Pixie in Paradise

AKA You Won’t Get Out Alive So You’d Better Make It Interesting

It’s been a minute. I went to Puerto Rico to visit for a week and I found so many beautiful and interesting places. I found Caribbean weather and bright turquoise ocean again. I lost all sense of taste, smell, and, I lost my voice – because I found COVID again. This made the trip less than ideal but considering all of the activities I packed in the first three and a half days of my trip, I can’t imagine just how much I could have actually done in the last four.

It wasn’t meant to be, I was meant to rest. Being sick in a foreign location can feel pretty scary, especially if there isn’t anyone to help take care of you. I had rented a car (which is a crazy story in itself) in San Juan, and made an entire loop around the outside edge of the island. I stayed overnight in a couple of different spots to allow for time to relax on the way. It is a short distance, relatively speaking, to make your way around the whole island but what makes it incredibly tedious are the road conditions and the lack of traffic laws. Well, maybe there’s laws, but no one – and I do mean no one – abides by them. I didn’t do myself any favors by getting caught up in that bullshit, driving my rental sedan like I was about to get charged with felony grand theft auto if the Puerto Rican authorities got to me first.

Before I got sick I toured the city, my office (based in San Juan), and headed to the east coast for a night time bioluminescent ocean tour by kayak. I showed up in long-sleeved rash guards by myself (I know what mosquitoes do at night in tropical weather). The guides were surprised I showed up by myself and were questioning whether I could kayak three miles by myself. I told them I was sure going to try. They seemed rather unnerved by this and then one of them told me if I got tired they would tie my kayak to their back end and tow me back. Sir, I don’t care what you do with your back end, let’s just see how mine works. (Update: as we got into the mangroves, the guides had to tow several kayaks with two people in them – going and coming – because apparently even with the manpower of two people, these fools couldn’t steer straight and got tired easily).

Next up, the west coast, by way of the south side through Ponce, Puerto Rico. Somewhere around Cabo Rojo it felt like I went airborne in that car a couple of times and made a couple of semi drivers very nervous. I saw a dog get thrown over a median by a driver, which made my soul feel like it was being ripped from my chest.  By the second day on the west side of the island I was fully sick, not knowing it was actually COVID but the intense body  fevers, chills and incoherence could  have been a big clue. I couldn’t retrieve food for myself but my Airbnb host did his best to keep me in green tea and coffee (I couldn’t ask him to find food for me, he’d already done so much. Hint: the story is in the up and coming book I’m feverishly trying to finish!)

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Fast forward five weeks:

I don’t know what your week looks like. And unfortunately I won’t remember even if you tell me because while you go about your beautiful, wonderful life, I’m closing a lot of chapters and moving forward and meeting deadlines, too. Big ones. Scary ones. Bold ones. Crazy girl, unicorn, warrior, badass bitch, mermaid, goddess shit that’s a half step away from being next level, outer limits mentally unstable type moves. It’s similar to hopping into public transportation somewhere in the world, going home with a stranger and  not knowing if you’re about to sit down and have the most mind blowing home cooked dinner by someone’s abuela (grandmother), or end up in the jungle on the fifth branch of a tree, smoking a joint with somebody’s tio (uncle). 

What I actually did was get rid of all of my belongings, furniture, clothing, nick nacks and paddy whacks, everything in the little house I had been renting in Tucson, Arizona for six beautiful years. I combined all belongings – clothing, shoes, paperwork, electronics, panama hats, bags, art work (by this artist and this artist), crystals, shells, linen sheets and one hammock – into four suitcases and a backpack, and moved to Puerto Rico. That is all I have to my name and because my insurance company of 25 years doesn’t service Puerto Rico, or anything east of west Texas for that matter, nothing is currently insured. I will get on that but the last 11 days has been action packed, as per usual. Did you think it wouldn’t be for me? 

I’ve only lived in San Juan for 11 days and in that time I’ve retrieved all my new office equipment from the office, placed it in an Uber, and hoisted it upstairs to install in my 225 square foot apartment. That was of course after hoisting 300 pounds plus of luggage up a flight of narrow, steep concrete steps – no railing – to my apartment. My “Harry Potter House,” as my friends call it, due to the size and shape of it. Side note – it’s only a sub lease so I need to find a more permanent housing solution before December 15, or I will be homeless for the holidays!

I discovered black mold in my bathroom which fortunately – per the inspector – was just mold, despite being black in color, and not the dreaded “black mold” that’s somewhat deadly. My landlords are going to have him work up an estimate and then it will take the better part of a day to eliminate the mold. Meanwhile I am taking all kinds of detox supplements to try to keep the mold from invading my body and making me sick. It’s fine, however, no one share this story with my mom. I don’t have the strength to send her the blog link yet because in the course of my entire life, she has blamed mold exposure on everything from a sniffle to a sneeze and quite possibly my taste in men (though she hasn’t said that out loud).

I opened a bank account because none of the banks on the US mainland operate here – there are none and no ATMs for them specifically. I also opened a post office box and now I realize it isn’t in the most convenient location if/when I move, but it could definitely be worse.

I’ve made friends with half a dozen stray cats and the desire to try to pick them up and squeeze and kiss them gets stronger every day. Not sure how long I’ll last. My desire to not get scratched or get worms again sort of outweighs the desire to feel their wonderful squishiness and healing purrs – but not by much. But as long as I’m in close proximity of wandering felines, I should be alright.

I took a dance class my second day here. It was in Spanish, so luckily I had done some kizomba before and knew a little of what they were teaching us.

Since there’s no washer or dryer in or near my residence, I discovered the nearest laundromat and also discovered you don’t have to find quarters anymore to use the machines! (I haven’t been forced to use a laundromat since Jennifer Lopez was with Ben Affleck the first time – 2002). I had good intentions of washing my clothes in the kitchen sink, since the one in the bathroom is literally the size and shape of a box of tissue. But, yesterday, I just wanted to get the laundry done and over with after coming home to a flood of water on my floor. Incredibly heavy rains happened while I was living la dolce vita (I know that’s Italian, not Spanish), at the Museo de Arte Puerto Rico – more about that later. I have no extra towels but one thing I do upon arrival in a  foreign land is go to a grocery store and buy a can of tuna, pasta, 3-pack of “shammy” (microfiber) hand towels and a papaya. Seriously. That’s the list, and maybe some oatmeal. Thankfully, the shammies were enough to wipe the water off my floor. After determining it came in under my entrance door during rains again, I messaged the landlord and included a video of where the water collects: near the door under my office equipment and down the hallway and under my bed. Son of a bitch.

Meanwhile, I randomly get online each day looking for my next rental and usually have to drop some sentences into a translator because once in a while  there’s a word that isn’t at all what you think it means in English. I do not want to end up inadvertently signing a 12-month lease to sleep on the couch of a family of six who lives over a night club that plays loud reggaeton until 3am every morning. 

It’s cute that you think that’s oddly specific but it could easily happen. Yes, I know some Spanish. Am I fluent? Not even close. And even further from fluent in Puerto Rico. Boricuan Spanish here, is similar to Dominican Spanish (and men): fast, intriguing and hard to understand. Perfect example of this is when I walked into a bougie, upscale laundry service business near my apartment – I live in a wonderful neighborhood amidst some serious bougie-ness. As in, above my grocery store and a sweet bookstore is a high rise apartment building where rent is between $2500 and $10,000 per month! That little complex (La Ciudadela) is also where a yoga studio is – $25 per class! Oy. I asked the woman at the laundry place how much it costs for them to wash and dry a load of clothes – not even delivered. She was so patient with me as I tried to grasp everything in Spanish – she spoke no English. What I ascertained was that just for them to wash a fitted sheet and flat sheet would cost me $18! To wash other items, specifically clothing, would cost minimum $35 per load and that was only for five pounds of clothing. I couldn’t tell her how many pounds of dirty clothing I had at the moment and did not know how to say, “towels, my favorite pants and ten pairs of thong underwear.” Okay, I can, but why bother when I knew we weren’t going to spend $50 to clean them there. For $9 I shoved everything in my waterproof backpack and walked 0.2 miles to the laundromat, relaxed for an hour, washed and dried, folded it, shoved the clothes into the backpack again and walked across the bridge back home. Genius level.

Yesterday before I found the laundromat, I wanted to go to the farmers market at La Placita. Thinking it was like all other farmers markets in that you have to get there early or all the good stuff is taken, I left the house a little after 7:30am. The market runs from 7am to 5pm. I should have known this farmers market would operate like the coffee shops on this island: operational way later than I need them to be, and closing earlier than I want them to. I arrived shortly before 8am and the only people at this market were the men who had come to sell  produce, all of maybe five vendors. And they weren’t like the farmers in Costa Rica who brought the food they had grown themselves, these just seemed like produce peddlers. They could have been selling me corn dogs at a fair. But, they were very nice and helpful. I even saw my beloved golden apples, introduced by DahRoot in Belize. Impossible to peel and crazy to eat but wildly delicious. I told them I had one before and this is what it was called in Belize: manzano de oro. A man originally from the Dominican Republic said that’s what he knew them as too. They’re also called ambarella, I guess. We were firmly entrenched in my rough early morning Spanish and a little English, thanks to the man who sold me a humongous avocado and a bunch of amarillos (baby bananas!). He peeled the golden apple for me and I took a few bites before the stringy texture tried to pull out all of my teeth.They’re so good though! 

But damn, I still hadn’t had coffee. I asked them where I could get coffee nearby. Well, I asked them for a cafe, which seemed to confuse them and really made me question my word choice. I just stared and finally said, “Necesito un cafe, ahora!” I need coffee now! A gentleman smiled and took me outside and pointed to two places, speaking in rapid Spanish. Well shit, sir. I asked him which has better coffee, so he pointed outside the building to a tiny kiosk called El Coco De Luis. In the food case they were selling shrimp salad and octopus ceviche. My hopes of getting a decent cappuccino or cortado or even black coffee were dashed, but we were in it now, bitch. Go ask. The worst that can happen is they laugh…or kidnap you. Remember: it’s just me and a dozen Puerto Rican men in an isolated section of the Santurce  neighborhood. Not so  much isolated but apparently at 8am no one is awake  and  no one is out and about on the streets yet. Except me and my fellas. 

And when I turned the corner to go ask for coffee, a man was sitting there looking at me, that looked a lot like Rasta. I internally gasped trying to wrap my head around this stark likeness. Flashing back to Belize and my time there and all the things that happened there before I moved to Costa Rica, I paused for a moment. Taking a deep breath I was grateful for the reminder of how far I’d come and how important the people were that crossed my path this last year.

Walking up to the Coco Loco counter I doubtfully asked for a coffee. The counter was so tall that all I could see was a wall of liquor bottles behind it. They guy said he could make me a coffee and I did see two older men sitting  at tables across from this space with little cups so unless they were doing shots of tequila, maybe this guy could make me a hot cup of caffeine. Because damn, we were overdue! I asked what kind I could have and he said any kind so I tried to stump him by saying, “cortadito.” Not even blinking, he turned around to make it. Sure enough, I stepped to the side and there he had the tiniest professional espresso maker, hiding behind this huge seafood case, sitting in front of all the booze. Yahtzee!

Granted, it had sugar in it and I have to get much better about telling people to stop putting sugar/powdered sugar, cream, cinnamon or chocolate near my coffee – AND FOOD! – but I embraced it. Grateful for the coffee and the fact it was $1.25! What?! And, another gentleman ordering coffee from the seafood counter paid for mine so I gave the attendant a $3 tip (propina). I sat down at one of the tables on a beautiful sunny morning and wished that someone would dance a little bachata with me, since I could hear it playing since I rolled into the farmers market. The bachata music was coming from a tiny speaker one of the janitors had clipped to his belt buckles. 

I finished my coffee and got up the nerve to ask if he danced any bachata. He said yes, so I said, “venga,” and motioned for him to come dance with me. That’s when he got shy, so I asked the other janitor taking a break next to him. He said he did not know how to dance that way. I went back to my seat and octopus counter coffee guy met me by my table and I asked him if he danced bachata and he said yes! So we did. We danced for a minute and you could tell they weren’t expecting me to have any moves and we all smiled and laughed and then he walked away to get back to work. Good enough for me.

Next up, was the Museo de Arte Puerto Rico (MAPR)! MAPR is maybe a five minute walk from my house, I pass it all the time. It’s a glorious building with a park behind that’s stunning, full of sculptures, large green bamboo groves, a running waterfall with pond full of water lilies and bright orange koi fish. I adore the whole grounds, front to back. I paid for a year membership which allows me to come and go whenever I want and also entrance to a Christmas party, which I’m very excited about. Not because it’s Christmas – duh – but because it’s a party at a museum. A very cool museum. If this museum had a restaurant, I’d basically live there. I interacted with lovely docents and receptionists and saw some beautiful, vibrant art. I don’t remember having near as much fun at the Prado in Madrid, Spain, honestly. My obsession with this museum reminds me of a great story I read as a child. I even purchased the audio version yesterday to listen to because it brought me so much joy the first time around. It’s called, From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, by E.L. Konigsburg. They run away from home to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, have all kinds of adventures and make all kinds of discoveries. Deep in my heart I feel like my third manuscript will be very reminiscent of this title.

***

I feel at home once I’ve made a pasta meal, taken a yoga class and eaten some papaya and that’s what I’ve done these last ten days – AND THEN  SOME. Today is day 11 and I will head to the beach soon. Beautiful Condado Beach is a 15-20 minute walk, near great shops and restaurants too. There’s even a Walgreens. In many ways, I am not roughing it, not like when living in Belize and Costa Rica. But, this isn’t Tucson, Arizona either. I am still living much more primitively than living in mainland US. Puerto Rico seems to have a few characteristics that US Western culture possesses, but it’s much more similar to Latin American countries I’ve either visited or lived in – I think we’re up to five. My goal is to visit or live in most or all of them, getting familiar with each Spanish dialect and the culture and history of each. For now, I’m on another Caribbean island in Latin America, which is already proving to be another wild adventure.