Before leaving for Puerto Rico on this last expedition, the hardest decision about what to pack was- what books do I take? I started out with approximately 7 books. I narrowed it down to two. I only read one while I was there and returned with two extra. So, what was the one book I read?
Alain de Botton's
The Art of Travel. I've been wanting to read this book for years. I recently found it at the bookstore and it has been sitting on my bedside table for months. The trip seemed like the perfect opportunity. And it was. The book is divided into sections based on the idea of travel- departure (anticipation), motives (curiosity), landscape (the sublime), art (beauty), and return (habit). I first cracked open the book on the airplane to Puerto Rico and read the section on departure. I saved the middle sections for poolside and oceanside moments. And fittingly, I saved the return section for the plane ride home. So, I propose for my blog about Puerto Rico (which promises to be really, really, really long) I will use some quotes from the book to help recreate the mundane and sublime experiences of my trip with my mother to the island.
"...it seems we may best be able to inhabit a place when we are not faced with the additional challenge of having to be there."
There is something unique about arriving at the San Juan airport. The flight itself is full of laughter and lightness. I can't imagine everyone on the plane is on holiday. Upon arrival at the airport, I set about on a trip full of contrast. Contrasting the airport in Charlotte to the one in San Juan is easy. One is stark and terrifying, the other is full of sunshine and laughter. Now, here is the thing- it isn't like this on the way back. The San Juan airport when departing is chaotic, confusing and depressing. There is something special in the arrival, perhaps something I brought with me.
"If we find poetry in the service station and the motel, if we are drawn to the airport or the train carriage, it is perhaps because despite their architectural compromises and discomforts, despite their garish colours and harsh lighting, we implicitly feel that these isolated places offer us a material setting for an alternative to the selfish ease, the habits and confinement of the ordinary, rooted world."
Our first two nights in San Juan, we stayed in a neighborhood that is located near Condado, but seemingly away from the more touristy streets. While I do not seek to recreate every aspect of the trip, one (if not the most) memorable evening was our first night on the island.
The last time I visited, I made contact with a young man, Jorell. Since my last visit, we have had the opportunity to get to know one another, as he sought to answer the numerous questions I had about the politics and culture of the island. During this trip, we had planned numerous excursions that would allow him to show both my mother and I the island and introduce us to the spaces outside of where normal tourists might wander.
Our first night, we had decided that Jorell and his wife, Magaly, would pick us up from the hotel and take us to a bar, El Boricua in Rio Piedras for drinks. Also in tow, would be Rossael and Diego (a roommate and her boyfriend). I can remember quite clearly sitting outside of the hotel waiting for them to arrive. I was nervous. While you can get to know someone through letters, there is something inherently different about spending time with them. I remember hoping the conversation from email would translate into conversation over drinks. And it did.
And what is the equation for conversation starting among strangers? Apparently, it is called "chichaito"- no, not that for you speakers of the language, but a drink. It's made of a homebrewed rum and anise. After a couple of these drinks coupled with a handful of Medalla (a local beer), the conversation was perfect. Perhaps my favorite moment from the evening was when my mother decided she would buy everyone a shot of chichaito (yes, she is very hip). She practiced how to pronounce the name of the drink and saddled up at the bar to order. Being outside of the tourist area, she had considerable trouble ordering. Luckily, a drunken local decided he would help her after ordering her to his table in a very diminutive way. Before Jorell's rescue of my mother from her would-be suitor, I heard my mother exclaim loudly to the bartendress, "Chichaito!!" It was around this time that Jorell and folks explained to me what the word translates as...and you'll just have to look that up on your own. But I'll tell you this much, once I knew, it was not surprising that the drunken local took a fancy to her.
Our second day, we spent time walking around the area and visiting Museo de Arte- which was fascinating. A couple of my favorite pieces- the installation by Antonio Martorell, which was an homage to another piece, The Wake; Carlos Davila Rinaldi's Gringomatic; and Pepon Osorio's barbershop installation. Later that evening, we accompanied Jorell to a restaurant in the Condado area. On the ride over, a musical memory was created as he was listening to the music of Ghost Mice. I won't explain now, as an entire additional post is necessary. For dinner, we ate at a Mexican restaurant where we were serenaded by a mariachi band with the song "La Chucharacha" at my mother's request. During the performance, I glanced out on the street and noticed a parade was taking place. Seriously, I do not lie.
Our next couple of days were spent in Old San Juan. Although Jennie Ann and I had ventured to the olde town, I wanted to spend more time there this go around, plus I knew that my mother would love it due to the historic preservation. We stayed in El Convento, which I highly suggest to anyone making a trip to the island. It is awe inspiring.
"A dominant impulse on encountering beauty is to wish to hold on to it, to possess it and give it weight in one's life. There is an urge to say, 'I was here, I saw this and it mattered to me.' But beauty if fugitive, being frequently found in places to which we may never return or else resulting from rare conjunctions of season, light and weather. How then to possess it...? The camera provides one option. Taking photographs can assuage the itch for possession sparked by the beauty of a place; our anxiety over losing a precious scene can decline with every click of the shutter. Or else we can try to imprint ourselves physically on a place of beauty, perhaps hoping to render it more present in us by making
ourselves more present in
it...A more modest step might be to buy something- a bowl, a lacquered box or a pair of sandals- as a reminder of what we have lost, like a lock of hair cut from a departing lover's mane."
Old San Juan is beautiful. And while I enjoy walking around the town and getting to know locals from the shops that line the streets, I keep returning to my memories of the time I shared with the people I met there, particularly Jorell and Magaly. On the third night of our journey, the lovely couple had us over for dinner. Well before the dinner, Jorell had "warned" us of a couple of "issues" that we would need to consider. One was the fact that they are both vegetarians and two, that they are the proud owners of four cats. I couldn't have hand-picked a better couple to befriend. Magaly prepared the most wonderful dinner we had the entire time on the island- we first had an appetizer of cheese and guava, then settled in for a dinner of spinach and mushroom lasagna, a salad, and tostones. I'll never forget that before gathering together for dinner, Frank Sinatra played out from a record player in the kitchen. During this evening, I decided to ask Jorell and Magaly to participate in my
Music is Memory project by allowing me to interview them, as well as to allow my mother to take pictures. While we discussed possibly attending a show, we instead sat and talked for several hours about the ways that music has changed our lives and the memories that it has left behind. A truly wonderful evening.
"At the same time, fog ushered in nostalgia. Foggy nights may, like certain smells, carry us back to other times we experienced them. I thought of nights at university, walking home along illuminated playing fields, and of the differences between my life then and my life now, which led to a bittersweet sadness about the difficulties that had beset me then and the precious things that had since been lost to me."
Our second to last day of the journey, Jorell had agreed to drive my mother and I around the island. I had wanted to see Ponce and perhaps other areas. We awoke early and at my request took a journey to the neighborhood of Rio Piedras so I could get some daylight photographs of the beautiful street art that lines the streets, both in public and private spaces. I continue to remain fascinated with the artwork that I saw. Afterwards, we drove to Ponce. We visited several museums, including one of my favorites, the Museum of the Massacre at Ponce. While in Ponce, Jorell bought some quenepa for us to try. It is a fruit that is sold on the streets and highways surrounding the area. Perhaps Jorell thinks my mother and I are smarter than we are- as we bit the skin off the quenepa and both began to suck on the fruit inside. After a few moments of trying to tease the fruit off the seed, I began to chomp down on the seed. A bit bewildered, luckily my mother asked, "Should we be eating the seed?" Jorell responded, "Whhhhaaaatttt?" And we learned you should not eat the seed.
Leaving Ponce, we set about to see some of the beaches in the area, we drove through Mayaguez and then headed toward Aguadilla, which is the hometown of Jorell. We saw one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen (Playa Crashboat) and then make a stop by his grandmother's house, which was lovely. Late in the afternoon, we headed back to our final destination for the trip, the Caribe Hilton.
The Hilton, while a lovely place to stay, is one of those places that is ultimately isolating. It feels difficult to leave and the hotel makes sure of this by providing you with every single thing you might need on the property, but for a price. Our last day, we spent soaking in the sunlight and the drinks at the hotel bar. I wanted to reflect upon the journey.
For our last night, I had requested that we take Jorell, Magaly, Rossael, and Diego to dinner. I had wanted to do this, because as I spoke about contrasts earlier, I felt the contrast of the way that Jorell and folks responded to my mother and I. Contrast, you ask? I was overwhelmed with the generosity of our hosts and hostesses. They paid for many of our meals and drinks. They offered up their time and energy to us, all while keeping to their normal schedules of 12 hour work days. It must be noted that these folks are also in their early 20s. I have a hard time believing that most of the 20-year-olds that I know would have been this giving and generous. Hell, I have a hard time believing that many people are this generous.
For this last dinner, I finally indulged in mofongo. We had hoped to have dinner at a Greek restaurant that was renowned for their vegetarian options, though it was closed. We quickly chose to eat at a restaurant directly across the street. Upon walking in, Jorell commented that it may be difficult for us to find eating options in a place that had "these kind of chairs." They were big wooden leather chairs. Yes, it may be difficult. We had a lovely dinner, regardless. While most wouldn't think that black beans and mofongo would work together- it does. Afterwards, we ventured to a small local bar called Fancy Pizza, where we could enjoy a few cold beverages.
I'm absolutely positive that it isn't only vacation that makes me so terribly sad to leave Puerto Rico, but rather something about the island itself. The last time I left the island, I teared up a little in the cab ride to the airport. The last time I knew that I would miss the island. This time, I teared up several times well before leaving. And I knew this time, I would not only miss the island, but I would miss the folks that I had come to know as friends while there.
"I returned to London from Barbados to find that the city had stubbornly refused to change. I had seen azure skies and giant sea anemones, I had slept in a raffia bungalow and eaten a kingfish, I had swum beside baby turtles and read in the shade of coconut trees. But my hometown was unimpressed. It was still raining. The park was still a pond; the skies were still funereal. When we are in a good mood and it is sunny, we may be tempted to impute a connection between what happens inside and outside of us, but the appearance of London on my return was a reminder of the indifference of the world to any of the events unfolding in the lives of its inhabitants. I felt despair at being home. I felt there could be few worse places on Earth than the one I had been fated to spend my existence in."
Yes, returning home was difficult. Again, I watch the fade of sun from my skin. I begin to hear English spoken more than Spanish. The days of wandering unknown streets and having conversations for the first time with new friends disappear. I can pick up the artifacts from the trip and think about how when I held them for the first time I was in an apartment in San Juan discussing how The Smiths impacted all of our lives.
"I thank you. And I thank you. As the years go by, this heart of mine says thanks many times for the friends it finds. I am so grateful. I am so lucky." -Ghost Mice
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