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I arrived to St. Lucia fully aware that my heart would expand and that the sweet Caribbean sun would welcome me warmly. I yearned to be kissed by sunrays until my brown skin glistened with the glow of sweat. A couple of friends cautioned me to be wary of the women, as they didn’t take kindly to Black American girls like me. I had only considered this sentiment because I had heard it from more than one person, but otherwise, I shrugged it off. This trip would mark my debut abroad as a lone female traveler. I carried with me an extra knapsack of preconceived notions about all of the possible things that could go wrong traveling alone as a woman. Against the looming advice of my friends and my rigid, Islamic upbringing, I was eager to befriend a woman on my trip. On the snaky drive from Vieux Fort to Soufriere, I couldn’t keep from smiling at the taffy colored houses perched daintily in the hills. Luscious tropical flora blanketed the meandering roadsides. The ubiquitous Pitons, St. Lucia’s signature Twin Mountains stood honorably like majestic knights guarding over the island. Noticing my wide-eyed enchantment, the driver uttered to me with casual conviction that I was in “the most beautiful place in the world.” I have yet to see the whole world, however, I was convinced he was telling the truth. We got lost when we reached the town of Soufriere, but I didn’t mind, that is until the taxi driver began to suck his teeth in true Caribbean fashion. He reluctantly sought directions as we pulled over to ask a young lady to help us. She appeared to be on her way to or from work, dressed in a worn but crisp uniform. When she walked up to the passenger side window, my window, I was astonished by her resemblance to my older sister. Like my sister, her skin was the color of caramel chews and she had an identical sense of skepticism that also made her nostrils flare like a budding flower. Perhaps I was searching to make a connection, the way all of us do when we find ourselves outside of familiar territory. The woman and I locked eyes briefly and she held the stare as gave the driver directions. She squinted at me as if she was trying to figure out where she had seen me before. There was something about that short moment that offered me a profound sense of safety. I knew I was being protected, almost as if an angel had been sent to look after me. It was surreal and fantastic. I knew I had to see this woman again. The following morning I was summoned to the front porch by a light rain shower followed by a fluorescent double rainbow, when I heard someone call out to me, “Ay my gyal!” I looked at the porch directly across from mine, and there she was, the same woman from yesterday. Her name was Michaela, coincidentally named after the archangel. Michaela invited herself onto my porch. We chatted for hours. She lived right across the road. We just so happened to be five years apart, just like my blood sister. Michaela taught me everything I needed to know for my short stay in St. Lucia. She taught me how to negotiate with taxi drivers, a brief history of the island, and all about the famous Friday night fete up in Gros Islet. We talked about the British and the French and bonded over our disdain and disgust for how they enslaved our ancestors. I told her how wonderful I thought it is that St. Lucians have developed a tongue, a creole, influenced by French but altogether a completely different language. We agreed that our people are truly innovative and resilient. It genuinely felt like I had known her all my life and that we were just catching up oblivious of time and distance. I knew that when I arrived to St. Lucia that I would fall in love, but I was amazed that the island bestowed upon me the tenderness of soul sisterhood; an instant connection that is eternally etched in my heart.