A Jamaican Experience: The Journey That Changed Everything

By: Baron Stewart

After two years at IBM and a few professional successes, I decided to pursue some of my other dreams. Althea Young, my math teacher from Kingston College, once told me, “You have to see the beauty in the world—visit the Louvre in Paris, stand under the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and take in a Broadway play in New York.” She said it was inevitable as if she had already seen me there. And I believed her.

Cipe, my surrogate mother, offered me an incredible opportunity as if on cue. “Live in my home rent-free,” she said. “Use the money you save to see the world.” That offer was too good to pass up, so I started planning my first real adventure—a two-week excursion to London and Paris.

Things kept falling into place. Amanda Harling, the daughter of one of Cipe’s friends, lived in London. She would be out of town during my stay and generously offered me her apartment in central London. I was set. I bought a ticket on Freddy Laker’s airline, and after work that evening, I boarded my flight from New York to Gatwick Airport. I was excited. This was my first trip to Europe, and I remember thinking, Now I’ll find out what those truckloads of Jamaicans saw when they migrated to England in the 1950s.

Gatwick was far from central London, but I didn’t mind. The train ride into the city was all part of the adventure. London was full of pageantry and history—soldiers at Buckingham Palace Gate, the rhythmic chime of Big Ben, the mighty Thames, and the storied Tower of London. All these names I had grown up hearing now had faces, and I took it all in like a child seeing color for the first time.

At the Tower, I ran into three girls and a guy from New York. The girls were nurses from Spring Valley, close to Stony Point, where I lived. They told me they’d noticed me because I looked just like a doctor at their hospital. Later, I met that doctor at a party—same sports jacket, same blue jeans, and even drove a BMW like me. He was my spitting image. It was surreal and more than a little uncomfortable.

But London had more in store. Amanda had arranged for me to meet her debonair brother, Nick Harling, a sports reporter with a sharp wit and a more extraordinary car. Nick showed me the nightlife of London, and by the end of the week, he made an offer I couldn’t refuse—he would drive me to Paris in his black MG convertible. Paris was coming because he had a soccer game to cover somewhere in Europe.

The morning Nick picked me up from Amanda’s flat was bright and full of promise. It was one of those rare London spring days when the sun shone, and everyone seemed to be outside, basking in it like sunflowers. People lounged on park benches and sipped beers outside pubs, and for a moment, I thought about how different their lives were from mine. Back home, we had sun every day. Here, a little warmth caused a commotion. I found it amusing to watch people, half-naked by my standards, sunning themselves in 16-degree weather. It seemed cold to me, but they were chasing every ray of sunlight like gold.

I threw my blue and white striped duffel bag into the back seat of Nick’s MG. He wore his usual—sports jacket, t-shirt, sunglasses—and had that effortless swagger like he owned the world. The top was down, and we took off with the low roar of the engine beneath us, the wind hitting our faces as we sped through the city streets and onto the open road.

Nick was a big Crystal Palace fan, and we talked football as we headed south to Dover. I told him about Harbour View back in Jamaica, and we compared notes on strikers and playing styles. We laughed about women we spotted lounging outside cafés, stylish in their sundresses and sunglasses, and occasionally pulled over for coffee to watch the world go by. Nick drove with an effortless confidence, expertly cornering down winding country roads. The MG’s low hum turned into a throaty growl every time he shifted gears, and I felt like we were flying.

I had only read about the English countryside, and it was hard to believe it was real. Rolling green hills, fields fenced in by old stone walls, and sheep grazing lazily in the sun—it was ordinary to Nick but extraordinary to me. I expected the need for sunlight, the expansive parks in London, and the visible history all around, but the beauty of it still took me by surprise.

We reached Dover and boarded the ferry across the English Channel—another first. I stood on deck as we pulled away from England, watching the white cliffs fade into the distance. Ahead of us was France, and with it, the unknown. For a moment, I wondered if this was a metaphor for my life—leaving one shore behind and heading toward something new. I wasn’t sure, but the thought stuck with me.

We grabbed the compulsory fish and chips on board and talked about football, women, and what Paris would be like. Nick promised it would blow my mind, and I was ready. Years later, I would cross this ferry route many times—sometimes smooth. I was even refused entry into France on one of those trips, but that’s a story for another time.

When I stepped off the ferry into Europe for the first time, it felt like a dream come true. I had always wanted to live in Europe, and at that moment, it didn’t seem so far-fetched.

The drive from Dunkirk to Paris was something out of a dream. The road twisted and turned through small French villages that looked like they hadn’t changed in centuries. Cobblestone streets, old stone houses with red-tiled roofs, window boxes bursting with geraniums. In the town squares, older men played pétanque under the shade of plane trees. We passed fields of golden rapeseed and vineyards; occasionally, a steeple from an ancient church rose on the horizon.

Nick’s MG hugged every curve of the road, the engine purring like a big cat ready to leap. The wind was calmer here, carrying the scent of fresh earth and blooming fields. We stopped once at a roadside café for two strong espressos, and I gave my best “merci” to the server, earning a polite nod in return. I was in heaven.

As we approached Paris, the light softened and turned golden. Then, just like that, the city appeared in the distance. My heart jumped.

We arrived in Paris in the early evening. The city glowed, and everything about it seemed surreal. I asked Nick about the street markets as he navigated through the narrow streets. He laughed, that same mischievous smirk on his face, but didn’t say much. I found out why the following day.

I woke to the sharp barking of vendors right outside my window. I threw open the shutters of my little hotel room on the Right Bank and realized I was living smack in the middle of a bustling street market. The sounds and smells—the bread, the cheese, the flowers—were all there. I dressed quickly and ran outside. I wanted to see everything.

Vendors lined both sides of the street, selling everything from fresh produce to second-hand books. Locals haggled for deals, kids chased each other between stalls, and the air was filled with fresh bread, strong coffee, and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. It was like stepping into a postcard.

After soaking it all in, I made my way to the Louvre. I had promised Althea I’d go, and I stood before the glass pyramid, keeping my word. “Althea, I’m at the Louvre—just like I promised I would be,” I wrote on a postcard to send back home. One promise down. Broadway and IBM? Done. The Sistine Chapel? Not yet, but I was getting closer.

The rest of my week in Paris was full of energy and enthusiasm. The Eiffel Tower, the Seine, Notre Dame, the Left Bank, the cafés—I rushed through it all like a man who knew he only had so much time. I drank too much coffee, stayed out too late, and walked until my legs ached. And I loved every second of it. Walking along the wide boulevards from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe, I was struck by the sophistication of Paris. The beauty of the architecture, the fashion-conscious women, the sheer grandeur of the city—it felt like a dream world. I had no cultural misunderstandings, no fear, and no logistical headaches. Paris felt safe, even late at night. I was comfortable, even though I didn’t speak French. Most people I interacted with spoke English, and I felt welcome.

Traveling with Nick made it even better. I missed his carefree banter when he left for his assignment. Traveling alone had moments, but having Nick along made the experience richer.

By the end of the trip, I realized something profound: this journey had changed me. I had left Kingston as a Jamaican-centric man. I returned as a world-centric one. I wanted to see more. Over the next twenty years, I did. My concept of success shifted. It wasn’t just about career achievements anymore. Success, for me, became the opportunity to see and interact with a larger world.

On my train ride back from Paris to London, I met young people worldwide. We sat in a circle and talked about everything—our homes, our dreams, the state of the world. It was then that I knew Europe was where I belonged. And I was right.

Travel was more straightforward in 1980. I went to the airport and bought my ticket the day I was leaving. I stayed where my friends told me to stay. Cipe and Amanda had taught me what to see in London and Paris, and I used their guidance as a starting point. From there, I wandered and explored on my own.

My future trips were inspired by my desire to learn and grow into a well-educated human. Yes, I made it to Italy for a month. Yes, I stood under the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And today, I live in Portugal.

Since that first trip, I have returned to Europe many times: England, France, Germany, Holland, Spain, Italy, Austria, Ukraine, Hungary, Greece, Morocco—and now Portugal. I am always proud to be Jamaican, but travel helped broaden my narrow perspective and gave me something larger to belong to.

I never missed home. I found Jamaicans and Jamaican culture everywhere I went.