A Jamaican Experience: Sundarii and my Trip to Italy

By: Baron Stewart

It was Monday night in 1979, which meant one thing for me: I was dancing to reggae music at Ones, the club on Varick Street in Lower Manhattan. I could dance, and back then, dancing was my way of connecting—with the music, with the people, and often with women who responded to the pulsating, hypnotic beats coming out of Jamaica. I knew the moves and had a rhythm that drew them in. Ones was my regular spot on Mondays. On Thursdays, it was Chesters in Stony Brook: Saturdays, My Father’s Place in Roslyn, Long Island. I was 31, and my life revolved around the pleasure I found in reggae music. It was my entire social world.

But on this particular Monday night, something shifted. I noticed her immediately—a head of thick brown hair, a well-built body that moved like she was born to the rhythm, and a way of dancing that told me she knew the music. I not only heard it but understood it. I had to dance with her.

I slipped beside her without saying a word, letting my body speak. Rocking to the beat, matching her energy, and showing her I could carry the raw magnetism she was throwing out there. And she felt it. I could see it in how she began to move with me, not against me. We danced, sweat running down my face, completely locked in. We didn’t speak for a long time because there was no need—we knew.

Eventually, there was a pause, a moment where words fit. I extended my hand and said, “I’m Baron.” She smiled, eyes full of fire, and replied, “Sundarii.” She was young, Jewish, energetic, and restless. Fresh from Jamaica, she is in transit to Arizona, where her parents lived. She wasn’t too keen on Phoenix. I told her casually, “If you don’t like Phoenix, come back to New York.”

A few weeks later, to my surprise, she did. There is no place to stay, no real plan, just that energy to burn. I was living at Cipe’s house in Stony Point—no place for her to crash—so I negotiated with my girlfriend to let Sundarii stay in her apartment in Brooklyn until we could figure something out. Eventually, Sundarii found her place with friends in Manhattan, and life kept moving. But something between us had started, something I wasn’t ready to ignore.

Late spring arrived, and I asked Sundarii if she wanted to join me on a trip to Italy. A month-long adventure. She said yes without hesitation, and we were on a plane to Rome just like that. We played backgammon for hours on the flight over, fiercely competitive as always. We crowned a “champion of the plane” before we even landed.

Rome hit us like a wave. Even as seasoned New Yorkers, we were overwhelmed by the hustle, the scooters, the history pressing in from every angle. We dropped our bags at the hotel and hit the streets immediately. We stood in awe inside the Colosseum, walked the ruins of the Roman Forum, and tossed coins into the Trevi Fountain with quiet, private wishes. We wandered the Spanish Steps, slowly explored the Vatican, and craned our necks beneath the Sistine Chapel, marveling at Michelangelo’s genius. Before we left Rome, I sent a postcard to Althea—my high school math teacher and mentor. She had told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and every time I reached a new height, I sent her a card. This one was special. This one felt like I was living the promise.

From Rome, we took the train north to Florence. And that’s where my heart truly opened. Florence was everything I didn’t know I was missing. We got off the train without reservations and found a small boutique hotel overlooking the Arno River, just a block from the Ponte Vecchio, beneath Michelangelo’s Square, and near the Uffizi. It was perfect.

We spent our days sitting beneath the Uffizi, watching artists sketch portraits of families and travelers. At night, we dined late in beautiful restaurants, drank wine that left us glowing, and marveled at the food. One night, we ordered “mixed pasta,” expecting a simple plate with a blend of noodles. Instead, they brought course after course—spaghetti in tomato sauce, tagliatelle in cream sauce, tortellini in meat sauce—six different kinds of pasta, each with its own story and flavor. We laughed when the waiter smiled and asked if we were ready for the main course. We were packed to the brim, but at that moment, I surrendered entirely to Europe's generosity, abundance, and life. Maybe that dinner was the moment that changed everything for me.

During the days, Sundarii and I explored Pisa and Fiesole and made a trip to Siena, where we imagined the Palio horse race tearing through the narrow streets. Sundarii had an endless curiosity. She examined every piece of jewelry on the Ponte Vecchio like each held its own secret. She wanted to touch everything, to know everything, and I followed her lead.

After Florence, we rode the train to Venice. When we arrived, the city was flooded, and we trudged through ankle-deep water in Saint Mark’s Square to get to our bed and breakfast. We didn’t care. We dropped our bags and headed back out, taking a gondola ride through the misty canals and visiting the glassblowers on Murano. Sundarii was in her element, inspecting every piece of art, every trinket.

Our last stop was Milan, and from there, we caught a plane back to the U.S.—with another obligatory backgammon game on board, of course.

But I wasn’t the same man who left New York. That trip that month changed me. It cemented my love for Europe. I didn’t feel the same race issues I did back home. I felt free, entirely accepted, fully alive. I loved how Europeans respected tradition, savored their food, and honored their history. I fell in love with the beauty of Florence, which still calls me back today.

And maybe it was that mixed pasta dinner—course after course of unexpected joy—that made me realize I had surrendered to this way of life—a life where every moment was meant to be tasted, touched, and lived fully.   

What drove me in those days was a deep hunger to learn and grow.

I grew up on a small island, in a city, where I heard stories about places like Rome, Florence, and Vienna—but traveling to see them wasn’t something I could afford. Those places were distant dreams. But in 1979, that changed. I had Cipe behind me. I had IBM behind me. And with them came the freedom to go out into the world and learn.

Back then, I only had two weeks of vacation. But I wanted more. I needed more. So I took another two weeks without pay because I knew a month in Europe would give me something no paycheck ever could. On other trips, IBM even paid me both weeks, which felt like an open door—a wide, beautiful one.

And Europe? Europe didn’t disappoint. It matched every fantasy I’d ever had. It was as beautiful, as interesting, and as rich as I hoped it would be. But the best part? Unlike in New York, where I fought daily to be accepted, I didn't feel like an outsider. In Europe, I was part of it. I belonged to the experience, and it belonged to me.

At one point, I thought I’d marry an Austrian girl and move to Vienna. But as life unfolded, I eventually settled in Portugal—a place still feeding my spirit.

When I got home from those early trips, I held photographic exhibitions of the places I’d seen and the people I’d met. My photos captured the essence of the world I was falling in love with and kept me planning the next trip. Every journey brought someone new who would say, “You have to see this place,” and that’s where I’d go. My life became a living map drawn by the people I met.

My relationship with Sundarii became steady. We planned little excursions and picnics to recapture the feeling we shared in Italy. She was a compelling partner because her love of adventure wasn’t casual. It wasn’t surface-level. It was part of her DNA. She didn’t just want to see things—she wanted to experience them fully. And she inspired me to do the same.

My high school math teacher and mentor, Althea, was always there, quietly guiding me. She had told me I could be anything I set my mind to, and every time I reached another milestone, I sent her a postcard. We met whenever she visited New York to see her daughter, Serah, or when I returned to Jamaica. I remember one of my photography exhibitions—portraits of women wearing my black French beret. One of them was Althea herself. She wore that beret to that show in Nyack, New York. She was always there, standing in the background, steady through my ups and downs. Her belief in me was the driving force behind my life. I can’t put into words the difference she made. Some things are too big for words.

I’m still on the same path today. I’m 77 years old, and my life is still one continuous adventure. And I’m loving it.

The sense of freedom and joy I found back then—it’s etched into who I am now. I carry it everywhere I go.

If there’s one piece of advice I would give to anyone willing to listen, it’s this:
Make every effort to access what you don’t know, you don’t know. That’s where the real breakthroughs happen. Travel is one of the surest ways to open that door. Go beyond your comfort zone. Be willing to be surprised because life has more waiting for you than you can imagine.

The man I was then laid the foundation for the man I am today. And along the way, I was blessed with guides—Cipe, John Conway, Althea, Fred, Ronald, and many others.

They helped me become who I am. And I am grateful for every step of this journey.