pool since it was supposed to be a wet party and we did have our bathing suits on, but the ability to easily leave the party after the entitled wet fun would have been essential.
Several people were standing near the back of the house, so we decided to move over there and wait for the party to start. There were a few speakers set up against the house, providing the backyard with music. The DJ was playing a good mix of reggae, soca, hip-hop, and r&b. Yet, no one was dancing. It wasn’t until 2am, when more people started to arrive, that the party finally began to get going. People were grinding, whining, and enjoying the music and the clear summer night.

Around 4am, party fatigue began to creep up on me. I felt myself getting tired. Desperately needing to sit down, I went inside the house and walked downstairs looking for a place to sit. Below the party, there was a large room with three unisex bathrooms—two connected to smaller adjoining rooms and one near the stairwell. Against the wall, there were a few seats. I sat down at an empty chair and before I knew it, I dozed off. I don’t know how long I was sleeping in that chair. But, the nap was exactly what I needed. When Paris found me in my lonely chair and woke me up, I was hit with the second wind I needed to jump and whine until morning. The party was livelier than when I left to take my party nap. The crowd seemed to have increased. People were dancing, sweating, jumping, and enjoying the thumping Caribbean sounds.

As I was getting back into the party groove, the DJ announced that soca singer Iwer George was at the party and was going to perform. Paris, Austin, Nevis, and I headed inside to get a view of Iwer George. Inside there were several people jumping and whining and carrying one in the dining area and the kitchen. The energy was visibly 10x higher inside the house than outside the house. As Iwer George’s voice poured from the speakers, the energy inside intensified. People started jumping faster and higher. Flags and rags were being waved. Then, Iwer George brought his performance down to the dining area and the party inside exploded into a full out bacchanal. It looked like a scene from carnival. There was an orgy of bodies whining, grinding, and slamming on each other. Women were pushing back their bumpers (booties). Men were jumping behind them, lifting up one of the women’s legs, or even picking them completely off the ground. Iwer seemed to be feeding off the energy of the people dancing around him as much as they were feeding off the sound of his voice over the pulsating soca rhythms. Not trying to miss out on the fun, Nevis and I jumped into the crowd dancing near Iwer as he sang “Whine Whine Whine Whine We LIKE IT!!!”.

Not too long after Iwer finished performing, the party ended. It was around 5am. The sun was rising. People were pouring out the house and making their way to the bottom of the circular driveway. Since the shuttles provided the only access to the party, everyone was stranded at this mansion in the woods, waiting for the shuttle to bring them back to their cars. Tired from a night of partying, several people were sitting on the driveway. Others were standing around either talking or looking in the distance for any signs of the shuttle. I stood and surveyed the scene. As I looked at the 100+ people dispersed across the driveway, I got a strong feeling that our assumption at the beginning of the party was right: we were the only people there dressed for a wet fete. I saw women dressed in designer jeans and stilettos and men dressed in designer jeans and sunglasses. No one but us looked like they were there for a wet and wild time. I would have been content if there were other people there dressed for a wet party and the promoters had been the ones that failed to turn the party into a wet party. But, that was not the case. The joke was on us. It seemed that everyone but us knew that the party was never ever going to be a wet party. BOOO!!! What a waste of $30 dollars.

Anyways, back to the story. Five minutes passed and there was no shuttle. Five more minutes passed and there was still no shuttle. About 20 minutes after the party ended, the first shuttle arrived and pandemonium broke out. Before the shuttle could reach the bottom of the hill, people ran towards it and swarmed it so the driver could drive any further. We didn’t bother moving from our spot at the bottom of the driveway. The shuttle was filled within 30 seconds. It drove down the hill, turned around, and drove away. Five minutes later, the second shuttle arrived. Wanting to get out of there, we ran with small crowd of people to the shuttle and boarded it. The shuttle ride back was quite the experience. What would you expect when a bunch of people are crammed into a small shuttle? I have seen interesting things on crowded public buses in Boston and New York, but this shuttle ride was hilarious.
Seated at the back of the shuttle, there was a guy, who clearly had a few drinks, holding a tin bucket that would be usually be used to hold ice and drinks. He had a heavy Caribbean accent and was yelling at people, while banging the bucket at against the back wall of the shuttle. At first, he was making jokes and talking to people at the back of the shuttle. But then he caught sight of a man trying to smoke on the shuttle and he started to yell at him, telling him to put out his cigarette. Other people around the smoking man chimed in and told them the man to put out his cigarette. The smoking man complied with everyone’s requests and put out his cigarette on the shuttle floor. If that wasn’t enough excitement, the man with the bucket thought it would be a good idea to entertain everyone with a song. He took the bucket and banged it against the wall making a soca beat, while he sang, “We not going home ‘til the sun come up”. People laughed as he sang his impromptu song.

As all of this was going on, the shuttle swerved, turned, and finally sped into the parking lot. Everyone piled out of the shuttle and walked toward their cars. The sounds of hip hop, soca, and reggae slowly started to fill the parking lot as people got into their cars and drove away. Although it was 7am, the party was far from over. It was finally carnival Saturday--event that I came to Atlanta to see. As we drove home, I looked forward to the bands, the costumes, the food, the jump-up, and the after-parties.

One Love.

The Driest Wet Fete Pt 2: The Mansion

When we reached the parking lot, several cars were parked there. Although it was past midnight and the stores surrounding the parking lot were closed, the parking lot was buzzing. The sounds of reggae, soca, and hip hop were blasting out of cars as people waited for the shuttle to arrive. Not to be out done, Nevis turned up on the volume on his car stereo and blasted the latest soca and dancehall. We sat in the car with the doors open, allowing the music to pour out of the car into the parking lot. Slowly people left their cars and started to look around for the shuttle to the party. Although the flyer advertised that there would be shuttles to the party, there were no signs in the parking lot indicating when and where the shuttle would arrive. Getting restless, we left the car and walked towards the left side of the parking lot where a crowd had gathered around a dark-skinned black man. The man seemed to be affiliated with the party. He was who was dressed in all black and holding a walkie-talkie. The man informed everyone that the shuttle would be arriving soon. A few minutes after he announced this, a white shuttle bus arrived. We all piled on to it and headed towards the mysterious “mansion”.

Being in Atlanta only three nights at this point, I had absolutely no idea where I was and where the shuttle was taking us. The shuttle sped out of the parking lot and turned onto a dark side road that was adjacent to the parking lot. As we drove, I tried to look for any markers—street signs, houses, cars, etc---that would give me an idea of where we were going. But, I saw nothing. One thing that I noticed during my nighttime escapades in Atlanta was that the streets were very badly lit. It was dark. All I could see were trees, a few large houses peaking from behind trees, and more trees. My imagination began to run wild. This sounded like the beginning of a scary movie: 4 attractive, party-seeking 20-somethings get on a bus with strangers, head towards a party in an undisclosed location in the woods, and then end up chased and chopped up by a knife-wielding, masked killer. It is crazy what we will do for the promises of a good party. Fortunately, nothing horrible befell us.

After 10 minutes of driving in the dark, we arrived at the foot of a large white mansion on top of a hill. It looked like a scene out of a hip hop video or MTV Cribs. The mansion had white pillars and large windows that allowed you to see its interior. Light shone brightly through the large windows, illuminating the large white mansion against the dark night sky. Leading up to the mansion, there was a circular drive way. The shuttle let us out at the foot of the hill. We walked up the steep hill towards a trailer that was parked to the left of the mansion. Posted near the trailer, there were several big black security guards directing people to the trailer to pay for entry to the party. I forgot to mention at the beginning of this story that the cover for this party was $30--a pretty high price. For the past 8 years that I lived in New York, which is notorious for high-priced club covers, I tried hard to avoid parties with covers over $20. I think $20 is too much to pay for party, but I have an easier time handing over a $20 bill than two $20 bills or a $20 bill and a $10 (yikes!). Nonetheless, we all paid the woman sitting inside the trailer $30 each and made our way towards the house.

We walked through the mansion’s large glass double doors into a large foyer. Directly across from entrance, in the middle of the foyer, there was a large white fountain. I have to admit I was pretty amazed to see a fountain in a house. I knew that the flyer advertised that the party would be at a “millionaire dollar mansion”, but I didn’t expect for it to be in a real mansion on a hill. I expected a large club or maybe a house (bashment parties), but not a real mansion. I lived in New York where clubs have all types of interesting names, such as Bed, Home, Guesthouse, The Apartment, Pink Elephant, Duvet, and the list can go on and on, that indicate maybe the décor of the club but not the club is going to be a home, bed, guesthouse, pink elephant, or duvet. So, when I saw the word “mansion” on the flyer, I thought that the club space was being called “Mansion” or was going to be decorated like a mansion. But, I guess things are done differently in Atlanta, where you have more space and more mansions.

The mansion had an open floor plan that was very great for a large house party. The foyer flowed into the living area that was at the front of the house and the kitchen and dining area that was at the back of the house. Leading upstairs, there was a large white circular staircase. On the upstairs landing, the DJ and his equipment were set up. The space was completely cleared of furniture. I am not sure if the furniture was moved out for the party or if the house was regularly empty and was just being rented for the party. I am leaning towards the theory that the house was being rented because I couldn’t imagine someone going through the trouble to move their furniture for a party. Nonetheless, the space seemed large and ready for a packed party.
We walked past the kitchen and out a back door to the backyard, where we assumed that the wet zone of the party was located. Outside, there was a small shallow pool and few people standing around it chatting. Not dancing, but chatting!! We walked around the pool to see if there was another area, but there was nothing but grass and large rocks that a few people were using as seats. As we slowly looked around, we noticed that no one, except for us, was wearing swimsuits. What’s more, we didn’t see a wet zone. There were no signs or anything indicating that there was ever supposed to be a wet zone at the party. WTF?!? A shady shuttle ride through the woods of Georgia, a $30 dollar cover, and no water at a wet party? As you can guess, we were all pissed off that we came all that way for a wet party and it turned out to be a dry party. There were plenty of places that we could have gone to that night that would have been closer, cheaper, and more jumping from entry. But, since we paid our money, and had to depend on the shuttle to bring us back to our car, we decided to make the best of our situation. Despite being a dry wet party, it was still a Caribbean party, so there was of course food being served. Good food can usually improve any bad situation (Well in my case they do!). Nevis and Austin went back to the house to get us some food, while Paris and I sat on two large rocks a few feet away from the pool.

Minutes later, the guys came back with two plates of curried shrimp and rice with plantains. The food was as yummy as it sounded. But, at $10 per plate, we ended up sharing food. You should notice by now, if you have been keeping track of the money that I spent thus far at this party, that I was out of $40 at a dry “wet” party where no one was dancing. Not a good sign! It was 1am at this point and I was not sure if the party would ever get going.