A number of sunny primitivist paintings of life on a Caribbean island have been fitted out with a text, as if they depicted ""my best friend, Lucca, and I"" on a visit to the narrator's birthplace. The individual scenes--of market, square, and seashore, school, volcano and carnival--have color and charm; and we're regaled with local lore, especially in the food line. ""My cousins and I gobble up pumpkin soup, pigeon peas, goat-water stew, red snapper fish, and fried bananas topped with guava ice cream."" But from the ostensible arrival of the narrator and friend Lucca at the airport to the foregoing and beyond, there is no indication of who the two are (boy/girl, black/white), or even if they're in the scenes at all. When we are unmistakably presented with a black boy and a white boy, then we know they weren't in the preceding scenes; nor are they in most of those that follow. Somewhat confusing as a first-person account, then; but engaging as a look at the milieu from which many young Americans do come.