hola atcha puerto rico!

Phone call to Mom:

Me: Hi Mom! How are you?
Mom: You sound happy. Do you have good news for me?
Me: Yes!
Mom: Oh! You got a job!!!
Me: Um no. But I'm going to Puerto Rico!
Mom: *sigh*

So yes, I still am without job. It is frustrating beyond belief, but my new Zen-like, sanity-maintaining philosophy for everything is: if you don't laugh, you cry. Right? So. I enjoy my time off and I take trips.

This time, destination Puerto Rico. The self-described Caribbean paradise where wanderlusty Americans can flee to without the hassle of passports, learning Spanish, or converting dollars.

It was a last-minute trip, impulsively booked only 3 days prior. Hardly enough time to plan out a solid itinerary and brush up on my (very) rusty Espanol. I shouldn't have even bothered. My feeble attempts were answered to in perfect American- accented English (after some snickering, I might add. Renewed goal for this year is to relearn Spanish!).

Ohh the beach! It was so good to see it again and taste the salt in the air. I could spend hours there, dreaming and sighing and thinking of nothing at all, at peace under the tropical sun, and so I did. I prostrated myself on the sand and watched the local life pass through. Schoolchildren ran by kicking a soccer ball through the ebbing waters on shore, and a lone figure spun over the sand in a flurry of limbs to a capoeira beat all his own. A rolling salsa beat out onto the prone sunbathers across the beach. Slippery, glistening surfers glided by, darting in and out of the waters and harnessing the wild waves with a grace and skill that I can only dream of mastering one day.

Yet I jumped right in. Inspired maybe in a fit of delusion and conveniently forgetting that I'm still a terrible novice, battling the ocean with some of the best. But the rush of adrenaline I get from a split-second atop a board atop a crazy wave is well worth the week of pain I feel afterward. The current that day was the strongest I've ever had to surf in, and I exhausted myself just trying to paddle out to the waves. Actually I was paddling without going anywhere, huffing and puffing with exertion and willing my arms to keep working, and finally my instructor was fed up and sighed "just walk." Unbeknownst to me the water was 4 feet deep. Doh. Later I took a massive wipe-out full-force to the shallow ocean floor and busted my knee. Again and again I am reminded what a life force the ocean itself is- powerful and monstrous and utterly beguiling in its beauty. And I just can't stay away for very long.

Viejo San Juan was lovely as well, with its old crumbling architecture and somewhat romantic, somewhat creepy ambience. It made for some expensive (but yummy) cocktail hours and some tripped out photos.

But for a more authentic, Anthony Bourdain-style experience of the city, this isn't it. The Carnival cruise boat docked that night, unleashing a rampaging hoard of Mid-western American tourists and suddenly we were in Disneyworld.

On an afternoon trip slightly off the beaten path, Sophie and I found ourselves in the area of Piñones, a stretch of pristine coastline dotted with simple thatched hut eateries and patches of sand, where one can sit and immerse in nature and solitude and think deep and meaningful thoughts about the universe at large. It's that kind of feeling. Where lovers go to cuddle and mothers bring their babies for their first taste of salt water on their baby skin. We sat at Soleil and ordered our best meal of the trip- Mofongo with the works. A van parked next to us and a group of people emerged, dressed up in colorful dresses, kicked off their shoes and spontaneously danced on the beach, as if it was a private recital for us. I have no idea what that was about, but it doesn't matter. It was the highlight of the entire trip.

All in all, a few days well-spent. Then back to reality and banging my head on my computer for hours on end looking for gainful employment. Until the next getaway, of course. It won't be too long. :)