Dominica has different power than the United States. The norm in the States is 110 volts and 60 cycles. In the island the power is 220 volts and 50 cycles. This does terrible things to small motors made for use in the United States.
As a would-be writer I learned on a manual Remington that I garnered from the University of Florida bookstore on the GI bill before a clamp down limited us to just books and supplies.
Years later I finally felt entitled to the luxury of a modern electric typewriter. Still later Fred Ward told me about typewriters with eraser ribbons. Luxury living.
One could not buy an electric typewriter on the island so on one of my trips to Florida I had a local manufacturer’s representative order a 220-volt motor for my electric typewriter. I would take the chance that the 50 volts would not “humbug me”, as they say locally.
My machine gave up quietly soon thereafter, defeated by local power brownouts and surges which aggravate the 10 cycle difference.
So it was, therefore, that on a visit to Martinique, the next island south, I discovered a typewriter dealer in downtown Fort de France who had an Olympia machine that worked on the 220-volt system. According to the salesman it was built strong enough to contend with the power fluctuations found in the islands.
We always accepted French francs from French guests at the hotel and so frequently had a reasonable accumulation, which seemed always ready to “burn a hole in our pockets” as my mother used to say. I thought the typewriter was a perfect purchase and went across Empress Josephine Square to find Margie and tell her of my wonderful find.
She was at the Hotel Europa reading a book.
She agreed with me that it sounded wonderful and then she asked me if I had tried it out.
“Well, no,” I confessed, “why should I? The thing is brand new. The Salesman hit a bunch of letters and it was fine.”
“You should try it,” she said. “I’ll go across with you and look at it but you should at least try it.”
“You can be annoying sometimes,” I groused, “I will try the damned thing, all right?”
We walked back across the corner of the square and entered the shop. The salesperson was all smiles. I thrust my open palms at the machine and said “There, see?”
“Type on it,” she said nodding affirmatively at its nice appearance.
I sat down grumbling and the salesperson handed me a piece of paper. I rolled it in and typed “All good individuals come to the aid of their party.”
“What are you typing?” she asked.
It was gibberish.
I looked at the keys. There was a crazy, unrecognizable arrangement of letters that bore no resemblance to the standard American typewriter keyboard. The French keyboard was different.
I shrugged and grinned, embarrassed. “I guess if one wanted to type code this would be a good machine to have but I sure can’t use it.”
“Oh, well,” Margie said. “But, look on the bright side. I have a wonderful place for us to spend those francs. Loiza says that new restaurant on the bayfront is marvelous.”
“You’re on,” I said.