Pixie in Paradise

Of all the beings I’ve met so far since my move to Puerto Rico, I’ve only met one creature that has so much in common with me. For example, Diego and I live in the same adorable neighborhood, neither of us are remotely fluent in Puerto Rican Spanish, we are the only two people in this floating jungle with blue eyes; and, we could both stand and stare at each other all day long while I caress his cheeks. Neither Diego nor I are actually Puerto Rican by ethnicity. I suspect he is 100% Puerto Rican by nationality, but Diego is the most exquisite male feline specimen of either Siamese or Burmese descent, or both. And I am neither of those two ethnicities, but am Lebanese, German, English, Irish, Dutch and French – and (North) American by nationality. Here we are, two crazy kids wildly in love with each other trying to survive on an island we both ended up on.

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This is a long one. I have a lot to unpack, not necessarily for you but for myself. This post could easily offend multitudes of people on my new island, but that most likely means that they’re not part of the group that has lived outside of Puerto Rico either. When you don’t know what you don’t know, you just don’t know. I’ll tolerate mistakes and especially learning from mistakes if and when we make them, but what I don’t tolerate is ignorance if we can educate ourselves and continue learning in any situation thrown at us in life. 

To me, these first eight weeks living in Puerto Rico have felt similar to living in Belize, but with the added language barrier of my time living in Costa Rica – but worse. In southern Costa Rica on the Caribbean side, we had lots of tourists and expats that spoke English. I could be a little lazy with Spanish skills because in my little town we could get away with that. In 70% of all situations that I have found myself in here in Puerto Rico, English was not a shared language so it was up to me and some seriously broken, mangled Spanish as a second language, to convey my needs. To say it has gotten ugly more than once is an understatement. To also say that I’ve cried out of frustration or fear in the back of at least three Uber rides is also not an exaggeration and perhaps an understatement. *(I wasn’t necessarily afraid because of the ride, but rather because of my inability to communicate).

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If I had been wearing a video camera attached to a helmet, recording everything that has happened in the last two months, you still would have missed a lot. Good, bad…a LOT. I don’t know where to start. I hope you take away the stark differences between living in mainland U.S. versus a U.S. territory (maybe with the exception of Washington D.C.) I don’t think we, as North Americans, know enough about what goes on in the outlying territories that we took it upon ourselves to  govern. I sure still don’t have a handle on it, not in just eight weeks. I’ve merely been trying to stay alive, employed and fed. And that is infinitely harder here than where I just came from in the center of Tucson, Arizona. 

And to be honest, you don’t have to take my word at face value, read this or take anything away from it. To be brutally honest, I don’t actually care if you do or don’t – but something inside of me is saying that I need to get this chapter of my story out before returning to work on the final part of my current book. If I stick to that line of thinking, this is my last blog post for a while, so it’s a long one! 

Actually, there is the one takeaway I would like you to have, this one piece of knowledge:

Life has been very challenging here, more than I could have prepared or planned for – and you know I’m on top of most anything. Had I not lived on a small island in a third world country first, or lived in the jungle in Costa Rica and done some extensive travel through Central America and Mexico last year, I would NEVER, ever, have been able to survive the last eight weeks living in San Juan, Puerto Rico. NE – VER.

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For the most part and in most locations in North America (above the southern tip of Key West, Florida) we have a lot of resources available, from every category imaginable that are not present when living on an island – any island. For example, how do small islands receive piped in running water, or electricity? We can’t run power or water lines (or internet lines) in the same way. I’m not an engineer or city planner and not going to explain it. Go research if you’re curious, but believe me when I tell you it isn’t pretty and we lose power and water – sometimes both – way more often than you do. And by “you,” I mean anyone not living on a small island. Specifically, small tropical islands, where we’re also dealing with the weather that knocks out our utilities too. Living on Caye Caulker – the tiny Belizean island – was a little different, but very similar dangers and logistical issues. That island operated on five generators that we all used for power and a small water plant on the island. With only 2,000 inhabitants and a one mile-wide by four-mile long island, Caye Caulker seemed stable-ish, coupled with the fact that we were also only a 45-minute water taxi ride from the mainland, and a 30-minute ride to another inhabited island. Here, I’m a 45-minute plane ride to the US Virgin Islands and a three-hour flight to Miami, we don’t operate on public generators: if you lose power and don’t have your own back-up power, you don’t have electricity. If you don’t have gallons of water or a water cistern on your property, you don’t have water either. I’ve learned that my preference every single time is to have continuous power and be left hunting for water. (So far).

The First Four Weeks

There is no great flow or grammatical structure to this post. It is random thoughts and occurrences that have happened since October 8th, 2024.

• Apartment crying rain down the walls, window, under door, floor, mold in bathroom remains, dehumidifier has flipped me off three times.

Weeks one through six in San Juan were spent in a 150-square foot  apartment full of mold, and once the rains started towards the end of week two, I discovered the whole apartment cried rainwater. This obviously wasn’t going to help the mold situation. I had to brace much of the floor with rolled up towels to keep the leaking water from invading the middle of the living space or getting my office equipment wet.

• Apartment hunting is the worst.

Weeks three through six were spent feverishly trying to find a new apartment since my first apartment in Santurce was basically the Titanic and my lease was only for 90 days. I had to be out by December 15th anyway. Dozens of messages were sent to private entities and real estate agents to check availability of an advertised space. It’s very hard to find a rental here that has modern appliances (NO plug-in hot water in “suicide” showers – good way to get electrocuted, I knew that from living in Central America). Again, I spent a good deal of time learning to translate rental descriptions to make sure there were as few surprises as possible.

• Cost of living.

Holy shit. The last time I paid this much per month to live in a building, it was for a mortgage, on my 10-acre hobby farm with a three-story, 5,000-square foot house nestled into the woods. 

• Translating legal documents from Spanish to English is extremely difficult.

The apartment I finally found – wonderful, so far – comes with tame stray cats and landlords with a first floor apartment of eight cats they let me squeeze from time to time. It is a half mile further from the great location I just moved from (moldy, tiny, Harry Potter apartment) and definitely not walkable at night but I live on a short street with cute houses, interesting architecture and in a historic building that was fully remodeled in the last couple of years. Honestly, it feels too fancy for me. It also has a fancy price – which sucks – but the amenities are worth it. Plus, the owners of the building are cat people on the first floor, and very selective about who gets to live here. Linda – yes, another landlord named Linda – invites me to coffee and to hang out with the cats, and doesn’t allow noisy people or dogs to live here. The unit next to me has been vacant several months because she doesn’t want just anyone in there, and now that I’m here and working from home she is being extra judicious with who she puts in the apartment.

Because this apartment is a bit more higher end, Linda requires rental bond insurance. I spent more than two weeks trying to work with the company who refused to send any contracts written in English. All communication was in Spanish and that’s fucking scary when your’e dealing with money, leases and contracts. Long story short: I will never work with that insurance company again.

• I know more Spanish than I give myself credit for but sometimes afraid and embarrassed to speak it.

This is just a random statement that is true and will most likely always remain true. Most people say my Spanish is great and a few have asked if I’m Portuguese or Brazilian based on the accent I apparently inadvertently have – that, and the “light eyes,” they say. 

I have not seen any locals quite this pale yet but yesterday I learned they exist! Or, used to. When people from other countries started to move to Puerto Rico, the majority of the fair-skinned, light-eyed ones headed straight for the mountains – the center of the island – to settle there. Supposedly there was a group from the Canary Islands that fit this description who settled here in the interior of the island in order to farm. Is it because they knew their albino skin needed the shade? I do not know, but I have learned that most of them were farmers and they of course needed the fertile land in those lush green mountains for their crops. 

• Are Uber drivers used to backseat passengers crying? I guess it’s better than vomiting.

It happens. I’ve had some of the very best conversations with Uber drivers all over in different countries, along with my own. In Spanish-speaking places like Puerto Rico, it’s especially enriching when a kind Uber driver is happy to let me rattle on in Spanish, but to also gently help my language needs along a bit, by having a conversation with me. I do get frustrated or embarrassed trying to get the words out or to explain something and my limited vocabulary fails me. This makes me want to cry sometimes and the only thing I can liken it to is a toddler that is learning to speak but doesn’t have all their words yet.

• One Uber driver told me she grew up in New York and is trying to get back there. She said it took her a month to get internet here, that it’s hard to live here and she’s tried this but wants to go back to the mainland. She said it feels like you have to fight to live here. It basically boils down to how badly you want to be here. How hard will you fight to live here? She says it’s totally different than vacationing here – no shit. 

No truer words were spoken and it does echo what I’ve experienced in the last two months, though I managed to get the internet  hooked up within a week. Incorrectly, but it was within five days…then they came out three days later to properly install it.

• Do they want me here?

Some do; some don’t, it’s rather obvious, either way, most of the time. There’s not much to say about it except this is an occurrence that happens most everywhere, it’s just more noticeable when you’re out of place, trying to figure things out on your own and just looking for someone to trust for a little guidance.

All I want to do here is 1) Stay healthy; 2) Finish my book; and, 3) Become fluent in Spanish, then move along in my journey to encounter all the other people, creatures and places I need to discover. In the meantime, I also want to find a way to help my current community which is important to me when I am settled down for a while. I always ask, “Can I make a positive impact with any of the gifts that I possess?”

• Work deadlines – internet issues

Do I even need to elaborate?

• Running water has been scarce but rain hasn’t been. Atypical hurricane season. We are supposed to be done with the rainy hurricane season but yet we aren’t.

Old apartment was constantly flooded with water (and mold) for weeks’ straight due to much more rain than expected for an October/November; the new one doesn’t. I hope to not get anxious every time it rains now since my beautiful new apartment is leak proof.

• I still hate tostones (but love maduros – also called “amarillos”) and am not so keen on mofongo, especially when it’s dry.

This fact may very well get me kicked off the island permanently but it’s true. No matter how many or whose tostones (fried green plantains) I eat, all it tastes like is a dry, dry, chalky hockey puck. I’m not a picky eater by any means but it seems that I am much more inclined toward the foods of Mexico, rather than other Latin American countries though I have many many more to travel to and experience. So far of the four I’ve spent extensive time in and now Puerto Rico, Mexican cuisine is still my favorite. I ran across this problem living in Belize and Costa Rica too, where I don’t like eating common local staples, like fried dough and sweet sauces on things, but prefer a red or green salsa and tacos. I didn’t realize my obsession with Mexican cuisine until  coming to Puerto Rico and tacos are only found in tourist-y restaurants or upscale Mexican fusion establishments. I lived in Arizona for 10 years, 45 minutes north of Sonora, Mexico so there was bound to be some influence!

• I don’t know if I have the energy to explain the Christmas season here but let me try.

One of my favorite lines – of hundreds – in one of my all time favorite shows, Schitt’s Creek, Alexis Rose was awkwardly trying to make conversation with her mother Moira, and asked her what her favorite season was. Moira, a previously once wildly famous actress (in her own mind) said without skipping a beat: “Awards Season.” Very out of touch as you can imagine Moira’s character is, just like I thought the person was at work who answered that same question with, “Christmas Season.” (I was in a video meeting to be updated on something important at work but first we had to answer a few icebreaker questions and I, being the grinch that I am, couldn’t fathom more than a couple weeks for a Christmas holiday). Here in Puerto Rico it is celebrated from 12:01 am November 1st to January 31st. I am not kidding.

And what makes it worse is that Halloween barely lasted a full 24 hours before everyone broke out sequins and tinsel and Christmas displays in all the stores. I see a late December trip to a neighboring island in  my future, where maybe Kris Kringle isn’t the total reason for the season. How about some of the reason being margaritas and latin dancing – and I don’t mean salsa. We have an extreme overabundance of salsa on my new island. I miss afrobeats,  dancehall, konpa and kizomba, and latin dancing like bachata, and soca. Honestly, I’d even take merengue at this point! 

The Next Four Weeks

Late notice fair warning: this is very much like a choose-your-own-adventure story. In fact, you can reorder many events and it won’t make it less horrifying or hysterical, in the sense that these things would have all come up at some point, I’ve just gotten extra lucky to stumble on all of them in the extremely short span of two months. You can stop reading and “close the book” at any time. When you’ve heard enough, or when you’re convinced you either want to visit and/or rescue me, that would be a good time to stop reading and do your own research about this place. It’s a beautiful and interesting island full of adventure and a lot of history, good, bad and very bad. I’m just saying I’ve had a little too much adventure while trying to get settled and establishing residency. Nothing good comes easy. 

This is only my experience and it is still somewhat superficial and ignorant but to give myself a little credit, it feels like I have hit it hard lately, and seen and done a lot. It feels like I’m a cast member of The Hangover  parts 1, 2 and 3 (without the alcohol and violence, but not without the absurdity, disbelief and need for quick thinking) My experiences are what all five main characters had – rolled into one little displaced, pixie-sized cougar (woman). I say ‘without the alcohol’ because I have long COVID. Yup, I didn’t skate away from the strain I caught here in August, like I did with June 2022’s version. There’s not much point in trying to enjoy a cocktail because, well, I can’t. I can barely taste or smell anything, so alcohol just feels like rubbing alcohol straight out of the medicine cabinet in my gut – wine too. I am able to taste dill pickles and canned corn – oh, and Louisiana hot sauce™. Oh joy.

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Besides the basic goals of staying healthy, abundant, and finishing and publishing a book, I very much desire to become functionally fluent in Spanish. Meaning, I won’t struggle to function as much in my everyday life here or anywhere in Latin America, for that matter. Being “strugs to func” just adds such an extra layer of difficulty to one’s daily agenda. It would be like an ice skater who has a pretty outfit and the usual pantihose on under their outfit  as they turn circles and flips and lunges across the ice. But, instead of the normal position, they’ve only pulled the pantihose up to their knees. You’re laughing but that’s basically how I feel every time I leave the house in San Juan or have to make a local phone call. I have just as many people telling me that my Spanish is fantastic, as I have that won’t even respond to me because I sound different, or use the wrong words and verb conjugations. I’m not sure what else their reasoning is, but I feel like a pretty little pageant child all adored when they are encouraging, and the opposite – like hairless, toothless Gollum with the ring – when they look at me like I’ve invented a dictionary standing in front of them.

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Almost six months ago, soon after arriving back in Tucson, one of my best friends and I were catching up on the phone and she asked how I was doing. I was trying to tell her that life felt weird and very different, back in Arizona since leaving the island and the jungle, to return to the desert, traffic and the fast-paced city. Holy shit, don’t even get me behind the wheel of a car anymore because I despise driving now. It makes me so anxious and apparently has been for a while, once I thought back on it. She countered, “You’re the same person, how is it possible that life feels so different? That’s where you came from before you moved abroad.”

No girl: YOU are the same, save for the experiences you’ve had over the last year, in the same location you’ve been in for decades. I am much different, not only because of the experiences of my last year, but the extra added spice and slime of dealing with it all while traveling through four foreign countries, living in two of them, and all the wild things that happened during that time. There was no baseline, no control group.

Quite frankly, I hope I’m not the same. You can take the girl out of the jungle, but you’ll never take the jungle out of the girl. This wild, wild woman.

This is the current “new me,” and my new way of life. In another few months or years there will be another glow-up, another evolution. That’s all I can ever ask for.