Best of 2011: Sunday Favorites: Stalking Jimmy Buffett

The following is a true incident that I experienced last winter.

FRENCH WEST INDIES -- I am pretty sure that Jimmy Buffett thinks I’m stalking him. It wasn’t my intention. In fact, it was my goal this winter to get a picture with him. That’s all, not to get a clipping from his hair or go through his garbage or anything creepy like that. I just wanted a picture, just a new Facebook default of me and Jimmy.

It all started when my friend Droopy invited us over to his new apartment in Saint Barth’s. He was going to BBQ some fresh mahi that we caught on the sailing trip down. Crewmembers Mark and Alan went to the boat to get some supplies but another crewmember, Tristan, and I were going to go ahead on over to Droopy’s place. We didn’t know the exact location but we did know what it was close to. As soon as I saw it was near my favorite shopping place, The Stock Exchange, I told Tristan to go on while I shopped a bit.  

All I knew about the place was that it had a green roof and a loft. I searched around a bit and ventured up a painfully steep street. So steep in fact, that if one’s car stalled out, it would probably end up gaining enough backwards momentum to end up in the canal. Being a Florida flatlander, it was hard enough for me to walk up.

As soon as I reached the top I turned the corner and heard a sweet, melodic voice that had been familiar to me throughout my lifetime. It was Jimmy! He was on his porch and I was walking by! I could hear him talking and laughing with his family. I tried not to be obvious, but I couldn’t help my head from peering over trying to catch a glimpse of the legend himself. The most famous hippie sailor that actually struck it big instead of ending up in a van, down by the river!

As I passed by there was a slight satisfaction, finally I had at least heard Jimmy Buffett, if not seen him. Oh if only I was taller! Dang it! At this point it didn’t seem impossible for me to achieve my goal of being in a picture with Jimmy. All I had to do was find him at a bar, strike up a conversation, maybe flirt a little and turn on my southern accent, and then just as he was about to make a move for home, I would ask him, could I please have a picture? Then he would say “Sure, why not?”

A few houses down I thought I had found the Droopy’s place, but several factors made me unsure of myself. The place wasn’t finished. It was more of a construction site than a house. There was an empty swimming pool and several sets of stairs that were overgrown and seemed to lead to nowhere. Droopy hadn’t mentioned any of this. By now it was dark and I was a little apprehensive to be crawling around someone’s house in the shadows. (Thankfully it wasn’t the States where I’d have to worry about being shot!) Finally a man came outside and said something in French.  When I hesitated to answer, he asked “Parle le vous français?”

“No.” I said I was too stunned to say anything else.

Then in perfect English he said, “Well, I don’t speak English at all.”

Oh, really I thought.  Knowing that he indeed spoke English, I asked him “Does Droopy live upstairs?”

Again in perfect English he answered “No one by that name lives here.”

Well this isn’t the place then, I thought. Completely embarrassed to be looming around someone’s house in the dark.  I voiced my apologies and then moved on. I couldn’t see any other green roofs and I had no telephone to call anyone.  

I decided to go up to the next street and look out to see if there were any other green roofs. This of course required me to go back by Jimmy’s place where he was still on his porch.  I could still hear him talking, and I saw his wife (maybe it was his wife, I have no idea) hanging towels on the railing. “Do you want these hung in a certain place?” she asked him. “I don’t care!” He said. He was joking of course. His tone was jovial and relaxed.  Again I walked by, trying hard to get a glimpse. If only I had worn heels!

When I got up to the upper road I could see two green roofs, one being the place I had already tried. I walked down the steep slope and had to go again pass Jimmy’s. This was getting a little humiliating. When I got to the house with the green roof I realized that no lights were on and there was no loft. It had to be the other place. I went back towards it, which required me to go again past Jimmy’s house.  Being completely embarrassed by now, I was hanging my head when walking by, hoping he had gone inside and wasn’t going to see me walk past the place again. Nope, he was still there. This time he stopped talking when I passed, probably getting a little irritated that this weird little stalker girl wouldn’t leave him alone.

When I finally got back to the place I started from, I went around the other side of the house. I saw Droopy’s scooter and his smart car. I knew that this was it, that Frenchman was full of it. I finally found the entrance, hidden in the shadows of the construction. I had finally made it! Droopy handed me a glass of rose’ and we started cooking in his beautiful studio apartment overlooking Gustavia Harbor below.

Tristan and Mark played guitars and we had a wonderful dinner. All my dreams of meeting Jimmy Buffett seemed irrelevant and immature. Who cares if I ever saw met him or got a picture? Who cares if he thought I was a nut-job stalker? As the guitars played on and the echo of the music dispersed into the street below. I knew that Jimmy Buffett was down on his porch listening to the melody and thinking “What a bunch of freaking amateurs.”