The Veracity

Hey There...

Endless coral pink sand shores ever traveling in a seemingly parallel diverge with the zephyr blue shimmering seas and the sun silently singing overhead splashing everything with an extra ounce of brilliant animation. Seven hundred islands and cays – is what the commercials say. The Bahamas. A halcyon heaven. A necklace of islands with New Providence in the middle as its crowned jewel.

New Providence or Nassau, as it's called, is "the city". Too fast paced, too bright, too loud, too overcrowded, and it's just to their liking. Despite what the over critical folks from the other out islands have to say about the little big city, it's not as bad as they make it seem. Besides, these out islanders are too accustomed to their out houses, dusty arid watermelon and corn fields and are far still too superstitious to fully understand the modern phenomenon of civilized living. They complain about the noise, the lights, and the lack of community but hey, the city never sleeps and when you do that'll be a prime opportunity for someone to take something from you. When it comes to crime, well, that's everywhere isn't it. Even Paradise isn't perfect. Boys will be boys, snake will be snakes and women will continue to damn them both. Everyone wants a taste of the fruit. Who would want to miss an opportunity at being like gods?

The Bahamas is world famous but what do people really know? The world paints a picture of "perfection" from imagined figments that some want to pass off as an un-staged photograph. Don't be fooled by the smiling faces produced by the most incorrigible manner of global marketing. This land no longer wears straw hats and neither does it rely on horse driven carriages for transportation. No one goes to school bare foot and if they do, it's simply because they prefer it. There are no kids diving off the docks to fetch quarters for tourist, fast talking haircloth and apron wearing 'Gussie Mae' cease to exist (though there is some debate whether she ever did) and "know it all" Uncle John "aint tellin' you nottin" unless he knows you. The Bahamas you think you know; well, that's a dream of the past, an ideology of the present, and romanticism without a future.

There is a new dream now, for a new generation, the American dream. Wealth, power and the pursuit of happiness. A true epicurean reverie — and what better place to live a dream than in paradise. This is reality and sorry to say reality no longer enjoys drinking sweetened lime water out of dented cream cans and finds pot scrubbings of burnt leftover rice rather distasteful. Reality prefers to dine at the four- and five-star restaurants that are usually off limits to locals and positioned conveniently behind the Private. Reserved for Club Members sign, at least twice a week. While they're there, although underage and unchaperoned, they'll order a few bottles of Chablis, courtesy of father's name and his check book, because the waiters figure wine is good for any size heart. To their dismay, those not familiar with the culture of name dropping, will sometimes venture into asking for an ID and in turn get a digitally flawless fake ID card and a look full of scorn, which really isn't a look of scorn, at all. It's just that when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, it's hard to get rid of the taste. But don't mind the face, because seeing that you had the audacity to ask for ID, you may not have a job come Monday morning, so you'll never have to see that face again.

From mornings of relaxing in the overpriced yet comfortable-because-we-can-afford-it atmosphere of some posh brand seaside coffee shop, because Starbucks is for locals, to nights in private nightclubs reserved for resort residents on an private cay off of the mainland, those fortunate few really know how to live out their parents' money's worth. Whoever said The Bahamas was only paradise for the tourists, would seem to have been sadly mistaken.

These are the new generation, the spoiled private schoolers, the sons and daughters of Ministers of Parliament or retired foreign moguls. They are the type that get quite peeved that they have to go to Rio de Janeiro two summer vacations in a row, when mom and dad promised them when they were in 'St. Barts' for the spring, that they could visit Paris for the summer and stay right into the reopening of school, so they can proudly deliver their Paris vacation as an excuse to all their friends as to why they are just returning with it already being a week into the new school year. They are the Petite Elite.

And for those not so sharp on their French, that doesn't rhyme.

People love to hate them and in turn, they loved being hated, but somehow the love just couldn't be extracted from either scenario. The truth is, no matter how much one despises these people they're the ones that everyone wants to be or wished they knew. Let's face it, needless to say these are the type of friends that always come with benefits minus the sexual stuff, but if you're lucky, and in this case you usually are, you'll get introduced to one of their many raunchy little friends.

Money talks, and it just so happens to speak with a try hard suburban American accent. While Mom and Dad are out working their butts off – but not really they probably have legal slaves to do that for them – their kids are probably at home sipping pina coladas in the Jacuzzi, trying to figure out which two of the five university scholarships that they got so far, are they going to take. Not that they'd even it.

No this isn't 90201, and it may not be the part where you grew up but believe it or not this is the real 242. It's a party and against our better judgment, you were invited. So, come on in, the water's warm and the liquor's free. Careful now, the water is clean and clear, but it goes deep – you are about to enter, The Veracity.