Montrealer For A Weekend; Birthday Weekend

I'm exhausted and the fat, obnoxious Augustus Gloop on my left in this puddle jumper must be American because it is my understanding those are tell take signs of my people.

I'm sad and feel empty.

I'm on my period, I'm turning 36 and I am alone. A weekend that should be celebratory. A weekend that should be a new adventure with old friends doesn't feel fun or exciting. It feels like escaping.

Maybe travel is my drug. Maybe instead of expanding my mind with drugs or distracting myself in a bar on Friday nights drinking cocktails and listening to brown eyed girl on repeat, I like to see new places, meet new people and try new things.

And you know what - that's ok. We all develop ways in which we cope to get through this thing called life and if mine is visiting far off lands to witness foreign culture and sample foreign fare - I accept that.

I accept me.

Strangely enough I was one of those kids who knew who I was from an early age.

My father loved to tell me how mere minutes after entering the world, that July day exactly 36 years ago I struck up a conversation immediately. Yammered on about what is seen and what I'd thought while gestating that near year.

I guess that never stopped.

He spent the last 32 years of his life listening to me yammer on about what I'd seen and what I thought.

I still wish he were here to listen to me. To be here with me because without him life has only become more lonely; more challenging and far far messier.

But enough of that. I'm on a plane. I have my passport and this weekend I will be experiencing a new place and, hopefully, having a chance encounter with Celine Dion.

My friend Francois had offered to pick me up, and that's what he did, but not before I navigated my way through the automatic customs machines at YUK which involved a lot of swearing, but absolutely no stamping.

With a 2 hour delay I landed just moments after my birthday began and I gotta say I was jonesing for the commemoration in my little blue book. But alas...

The Montreal night is cool and clean and my chariot awaits - by way of a station wagon. Francois is leaving for a kayaking trip in the morning and his boat is already shoved diagonally in the vehicle so I hop in the back and catch up with this stranger I feel fortunate enough to call a friend. That's how it happens though, right?

At one point Simone was just the girl who was assigned to room 220 in Mary Park Hall and, 17 years later she is my sister. Angie was just the hostess at the job I worked to get me through college and now she is family. Holly a fellow cougar and Sean a fellow Mustang and now their children are my nieces.

Hopefully 15 years from now I can reminisce on the way this stranger also became part of the inner circle I rely on to get the rough the day. To get through this life.

Francois is kind and very Canadian and before you know it we are back at his one bedroom abode in Villaney dropping my bags and, despite the hour, heading to a local bar.

At the time he does not know it but he buys me a local blonde micro-brew that is bitter, but as my first drink at 36, takes the edge off.

Despite my nerves to reconnect the conversation is easy and he is a bird of the same feather - though his level free spirit almost makes me look uptight. So just imagine.

It's late and we walk home with a chill in the air.

He makes up the futon for me and I put on my Aerosmith tshirt and before long we are both fast asleep and I am officially a year older.

I put an international plan on my phone but it doesn't seem willing to work with me so when I eventually connect to wifi in the morning there is a moment of relief.

Francois makes me two eggs and a pineapple smoothie and we chat at his kitchen table in our pajamas about the woman he is dating and the men I am not.

He offered to let me stay while he was out of town but I'd made other arrangements so I leave my bag to store while he packs up and I hit the rues of Montreal.

This is my third Canadian city and I find they all have a quiet peacefulness. Now this just may be me being out of the city or out of my life a bit - but I welcome the quiet solitude of the leafy pathways and breezy avenues.

Slowly making my way to Marche Jean Talon I decide to stop into Tea Shop and get a citrus blend ice tea that is cold and refreshing and allows me to sit in a wing backed chair and be alone. But not lonely.

Fortuitously enough whilst on wifi I got a FaceTime from my gorgeous friend and her gorgeous daughter and was delighted to see family today.

With nearly an hour spent in the cafe I knew I needed to get a move on if I wanted to see Jean Talon Marche and Parc Jarry before my ride arrived so I made moves.

But the making moves did not deter me from perusing dollar store blow outs and Indian jewelry stores tucked neatly below street level. Soon I realized there was no feasible way to make it to my destination on time and made an about face back toward the smell of curry, Christina Aguilera warbling words on empowerment in my ear.

Despite running short on time I did make a quick stop at the Tim Hortons on the corner of Jean-Talon and Hutchinson to partake in some local cuisine, make Robin Sherbatsky proud, and have a birthday donut.

My ride was for sure en route by now and I headed back to Francois', not to see him but to meet my housemate for the following two nights by way of another friend I met abroad with whom I have checked in with on occasion but whom I did not know terribly well.

Needless to say there were some nerves as I had committed to spending the weekend with two friends who were by and large strangers, but that nervousness dissipated when I saw Rubins huge smile as he watched me descend from the stairs to my previous night's abode. He was happy to see me. And that felt nice.

I dropped the keys in the mailbox, threw my camo over-sized tote in Rubins' trunk and a beautiful day in Montreal awaited me.

Seeing as I had evidently been walking in the exact opposite direction of Jean Talon, that was our first stop. We meandered the aisle ways offering locally sourced, organic and artisnal goods. With a brief respite for a cheers with Chinese egg rolls, as I revealed that today was, in fact, my birthday, we enjoyed our greasy treats and headed to the next point of interest.

With no particular destination in mind (I am not the type to do much research before a trip), I figured my guide for the day could show me the way. There were some twists and turns but we eventually made our way over the mountain and through the immaculately manicured lawns of Mont Parc Royal to Saint Joseph's Oratory of Mount Royal, Canada's largest church and a behemoth upon the hill. 

The church had an entire room to light candles, with stairways leading up to rows upon rows of red and green candles and I made sure to light my candles in silence and solitude. I truly love Cathedrals and no matter where in the world I am a quiet moment in one is always appreciated.

There is a vista upon your descent from the mountain where you get a decent view of the city - but more importantly a great view of the typically nocturnal raccoons who are all to happy to get all up in your grill for the opportunity to get a snack.

After spending several hours with this stranger friend, the stranger part seemed to fade away and our lengthy walk from downtown to the Old Port was comfortable, if not for my feet.

Old Port seems to be Fisherman's Wharf adjacent, but offers a plethora of galleries, amazing street art and souvenir shops with cobble stoned streets and a beautiful waterway. You can zip line or listen to live music. 

When it came to my attention that on summer evenings in Montreal there is a live fireworks show I felt like I had had a lovely, mellow birthday ignoring my degeneration with the distraction of exploring and the beauty of a new place.

Sidled up on cement steps for the show my Canadian compatriot insisted he had commissioned the fireworks show for my birthday, but I suspect he was pulling my leg...

The walk back to the car felt even longer than that down to the seaport, but it was still early.

It was still my birthday.

After what were many twists and turns and promises that the bar was on the next block, we finally reached La Distillerie. A cute little corner pub with delicious fancy cocktails and jovial waitresses that ushered out July 22nd and ushered in the undeniable fact that I was now 36. There was no turning back.

After a drive out of the city center I was greeted with my basement accommodation in the home Rubins shares with his family that was homey and had the comforting smell of grandparents.

After a restful evening it was up and at 'em - but not too early - to spend yet another day in this Parisian-inspired paradise.

My Converse had not properly supported my feet during my kilometers long walk the day previous, as a slab of rubber and tied on canvas tend to do, so I switched it up with some sandals - but little did I know of the walk that lay ahead of me and the regret I was certain to face.

With Montreal known for it's cuisine and my palette known for it's limitations we decided to feast at St. Viateru Bagel for breakfast - apparently a delicacy for which Montreal is proud. It is literally a hole in the wall with an exposed bakery and no option for egg and cheese on a roll, but the everything bagel was just delicious enough to enjoy naked and when paired with green tea from around the corner and the sunny breeze of a Sunday morning this foodie capitol suited me just fine.

Mile End, the neighborhood in which this eatery was located, reminded me of SOMA in San Francisco with it's mellow nouveau riche vibe. I meandered the streets looking for fun finds and quickly locating a used book store - one of my favorite places to visit when out of town. At this particular shop I picked up a book of antiquated euphemisms almost as old as me and far more offensive while listening to David Bowie - so I would consider it a success!

Deciding to leave the car where it was I literally walked the length of the city - in heels no less. Or at least it felt like it.

Wandering can be such a pleasant experience and with the perfect Bay Area weather and plenty at which to gaze this day proved that theory true. I managed to pick up a brightly colored African shirt, which of course sparked a cultural appropriation discussion, to pair with my Indian earrings as my regalos from Canada and, feeling so relaxed, opted for midday drinks along St. Laurent.

3 sips of a beer, a shot on the house and a pickle back were lazily consumed at Diablos as I chatted with a hippie couple and their well behaved dog from rural Massachusetts about being an artist and life. I may not be a journalist by trade, per se, but I do love talking to strangers and hearing their stories. 

With a relaxed buzz the wandering continued as we happened upon a haberdashery where I was tempted but could not bring myself to purchase a pricey head piece, yet my friend felt compelled to look at himself in the mirror wearing a variety of options for quite some time. Which was fine, it allowed me time to sit down and rest my barking dogs. 

Luckily this store was close to Schwartz's, which had been recommended to be my several people, as THE place to eat in Montreal, was close by. Hats in hand we went to this wait in line sort of place where I didn't realize smoked 'meat' was all they served. 

When option for the only poultry option, for which they are not known and for good reason, where I was promptly meat shamed and now vow never to visit again!

Then it was back to hoofing it again to the promenade of bugs, as the water and heat brought them out in droves.

Not yet having hung out down by the water properly it was time to sit in Old Town and consume one more drink - or at least attempt to. One more drink was partially had while seated next to a silent yet deadly couple comprised of a middle aged middle eastern man sporting a silver band and silly grin and a throw mamma from the train star look alike seated across from him, both silent as they drank their tea and are their crepes.I, of course was fascinated and dying to ask what this relationship was all about. 

This is sight seeing at it's best.

It was getting late, and cold and the hike back to the car was imminent.

Just as I suspected, the walk back was The Never-ending Story of walks and I was in need of my very own quicksand to envelop me. 

Rubins was like a personal trainer from hell always exclaiming just 2 more blocks when he and I both knew good and well the car was not 2 blocks away!

Eventually he went to fetch the car and I was left, cold, barefoot and alone on the corner of Fairmont and St. Laurent. I quickly realize that I could absolutely be left here naked and afraid in the great white north.

And for those of you who don't know me - most things white are terrifying or plain old repugnant.

I start work in 8 hours yet here I am dirty alone and in a foreign country - I certainly like to keep life interesting.

Luckily it wasn't too long before I was picked up and quickly showered, changed and repacked my bag with my new Canadian swag, as I had a crack of dawn flight to catch that would drop me in New York just in time to make it to work on time.

Merci beaucoup, Montreal. You were a great host for a birthday weekend.

A New Country - Whether You Think So Or Not...

 

Broken Life, Broken Lens

After having suffered through what could easily be described as one of the most difficult and painful weeks of my life not only was it time to turn yet another year older and officially enter the 30s, but it was time to set sail for San Juan, Puerto Rico where I would be meeting one of my very best friends to celebrate her turning 30 just the month prior with a few days in sunny PR, where the people like to claim the US of A, despite the fact that they function far more like the lackadaisical Caribbean countries I have become so accustomed on the streets of NYC.

As if an ill prepared trip and the move another year closer to menopause were not enough to maintain my suicidal tendencies, I wanted to really solidify the tragedy of my existence by accidentally dropping my camera- the reason for my travel and, in turn my life, on the bathroom floor at the airport mere minutes before hangoverdly boarding my flight.

A mad dash around the airport proved fruitless and I was forced to face the fractured reality head on. I'd be shooting this trip through a shattered lens- literally. Sweet poetry or the ramblings of a poor, melancholy white girl from the suburbs- you be the judge. All I can say was this trip was off to a great start!

$21 dollars poorer and infinitely more knowledgeable about excellent American cuisine of fast food chains easily located in PR, thanks to our lady cab driver and Simone and I finally arrived at our destination- Posada San Francisco, located just off of the Plaza Colon in old San Juan, a large hostel with lots of light, a veranda and water pressure equivalent to the dripping from a well long ago defunct. We were shown to room C62 which housed a fridge, a trash can and a lone full size bed. Deciding to throw my latent lesbian fears out the window we settled in and made a quick costume change to fake a freshening and hit the streets looking for sustenance and sights.

Virginia, the proprietor, suggested we dine at a spot called El Mallorca which caters to locals and maintains decent price points in a town that rivals any metropolis in which I have eaten in the continental United States. This brings me to my next point- Puerto Rico, a commonwealth of the US, claims to be a part of the United States but bares passing resemblance at best to the pillars of our consumer based existence. I spent the majority of my days here pointing out in a super arrogant American manner, just how differently things were done here - but I digress.

Food was had. Spanish was spoken. We moved on.

 

Meandering the ghost town known as San Juan Viejo on a Sunday in July was less than productive to say the least.

Back to the hostel to shower and change into official birthday gear (today being the 10th anniversary of my 21st birthday) and we were out again. Wandering. And wandering. Making our second stop of the day at the local CVS, we chose an eatery, Moreno's, based on atmosphere more than cuisine- yet we were not disappointed! The dim waitress and uneven patio which created pools of condensation that intermittently dripped down my bare thigh were trying, but the delicious mofongo Simone and I mowed down- chicken and vegetable respectively - made such annoyances a distant memory rather quickly. Not feeling ready for a cocktail, we paid our bill and went in search of one of my very favorite things in the world- salsa!

Stocking up on some birthday candy at the local bodega (where they keep Now and Laters in the fridge) first, Simone and I were treated to a serenade from a group of young students who apparently identify themselves as 'tuna' and corner poor unsuspecting ladies in crowded bodega while strumming their guitars dressed as, as Simone put it, don Juan Quixote. Sufficiently embarrassed, we made a speedy exit...

After a couple failed attempts at empty watering holes and foreclosed establishments we landed at Newyourican Cafe, a tiny salsa spot that doesn't get hopping till well after eleven, but is worth the delayed bedtime...

Needing to rally, Simone ordered us both shots of Sauza (gross) and some fruity guava concoction that tasted more like a lollipops than liquor. It did the trick- as we were tricking ourselves out mere moments later.

Angolan Cee-Lo took a liking to Simone and tossed her around the dance floor arrhythmical, leaving me with his much gentler compadre Babmi who was not only an excellent dance partner, but a generous acquaintance, popping a bottle of champagne to celebrate my born day!

They were fun and all, but I was itching to get my claws in some authentic Puertorriquenos, which took shape in the form of Ivan, a vertically challenged partner, but smooth and patient,  followed by two d-bags in espanol who tried to tag team me and my bestie but who left us feeling uninspired and bored.

Having a nagging cold/cough I surprised myself when Simone finally convinced me to leave the club just after two, my ears still ringing from the trumpet solos!

Outside we were greeted by federal agent Joshua who thought I was a local due to my fancy footwork- yeah, I said it- and asked if we could make plans the following day. We obliged and then shuffled off to San Francisco where our full bed and Arctic air conditioning awaited us .
 

Roja Caliente
 
Expecting an early rise, we woke today around 9:30, am in the same bed from which I am writing this, having succumb to the all mighty sun with yet another burn.

I seem to get a slight burn the one time a year my ivory ass sets foot on a beach and despite my best efforts today to avoid wrinkles and cancer, I am red, chilly and nauseous. It just keeps getting better. Let me back track a bit...

While Simone went for a solo run today I made my way over to Elite camera shop in Condado where I was promised my camera could be repaired when I had phoned the day prior. In an attempt to be economical I sat at the bus station to which I had been directed until I caught the eye of an amiable driver by the name of Sammy and used my well earned $15 to learn far more than I ever needed to know about Puerto Rico, going so far as to discuss the topic of PR being a part of the US of A, and I gotta say- the short time I've been here- all signs point to no. Sammy semi-agreed, explaining he believed it to be a generational thing that will eventually turn Puerto Rico into one big strip mall, just like the rest of the country that is leasing to own. Don't you just love globalization?

Once at Elite camera my baby was rushed into the other room for emergency surgery - meaning banged on with crude tools, which I could only hear in the distance. Feeling like a protective mother, I let out a couple of "Sirs," but before i knew it - the filter was off and I was back in a cab with Sammy - who had waited for me (free of charge) - not very America of him! I was brought back to Plaza Colon so Simone and I could grab a quick bite at a local cafe and make our way to Ocean Park beach.

Feeling secure in set fairs we boarded another cab with a local man who has eyes such a beautiful blue-grey. I was in awe, that is until realized he was a culero and didn't try to negotiate a price with me but instead yelled at me and when I let it go, not wanting to argue with a strange man in a strange land - he exclaimed- I won- without an ounce of irony in his thickly accented English- I won. It was surreal. You hear about machismo, and I would like to think I have had a fair amount of first hand experience with it -but this was a whole other level of ego. Needless to say I hate him.
 
Once we made it to Ocean Park, the beach was beautiful. We took turns submerging ourselves in the crystal blue waters as the other watched our collective belongings. Not wanting to get too much sun, we ducked into a beach-side bar who had delicious piña coladas- made even more so by the seemingly total lack of alcohol content, which is really the point of a fruity cocktail. Still sans pants with wet drawers we wandered over to Loiza Street per the suggestion of the incredibly nice staff at Tres Palms Skate Shop to wait for the A5 bus back to our current abode. Wait being the operative word.

As exciting as waiting on a street corner in the slowly setting, yet fiercely hot sun for a bus you've seen no evidence of is, we grew weary. So weary in fact we thought we would give federal agent Josh a call, just in case he was in the neighborhood, for a possible lift. He and I chatted and although he was busy we made plans to meet up later that night. Simone and I waited some more- and then he called again. I thought it was strange, but figured if there was some sort of transportation on the other end of the line, I should pick up. Therein was my mistake. He took 20 minutes to awkwardly discuss that he had seen part of me, not specifying what, the night prior and didn't want me to feel weird- as he was a really shy really 'good guy.' Having word a short dress while being spun around the dance floor the night prior, I can only imagine he saw my ass, as has half of New York City in some of the ensembles I choose to parade myself around in. I was not embarrassed by my indiscretion, but totally creeped out by his need to chat me up about it. I could not get off the phone fast enough and when he said he would wait for our call to rendezvous later all I could think was he better not be holding his breath. So much for federal agent Joshua and his icky tendencies. As much as I prefer a local to help show me around- I prefer my head atop by body and not in a box along the roadside, so the decision seemed simple enough.

Finally, an oasis of a bodega appeared and I popped in for sustenance and inquired about this bus that seemed to never to be coming, to which the owner replied, with a chuckle, 'welcome to Puerto Rico.' Yet another check in the 'my really PR is not a part of the US box...

A cab was called an we were dropped at Castillo de San Cristobal just 30 minutes before closing to check it out quickly and walk along the fortress over to El Morro, where the setting sun, crashing waves and kite flying phenomenon offered a reprieve from the oppressive heat and a postcard perfect setting for a Caribbean sunset.

Walking back to the hostel there were lots of production vehicles an lookey-loos. Assuming it was an independent film or local endeavor I paid little mind till I hear those two magic words: Justin Timberlake. Turns out he and Ben Afflwck had just been filming scenes in the barrios of OSJ not only to see how the have nots are holding down fort, but also for their new movie 'Runner Runner' for which I know I will be running to the theatre to see upon release!

Dinner at the local favorite Cafe San Juan, a meal of which my favorite part was the after dinner mint and it was back to the hostel to prepare for another night of mild debauchery. Only trouble was I was mildly dying from a case of the sunburns mixed with a cold that had been hanging on and general getting old and boringness so it was back to CVS for aloe and a stroll back to our humble abode where I could shiver under the blankets till morning when I had face facts yet again that I am in fact Caucasian and, not only that- but a New York city resident- so the suns magical powers can in fact fry my pasty ass into oblivion. Simone acted like she didn't mind- and I can only hope that was the case.

Greener Pastures

The early bird catches the worm, or in our case, the economy vehicle. First off,  we called Charlie Car Rental with whom we had procured a vehicle the day prior to pick us up and bring us to Candando yet again to get in our dove grey hatchback and head out to the world famous El Yunque National Forest.

The dive was quick and painless and although we missed our stop initially we were at the park before crowds of overweight fanny-packed foreigners in athletic gear congested the passageways too badly.

Deciding to hike the highest and longest trail, we headed straight up yo Mt. Britton Tower. The trail was narrow, but paved and the thick vegetation allowed the thick layer of sweat all over my body to function like an oil slick. Feeling lie a deep fried Orca at the top left me feeling sexy and refreshed when finally reaching the vista.

The quiet of the rainforest is incomparable, even when your fellow tourists don't realize you'd really prefer them to leave so you can have a moment all to yourself. The jaunt back down was easy breezy, and awaiting us at the bottom of the mountain was a small pool created by a series of waterfalls that I felt so compelled to immerse myself in that I disrobed right along the main thoroughfare and rocked the ever flattering running shoe and bikini with a side of cellulite look. It will be all the rage this fall- trust me. The ice cold water was incredible and then we were off again. This time in search of food.

Simone has spotted a yoga vegetarian haven just off the 191 so she and I returned to witness the most amazing hippie family, replete with a visiting friend who left New York's Wall Street for the potholed roads of PR after the economy crashed a couple of years back. The juice was fresh and the children were unbelievably adorable. This town was like a small Ex-Pat hippie commune at the base of the rainforest and I couldn't help but pause for a moment to think just how different life's path can be...

Luquillo was just down the the road and known for their food kiosks. Although full, we decided to check it out. This, my friend was the epicenter of Puerto Fry-o. Beige food as far as the eye could see in a variety of phallic shapes lined one main strip that backed into the sea. Thus far most local delicacies seem to be fried and and much as I like my tostones, at some point you've just got to say enough is enough. Our stay was short lived and we jumped back on the PR- 3 to make our way to Naguabo on the eastern coast of the island, where our lodging for the evening awaited us. After a slight detour through some local towns, all seeming to consist of a strip establishments, half of which have succumb to foreclosure or pest infestation, variety of feral K-9s and a waterfront view, we found our home for the evening. And a home it was- literally. I have now decided that I too will paint hostel in red dripping paint along the side of my apartment and take in boarders to make ends meet. This 3 bedroom home seems to house a lovely family, their vagabond cousin and a couple of guests on any given evening. Simone was clearly uncomfortable, so we made our appearance brief and went out in search of the goings on in the sleepy port town. After said search, I feel confident in saying nothing. At 7:30 pm, we were turned away from a restaurant who boasted about their parking of all things, and went to Makito- the only establishment open after sunset that serves a wide variety of seafood- perfect for 2 people who don't eat seafood- and undrinkable cocktails. The staff was friendly, the portions were generous and the outdoor seating over the water was welcomed. Making our meal leisurely in order to avoid heading back to the make shift hostel, there always comes a point when the wait staff politely says get the hell out- and when that time came we had no choice. Early to bed and early to rise makes these girls, healthy - but the jury is still out on wealthy or wise.

We're Not In Kansas Anymore. And By Kansas, I Mean The United States Of America

The hostel proprietor, Dawn, had told is the line in Farjardo to catch the ferry to Vieques can get lengthy and told us to arrive at 7 for the 9:30 boat. Stopping for breakfast, we thought there was no way 7:30 (2 full hours) wouldn't be sufficient. We have perhaps never been more wrong in our lives. The lines of sheer swimwear, overflowing coolers and over processes hair snaked around the parking lot, all leading to a sole ticket window per island- 1 for Vieques known for it's unpopulated beaches, and 1 for Culebra which evidently is the new hot spot and therefore the island we avoided. That, however, didn't seem to help out wait time.

Standing in the by sun for 2 hours to take a boat ride to a beautiful island seemed a bit intense, but doable. Getting up at 6 am, waiting in line for 7 hours to take a boat to a beautiful island seems like a suicide mission- and the trust me, the thought crossed my mind.

Never have I seen such a flawed system and never have I been more confident that I was absolutely not in the United States, but in a Latin American Country where time tables and efficiency give way to relaxation and convenience- man do I sound like a tight ass!

After the 9:30 boat sold out we waited another hour to see of there was room on the still docked vessel. There wasn't. My patience was thinner than a well worn baby blanket but Simone had the stroke of genius to buy tickets for the 1 pm trip and see what else Fajardo may have to offer in the interim. We paid our 4 bucks and hopped back in the rental to try out some kayaking or snorkel excursions for which the region is famous. So famous in fact that according to every business we rang here there was an unpresendented amount of reservations this week and we were, for lack of a better term, shit out of luck. We drove around in circles for another hour, just for good measure before accepting defeat and heading back to the dock to catch the boat- which left much closer to two.

Did I mention that this was also some made up Puerto Rican holiday? Oh yeah- my passion for haphazard travel bites me in the ass from time to time- an this was one of those times.

2 more hours in line with our new friends from London and we were not only able to get on board (after some arbitrary drug sniffing dog inspection) but we got seats, meaning I could not tell you about any of the beautiful scenery because I was lulled to sleep smacking of waves and blaring of bachatta.

45 minutes later we met by Fernando at the dock. He proved to be our trusty Vieques cab driver with thick brown leather skin and sea glass green eyes who directed us to Sun Bay Beach. Simone and I will be eternally grateful as, to say this was paradise would be an understatement. Crystal blue waters, diamond fine sand and barely another soul on the palm lined shore made us quickly forget that we had just spent half the day in lines and cars and anxiety ridden states of delusion.

With the last boat out of Vieques at 6pm and the need to line up like sun kissed cattle necessary, Fernando returned to retrieve us just 90 minutes later on what soon became the party bus back to the dock.

I'm cynical and hardened but occasionally I have a moment of such pure joy- just for a moment- that I want to cry. If you know me hearing of my water works is like mentioning Obama gave a speech or Rihanna wore something slutty- but tears of joy- those are rare.

We picked up a couple of families who had spent the day at various beaches sunning and boozing and who were in good spirits once they joined us. They clearly didn't know one another- but shared a culture and shared some beer and for some reason, with the sun low in the sky, making the water sparkle like a 10 carat diamond and the car filled with familial love- I was happy.

The boat back was peaceful and once retrieving our car from the parking lot, who had live musicians playing right next to the oil slick and abandoned bald tires, it was time to grab yet anoter snack void of any nutrition and head back to good ole San Juan. The drive should have been about 45 minutes on main throughoufares, but instead was gridlocked, making it closer to a 3 hour tour, like I said- longest day ever. Junk food was had, Romeo Santos and the jam of the summer, 'Call Me Maybe' were tuned into the AM/FM and we made our way back to Posada our hostel exhausted, but as survivors!

Simone had reserved a room at Posada San Francisco yet again, luring me into a full size bed with her yet again, but before we hit the cobble stoned streets one last time, we showered - one of Simone's favorite activities, although I am not sure why.

 

After digging sand out of places I didn't know I had, we threw on some clean (ish) clothes- Simone has plenty as she and Imelda Marcos share wardrobes and the need for options, and went in search of dinner. Although the city was livelier than it had been before- most things were still closed by 11 pm an we chose The Dragonfly restaurant not only for it's subtle nod to my ultimate guilty pleasure, 'Gilmore Girls,'  but for it's overpriced fusion cuisine. Edamame and birthday noodles were feasted upon and one last lap around the town landed us back at our hostel as I bid adieu to old San Juan, at least for a couple of hours...

Rising at 3 am to return the car to Charlie Car Rental, a local business who is open 24 hours a day and offers pick up service. Simple enough - or so it seemed. Attempting to use my iPhone GPS and feeling the clock ticking at supersonic speed I made a couple of wrong turns and worked myself into such a frenzy that I called Simone demanding she put on some pants, grab her wallet and meet me downstairs immediately - she was going to the airport with me. She obliged.  I am not sure if it was the fragile state I had been prior to the arrival of Out of Town Briana  or the lack of sleep seeping into my physche, but I was lost. Lost and frustrated in a way I never am. Simone was gratious and patient with me, as she always is, and gave me a hug at the United terminal before i headed back to NYC...

Adios Puerto Rico

july 2012