Of procrastination, cockroaches and too many possibilities

Procrastination. What a sordid state to be in. What a black hole. And one of the few things that I am unfortunately undeniably very good at. Something is always there to distract me and steer me away from that bliss of decisive action. Not anything important – it could be as banal as watching Murder She Wrote reruns. I will be reading a few articles at the same time, researching recipes (for dishes that I never end up preparing), flesh out a few ideas to save the world or a novel way to make money,  and tell JB Fletcher who did it ten minutes into the episode. But the important stuff… not happening. Too much noise in my head and I stagnate.

Piscadera Bay parking lot

I’ve just moved to a new country, a tiny Caribbean island near Venezuela. My uncle lived there in a beautiful building that still reflects his eclectic wanderer spirit; it is riddled with antiques, splattered with his own paintings and his quirky touch is everywhere. This place has soul. A bit of a dilapidated soul, but still, it’s there. There’s a blanket of feel-good vibes that envelops you the moment you walk in, constant surprise mixed with the sense that anything is possible, leaving you feel a bit like a cross between Alice in Wonderland  and Pippi Langstrumpf.

And now I live here. And every day I’m wondering what to do with this legacy my uncle left me. Because he didn’t just leave me a house, he left me a restaurant too. More like a legend, that I piece together from hints and phrases I pick up in conversations with his old friends and guests. He sold atmosphere. And style, stories and creativity. And escargots from a can, that everybody loved. It was not planned, conceived by a team of designers that monitored hospitality trends; it grew organically, from just having friends over for dinner to hosting people two or three times per week.

Kunst Kwartier Galeria and Restaurant

It was so informal that he never bothered with licenses either. Or with proper plumbing, electrical wiring and kitchen hygiene. So that’s where my challenge lies. I ask contractors for estimates I can never afford and make daily trips to the hardware store to do the small repairs that a reasonably practical person can do without accidentally blowing up the whole neighbourhood or performing unwanted amputations on herself. I exterminate termites and cockroaches (albeit only very temporarily in case of the latter), shovel dirt, prune trees, curse the roof that is original but allows dust to fly in non-stop and install striking window bars that my uncle would have been proud of.

Only very tiny thieves can make it through these guys

All the while I have a maelström of ideas and doubts in my head: am I going to re-open the restaurant, or make it a shop of some kind, just live there and expand my translation business or maybe turn it into a bakery where the two diabetic, gluten-intolerant, vegan people with a peanut allergy and a frosting phobia on the island can finally enjoy a scrumptious birthday cake? Shall I start a B&B instead, or shall I find tenants for the independent unit in the garden (if I can ever complete the archaeological enterprise of fixing it up)? Ah procrastination, there you are.