Puerto Rico
May 2005

We haven’t been on a real vacation in a long time. SW changed jobs a couple of times, screwing up her bank of vacation days, so we both were in dire need of something more than a long weekend. I love to travel and it’s been so long I’d forgotten the thrill of beginning a new adventure. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t want children. Yeah, yeah, you CAN take them with you – IF you can afford to go, after the expense of raising the little demons, and the additional expense of carting them along. But then you get there and you spend half your time taking care of them, only to find it frowned upon to take them into, say, strip clubs and seedy bars, so what’s the point of taking them with you? Besides, vacation is supposed to be LESS stressful.
I love kids, but I also love my slack, semi-irresponsible life. SW loves kids too – as long as they’re other people’s kids, and extremely well-behaved.
Thus on our row of three seats on the plane, there are only two seats filled. I can feel the stress of my workaday life melting away already.

We jumped in a cab at the San Juan airport and did our best to guide the driver to our destination. We’re staying in Viejo San Juan (Old San Juan) with degenerate SVA. She’s writing a travel guide to Puerto Rico so she’s got a charming apartment in a swinging neighborhood for a couple of months. From her balcony you can see both the bay and the Atlantic. An almond tree provides shade above. Tourists walk up the street below, hoping to find something scenic atop the hill. Inside, the tall ceilings and tile floors help keep the place relatively cool, with 10’ tall doors opening to let in the wind for climate control. Unfortunately, that also lets in the mosquitoes, little bitches so tiny you don’t feel them bite. But it’s that or trap the heat and humidity inside, so we lather up with deet several times a day. The apartment above her features a rooftop deck with an amazing view of the surrounding neighborhood, ocean and forts.

Viejo San Juan is all Neapolitan ice cream, a pastel rainbow of buildings in old Spanish style, built on hills overlooking both the bay and the Atlantic. It reminds me a bit of some of the neighborhoods in San Francisco. Blue cobblestones pave the narrow streets, not really built for vehicular traffic but they come nonetheless. Balconies overhang the sidewalk in some places, providing much-needed shade below.

It's pretty, but crowded with tourists from the colossal cruise ships which dock bay-side and pour forth white-faced masses into the streets. In the heat and humidity, surrounded by dark-skinned locals yammering Spanish and increasingly sunburned tourists yammering in English, I get heavy déjà vu of my trips to Mexico.
However, the illusion is shot when you sit down at a bar and shell out $4.50 for a drink. Puerto Rico ain’t cheap. Everything is imported from the fatherland. No, not Spain, as would be fitting to the locals and the architecture, but from the U.S., which wrested the island from Spain in 1897. The cultural assault continues. Sizzler, Payless Shoes, Marshals, and the expected McDonalds, Burger King, Dominoes – these are the forces that are taking over the world far faster, and more effectively, than any tanks or missiles.

We headed to Baru for dinner. Some dishes were delightful, others not so great, but the courtyard dining area was charming and we were there early enough to beat the crowds. We started off with some dried cassava chips with a strange guava and balsamic sauce drizzled over goat cheese. Good stuff.

SW opted for some mozzarella and tomato thing she enjoyed.

We also got a plate of asparagus risotto. The waitress claimed their dishes were "larger than a tapas but smaller than an entree." We found them closer to entree size, for two, and ended up eating way too much.

Last up, a pile of pork ribs. Puerto Ricans love their pork, but, like much of the Caribbean, they also love fruit, two great tastes that they think taste great together. These particular ribs were smothered in a guava sauce so sweet it was like jelly. Too sweet, and it covered up the taste of the pork entirely.

We returned to the apartment and sat on the balcony, sipping drinks made with Don Q, one of the local rums, until late in the night.