A dread-locked Rasta guy sat at the table next to me. Beyond him the calm water between the islands shimmered in the sun. Around him the bright colors of hand-crafted bird and fish mobiles, pineapple covered curtains, and red-checked tablecloths lent an air of reckless joy to the scene.
I started up a conversation with him. His English had that distinct Caribbean Creole flavor. I had no problem understanding him. I asked him if he understood me.
It was his answer that stuck with me for weeks to come.
Yes, he could understand me.
"I have a hard time understanding people when they speak fast," he explained.
"But I understand them good when they speak love."
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