Puerto Rico (Part I)
Generally, the length of time it takes me to find humor in an uncomfortable situation is a reliable indicator of just how bad that situation was. I have been back from my Puerto Rico vacation for two weeks and have only just now wound down enough to write this story. Needless to say, you are not about to read a glowing review of a holiday.
This was my second trip to Puerto Rico and I've come to the conclusion that there's an awful lot not to like about this place. Charming is not a word that I would use to describe the island. A commonwealth of the United States, Puerto Rico has lost much of its distinctive Caribbean culture, which has been subsumed by its big, bad American stepfather.
Okay, so maybe I’m already a bit cranky before our plane even takes off; because air travel is no longer fun; because we had to get up at 4 am to catch a flight – on the morning we set the clocks forward. Make that 3am in real time.
It’s hard to talk about cultural differences with a straight face when you stare down the road in Puerto Rico and all you see are McDonalds, Burger Kings, Pizza Huts, Kentucky Fried Chickens, Wendy’s, and 7-Elevens. But then cultural distinction can be about subtleties. Take Wal-Mart, for example. Puerto Rico has tropical Wal-Marts, while we have northern-temperate Wal-Marts. When our Wal-Marts are selling snow shovels and ice-melting salts, theirs have aisles of flip-flops, beach chairs and tanning lotions. In the midst of a long, cold winter, that’s pretty strong motivation for hopping a plane to San Juan.
The airport security guard pulls me out of line for the anti-terror check, shoving a beeping wand into my crotch. It’s not even 6 am. You don’t think that’s going to put you in a mood?
We have rented a condo at the beach in the town of Luquillo. Puerto Rico is known for its beautiful beaches. Unfortunately, to get to the nicest beaches on the island you have to drive past a lot of roadside Puerto Rico, which is not a pretty sight. Let me put it another way, you won't be pulling the car over very often to snap a picture of the scenic homes.
Members of our flight crew fail to show for the flight. The change to daylight savings time is suspected. We sit in a Star Wars-like people mover on the tarmac at Dulles airport for 45 minutes until a replacement crew can be found. Our connection in Charlotte is already in question. Grrrr.
Puerto Rican architecture incorporates building materials that are best categorized as "things the last hurricane dropped in my yard." Pretty much everything and anything is nailed onto the house: corrugated metal roofs, driftwood, telephone booths, pieces of US Navy battleships. Then, for added ballast, many defunct items are stacked up on the roof, including (and this is no lie) old cars, stray dogs, expendable family members. You can almost hear Mr. average Puerto Rican homeowner taunting a hurricane as he drags another washing machine out onto the roof: "Let's see you blow my roof off this time!"
San Juan airport is packed when we arrive. This is a major transfer point for people from the mainland US catching cruise ships that will take them to other islands. Large groups of Americans wearing fanny packs, Hawaiian shirts and backward baseball caps intersect our path. We bump and grind our way forward.
It’s raining. Did I mention that it is raining? I have never been so ready for sun in all my life and we are socked in with bad weather on our first day. And there is a traffic jam on the outskirts of San Juan. We are crawling forward, inch by inch. The windows are up in the car, the air-conditioning on. I can smell stale cigarette smoke and that nasty chemical conditioner meant to hide the smell of cigarette smoke in what passes for a smoke-free rental car.
I am already thinking about making this journey in reverse a week from now.
You know you are getting closer to the beaches in Puerto Rico when the endless chain of fast food restaurants gives way to the endless chain of aging pickup trucks and vans retrofitted as barbeque vending machines. Smoke billows along side the road and the smells from the various nosh pits mingle together creating a delightful aroma that can almost seduce you into stopping. Almost.
Delays. A tight connection in Charlotte. Cutbacks by the airlines in food service. I realize that I haven’t eaten in about twenty hours. Add low blood sugar to the list of piques.
Mmmm. Barbeque. Right there on the side of the road. Why not stop? There's just that one sticky detail. No health inspector has been anywhere near these trucks – ever. It's hot outside. The many mystery meats for sale here (on sticks, what’s up with that?) are sitting out in the heat waiting to be sold. There are many souvenirs I can envision taking home from Puerto Rico, an intestinal amoeba is not high up there on my wish list.
We reach the condo complex. It’s a gated community. The guard tells us we will need to purchase a parking permit: $20. We’ll need to fill out a form. Now? Yes, now. Can’t we just go inside first and have a sandwich and quart of rum? No. He takes our money and the form and goes into the guard shack to finalize the transaction. He is gone for hours. Okay, fine. A few minutes. In any case, he is gone too long given the day we’ve had already.
I decide that when he comes back out I am going to have to bite him in his jugular vein.
To be continued...
Tomorrow: What’s really bothering me.
11:12:38 PM  Stories
|
