July 18, 2008

Here is my justification for wanting to spend four days in Puerto Rico: beaches, alone, are boring, Cities, alone, are strenuous. Beaches + cities (multiplied by rainforest) = perfect four-day trip!

I think every American citizen should experience P.R. It’s America! It’s the Caribbean! No, it’s a weird, weird amalgam of the two. They accept dollars; they barely speak English. You don’t need a passport; it’s clearly a different country. Not since Canada have we been to a place that notices so much about America with absolutely no return attention. It’s like discovering you have a stalker – albeit one you would like to exploit.

Anyway, soon after arriving, we scuttled to the beach to begin the my-swimsuit-has-never-quite-dried experience. While I don’t necessarily consider myself a beach person (couldn’t spend all day there, don’t need to live near one), there is something so soothing about floating, ears underwater, in the ocean, or about letting the sand wash away from beneath your feet. And the sound of the waves, oh, the sound of the waves. Is this heaven? No, it’s Puerto Rico.

The next day was all about the El Yunque rainforest, a quite accessible little grove of palm trees. It’s not quite what you picture as a rainforest. There were absolutely no animals or animal sounds, and nary an insect to be seen. The one skinny path was overpeopled, never allowing for the impression of nature to sink in. Redeeming itself, the rainforest did, however, provide many comfortable spots to cavort in the river, and, spectacularly, to lounge in a waterfall pool. Again, way too populated, but what would you expect from a crystal clear, just-cool-enough, gentle pool of water? Next time, we dive down the falls!

Sunday was the “city” day – time to explore Viejo San Juan. Impressively larger than expected, this is the place I pictured, with its bumpy brick streets, wrought-iron window bars and lanterns, and punchy pastel colors. I’m almost positive that after dark the men in the sombreros lean against the walls plucking their little guitars. Clint assures me that is old Mexico, but I think I would know.

There are only so many forts you can tolerate, and I think I used up my quota back in Charleston. Historical sites require stories, in my opinion, so make something up if you have to, historians! Cannons do not speak to me. The Museum of the Americas was more my style. One (air-conditioned, praise-the-gods-of-summer) exhibit had dioramas and statues to present some of the many tribes that existed pre-exploration. Being an American and an American history teacher, I probably need more of this global-type view. I don’t remember ever learning about the native peoples of Mexico and southward.

One quick microcerverceria stop later (you can only have so many pina coladas), it was back to the beach for the evening. Our lives were taking on a pleasant rhythm by this point. Having only one more morning in Puerto Rico, however, I knew I needed to step up the beach enjoyment. Arising early on Monday, we hit the pools at 8am – clearly, by the way, the best time to swim at a resort; there were about five people total outside. Straining those arm muscles, which haven’t pulled water since 1997, I actually tried out a few strokes before claiming a spot in a hot tub. (I am chronicling this, by the way, as a reference for when life is overwhelming. It’s hard to be overwhelmed in a hot tub.) Next stop was the actual beach, which went something like: water too cold, now nice and cool, swallow some nasty salt water, trip on some rocks, float a bit but fear sharks, splash splash splash, become encrusted with sand walking back to the chair. Now comes the best part – the hammocks. Strolling past the yoga class, we flung ourselves into rope hammocks dappled by sunlight through the palm trees. Later, in and out of consciousness, we realized it was about time to go. I delayed the inevitable by insisting on feeding the fish, who somehow have developed a gluten tolerance. They amused me with their antics to grab the bread.

The rest of the story is painful; it involves realizing that I can’t sip pina coladas in a prone position every day. The lesson learned is that the more ideal a vacation spot is, the more reasons you have to want to stay. Of course, I recognize that vacations retain their allure because they are so infrequent, but can we please go to the Caribbean next weekend too?