Welcome to Jamaica, baby

I did a very dumb thing when I moved to my new apartment. I assumed that Conedison was my gas provider as it had been for the last 12 years in every neighborhood I've lived. However, after receiving ridiculously low bills for 3 months it finally dawned on me that something was wrong (I am very, very fast). I made a few calls and found out that my building was on the National Grid system and, because I was four months late, I had to open the account in person... in Jamaica.
I've never been to Jamaica. So I tried to cheer me up with stuff like: hey, maybe it's interesting. Maybe I can take a few nice pics. Maybe they have some cool weird santería store.
I think the name Jamaica made me delusional (which I realized once I got there.) The only exotic spot was a Walgreens (we don't have that many in NY yet). I got totally lost and almost ended in the desolate, lonely area where serial killers play domino, but was rescued in time by Yves, a congolese man and his cute, teenage daughter. He was very happy to have found me. Not only had he rescued a lost, ditsy mademoiselle, he could practice his French. The neighborhood didn't look that dangerous but he insisted to walk me to the National Grid's offices and kept pointing out cops at every corner: "You zee, tiz iz the way you should come, therrrr arrrr copz everrrywhere. It'zaferrrr!"
Altough freaked out at the time, in retrospect, the fact that his daughter was laughing and rolling her eyes, makes me think that Jamaica was actually safer than Yves, the flirt.