An American Abroad

Sanse 2019: The Festival of San Sebastian in Old San Juan

The first thing I did was to visit Olé, a hat shop that’s been a fixture on Calle Fortaleza in Old San Juan since 1977. I selected a Colombian short-brim straw fedora. The hatter measured me, gave me options for the band, and then expertly affixed it to the hat. This was my first-ever visit to a hat shop and my first-ever non-winter hat. At age 59, I actually began to feel like a grown-up.

I needed a hat because I’d recently buzz-cut my hair. It was a hot day and I knew I was going to be outside for most of it. It was about 10:00 in the morning and Sanse–more formally, the Fiestas de La Calle San Sebastián–lasts all day and well into the night.

Properly topped, I began to wander the streets of Old San Juan, waiting for the party to begin. The whole area had been closed to vehicular traffic, which made walking in Old San Juan much more enjoyable. (Memo to Mayor Yulín Cruz: why not close Old San Juan to vehicles all the time?) I saw food stalls, street sweepers, banners, posters, decorations, flags, garbage cans, Porta Potties, and police officers All that was missing were the throngs — but they were coming.

There was an air of expectancy, of let’s-get-this-party-started. People set up on balconies, drinks already in hand before noon, and watched the scene unfold.

As the narrow streets began to fill up with people, acrobats and muralists started practicing and making ready.

Then the parades began. Sanse is nominally a religious festival, showcasing a strain of joyful, welcoming Christianity that I’d like to see more of. Still, it’s a bit of a mind-bender to try to square the Bacchanalia of Sanse with the historical Saint Sebastian, a third century Christian who was tied to a tree, shot full of arrows, and survived only to be clubbed to death by Diocletian’s goons shortly thereafter. This doesn’t seem like a reason to throw a party to me, but hey, when in Puerto Rico, I do as the Puerto Ricans do.

As the day wore on, I saw elaborately costumed people hanging out near the San Juan Bautista Cathedral — which, by the way, dates back to 1540 and is reputed to be the second-oldest cathedral in the Americas. As so often happens in Old San Juan, I was dazzled by the scale of age there and the contrasts it presents.

It was hot and so I repaired to the cool comfort of my spiritual home in Old San Juan, El Batey. It’s a timeless place–and because it doesn’t change, it isn’t concerned with trends or fashion. No matter how hip, ordinary, outré, or normal you are, this bar has a place for you. It welcomes all: young, old, male, female, gay, hetero, tourist, resident, black, white, gringo, Boricua. Because it has no TVs to distract people, folks at the bar actually talk to each other. What a concept.

El Batey also doesn’t have air conditioning or glassed windows, and after a little while, I was able to snag the primo barstool right by the street. From there I could see the crowd parading by.

Sanse is ostensibly a religious festival, though it seemed like pagan hedonism was celebrated much more often than Christian martyrdom. But I was pleased to find a few older women whose idea of Christian virtue infused their political ideals.

And then there was this, which summarized both the evolving opinion of Christopher Columbus and my distaste for instant coffee produced by environmentally dubious corporations. The sign on the right, which replicates the Nescafé logo, says “No es cafe,” i.e., it’s not coffee. Clever. On the left is a poster that repeats a theme I’ve seen more and more of as I travel in Latin America: the idea that Christopher Columbus was more like an evil pirate/rapist/murderer/architect of genocide than the courageous visionary hero I was taught about in school.

I left Old San Juan before the sun went down and, by all accounts, missed the ratcheting up of the crazy exuberance that happens at Sanse after dark. Maybe next year, OK?

Hiking Charco El Café

I met up with the hiking club at a supermarket in Santurce on a beautiful Sunday morning. We were a far-flung group of eight mainland Americans, two Puerto Ricans, a Mexican, a German, and a Panamanian. I climbed in the back of a truck and we caravanned southwest to a stretch of mountainous wilderness near the town of Juana Díaz. Our destination was Charco El Café — Coffee Pond — where a river runs down a mountainside and forms pools at different levels.

I’d never done anything with this group before and didn’t quite know what to expect. I conceived of “hiking” as an overland walk on a trail. Silly me. This experience was more like ascending through a rushing mountain stream and occasionally doing some technical on-land climbing. The trip required skills I just don’t have, but even so, I had a blast.

We stopped at a bridge where a small country road crossed over a stream. As we waited for everyone to assemble, I took a few steps into the woods and found this almost perfect spider web.

Then the hike began.

I looked to the left and right for a path that we could walk, but there wasn’t one. It was then I realized what a hike in a charco really meant. With no alternative, I waded in and carefully made my way upstream.

I was wearing a pair of water resistant Merrell hiking shoes. Of course, the water resistance only keeps water from seeping in the bottom or the sides. When I first put my foot down into two feet of water, I got soaked. Even then the shoes remained comfortable–but they weren’t great on uneven slippery rocks. They didn’t have enough grip. As I hopped from rock to rock, I considered that if I slipped, I’d go down fast the hit my head on the rocks. And that would be unpleasant.

I finally made it up to the first swimming hole. A couple guys from our group went for a dip. I rested on the rocks. The scrambling upward over wet uneven rocks was kicking my soft ass.

Some of the more daring members jumped into the pool from a rocks ledge. Others contemplated it and thought the better of it.

For some, figuring out how to get out of the swimming hole was tougher than going bombs-away and jumping in. There weren’t any obvious handholds or footholds.

We began to ascend again. There were rumors of an even bigger swimming hole further up. And the rumors turned out to be true.

The more experienced technical climbers continued on in search of a third pool. I went up partway with them, but decided that I’d enjoy things a lot more just resting on the rocks, looking at the dense forest and the rushing water, and listing to the nature sounds. A few others joined me.

After we’d waited a little over an hour, the technical crew returned, saying they’d made it, but with difficulty. And so we began to climb down. Though the ascent was more strenuous, the descent was more perilous. I made it unscathed, but I sure took my time about it.

We’d all worked up a big appetite, so we got back into our vehicles and set out in search of food. We were so far into the woods that there was no cell service, but one of the guys knew the way to Villalba, so we followed him on faith. It turned out to be a great decision, because we found ourselves at one of the best, most fun restaurants I’ve been to in Puerto Rico. We were here:

Papá Luis is a roadside eating and drinking compound with dress-alike waitresses and a real sense of place. And there really is a Papá Luis; in the above and below photos, he’s the guy with the hat and the purple shirt.

This was our group, with yours truly in the orange.

One of the group brought a bottle of homemade “Colon Cleanser” hot sauce. I passed up that opportunity for some reason.

This experience reminded me that I do enjoy being outside and doing physically strenuous things — I’m just not very good at them. I’m either going to have to decide that that’s OK or decide to do something about my shortcomings.

Aboard the ARA Libertad

This is the ARA (Armada de la República Argentina) Libertad.

She’s described as

a steel-hulled, full-rigged, class “A” sailing ship that serves as a school vessel in the Argentine Navy. One of the largest and fastest tall ships in the world, holder of several speed records, she was designed and built in the 1950s by the Río Santiago Shipyard, Ensenada, Argentina. Her maiden voyage was in 1961, and she continues to be a training ship with yearly instruction trips for the graduating naval cadets as well as a traveling goodwill ambassador, having covered more than 800,000 nautical miles (1,500,000 km) across all seas, visited about 500 ports in more than 60 countries, and trained more than 11,000 navy graduates.

Yesterday she was docked in San Juan harbor. As soon as I saw her I knew I had to go aboard. Lori and I walked up a steep gangplank and were greeted by an officer. “¿Permiso para subir a bordo?” I asked. He looked surprised but pleased. No one else had asked him for permission to come aboard. “¡Por supuesto!” he replied, and we stepped on deck.

One of the stranger facts about this Argentinian vessel is that an engraving of it docked at Archangel appears on Russia’s 500 ruble bill.

The original design of the bill featuring a steamship, but this was rejected by the Central Bank of Russia, which preferred a sailing boat. The artist then substituted a new ship based on the first photograph he found of a large frigate, not knowing he was drawing a ship that had never been to Archangel.

I was disappointed only that we were not allowed to go up to the bridge or enter any of the compartments. But the main deck was enough of a treat.

The Distinguished Gentlemen’s Ride on Calle Loíza

One of the joys of living in San Juan is that there is no shortage of scenes. There’s a street art scene, a rat rod scene, a food truck scene, a Jeep scene, a punk scene, a cocktail scene, a surfing scene, a baseball scene — and a motorcycle scene. That last was on full display last Sunday.

I was enjoying Sunday brunch at Tresbé on Calle Loíza when I heard the basso profundo throb of big bikes — a whole lot of them heading east. I grabbed my camera and started shooting. As the first motorcycle came into focus, I immediately knew what I was seeing. It was the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride, a global event where men (and a few women) get dressed in their dapper finery and ride to raise money for prostate cancer research and other worthy causes.

There was an eclectic mix of motorcycles: Japanese, American, European, Indian, choppers, boulevard cruisers, and cafe racers.

This being the Caribbean, some people took the dress code pretty liberally — or ignored it altogether. But most of the riders at least made the attempt to look both distinguished and gentlemanly.

I especially liked this guy on the chopper and was sorry not to have gotten a better pic of his ride. I haven’t seen pants like those since the Nixon administration!

This was the only sidecar I saw. These two definitely win the prize for cutest couple.

I was surprised that there were so many Royal Enfields in the mix. But maybe I shouldn’t have been. Royal Enfields are as natty and anachronistic as the Distinguished Gentlemen themselves. First manufactured in 1901, they developed a reputation in World War II as being nearly indestructible. “Built like a bullet” was the strange simile that was used to describe them. The company was eventually sold and moved to Chennai, India where it continues as “the oldest global motorcycle brand in continuous production.” Royal Enfield is surely a niche player in the global motorcycle market. But for whatever reason, they’re popular here in Puerto Rico. There’s even a dealership here in San Juan.

Not everyone was riding a big bike – or for that matter, a motorcycle at all.

I’ve ridden a motorcycle while wearing a tuxedo, so I think I could fit right into this group. Next year?

Murals of Resistance in Old San Juan

The road from Condado to Old San Juan rises near the edge of a steep cliff. You can follow the road the be among the tourists and the swells and the middle class people who make the old city their home. Or you can follow one of the walkways down to the bottom of the cliff and find yourself in the much poorer neighborhood of La Perla, a strip of tightly spaced ramshackle houses that were made famous recently as the setting for major portions of the Despacito video. This arrangement vividly illustrates the observation that the world around, the rich people live up high and the poor people live down low.

The wall these murals are on is a divides La Perla from Old San Juan. It’s an excellent spot to call attention to economic and political injustice. Which is what the Students of the School of Plastic Arts in Resistance did in creating these murals. Some of them refer, directly or indirectly, to the fiscal control board (locally referred to as The Junta) that controls the Puerto Rican government’s purse. Others allude more generally to the island’s colonial status.

This first one reads, “But Mr. Official, it’s just a wall. Why are walls so dangerous?” “Because walls speak when justice is silent and the media lies.”

Below: “We don’t understand this ‘democracy.'”

Left: “We record our dead: 4645” Right: “PROMESA (the fiscal control board appointed by the federal government that now runs Puerto Rico’s economic affairs) is POVERTY!” (This rhymes in Spanish.)

“Do the work, Puerto Rican, this fight is for you.”

The text below says “Get up! Stir up! Resist! Do as the cornered bull: bray! Or like the bull that does not bray: charge!” It comes from a famous poem called “En La Brecha” (Into the Breach) by the Puerto Rican poet-lawyer-activist Jose de Diego.

The spirit of resistance is alive and well here in Puerto Rico. Think of it: three million people who are subject to the laws of the federal government and yet have no voting members of Congress or the Senate and who cannot vote in general presidential elections. Who lost over 4,000 of their neighbors, friends, and family members in Hurricane Maria and suffered economic damages equivalent to a full year of the island’s GDP, and who were tossed a roll of paper towels by the President of the United States. It’s amazing to me that the people here aren’t marching in the streets every day.

Drinking in the History at the Vanderbilt Condado Hotel

When Hurricane Irma hit Puerto Rico a year ago, my employer made a generous offer to all of its employees. Instead of sweltering in our darkened homes, we could all go to the Condado Vanderbilt Hotel and stay there on the company’s dime. Most of our staff took the offer.

But I didn’t.

At that point, I’d lived in Puerto Rico for barely a month and had been in my then-new apartment only two weeks. I’d worked hard to get here. And I wasn’t going to let anything chase me out of my new home. So for six days I lived without power and made do.

Thus I never even set foot in the 99 year old hotel until recently. Lori was here visiting and I wanted to do something nice for her on our last night. And so we went to the hotel bar for a nightcap and a look-see.

In its storied history, the Condado Vanderbilt has played host to Charles Lindbergh, Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, Bob Hope, John F. Kennedy, Errol Flynn, and Arthur Rubinstein. We didn’t see any of those folks at the bar, unfortunately.

We did, however, take in the fabulous collection of paintings and sculptures that were arrayed there. And I took in a pretty fair Dark ‘n Stormy. Or two.

The hotel underwent substantial renovations that began in 2002 and weren’t completed until 2014. The project included the construction of two 11 story-towers, one to each side of the original building. That gave the back of the hotel that faces the Caribbean an expansive deck, which we strolled along while watching the sea crash into the rocks below.

I don’t wish another hurricane on Puerto Rico. But if one comes and my boss again offers to put us up there, I’m going.

El Local en Santurce and La Maquinaria de Tortura

I was at El Batey a couple weeks ago and got talking to the guy on the next barstool. This is something I’ve rarely done at other bars, but there’s something about El Batey that brings out my extrovert side. He told me he was in a band called La Maquinaria de Tortura (The Machinery of Torture) and that they were going to be playing a gig in Santurce at a place called El Local. I told him I’d go. Last night, I did.

I’ve never been anyplace quite like El Local. The front half of it consists of a bar and a sitting room that were apparently decorated by someone on work release from the local insane asylum, circa 1980.

It’s the sort of warm and sinister place where you’d be playing a board game and discover that your opponent had turned into a demonic clown or a large bipedal reptile, but you’d just roll the dice and take your turn.

The back half of the building was . . . well, let’s just say that the decorator hadn’t gotten there yet. This made it the perfect setting for the propulsive punk of La Maquinaria de Tortura. The sound was old school: 90 second songs screamed out incomprehensibly by sweaty shirtless men while a distortion-heavy guitar bashes out the same two chords over and over and over and…

…and meanwhile, people who will always be cooler than you no matter how many tats you get or indie films you direct sit by impassively digging the scene.

On the way out, I saw this sign for future fun at El Local.

Not quite sure what that’s all about, but I might give it a try. It’s a strange place. And so of course, I want to go back.

Cataño, Inadvertently

The idea was that on Sunday morning, I’d drive to the neighboring town of Cataño, catch the ferry across San Juan Bay to Old San Juan, and then stumble around there until I found some way to get into trouble. This seemed like a great way to visit a part of the metro area I’d never been to, get a lovely view of the old city, and even save money. But for want of two quarters, my plans fell through.

I made my way to Cataño all right. I parked and walked along the corniche, admiring the view of the 500 year old town and its fortifications across the bay.

I found the Terminal AcuaExpreso Cataño. The ferry was idling at the dock there, preparing to cast off. I walked briskly up to the window and asked for a ticket. “Fifty cents,” said the ticketseller. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet. The woman behind the window looked at it like it was some sort of alien artifact and archly informed me that she didn’t have change. Fine, I said, I’ll pay with a credit card. No dice. It was fifty cents, exact change or near to it.

I must learn to keep a better poker face, because I’m certain my expression at that moment revealed that I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard and/or that the ticketseller and her boss and her boss’s boss and her boss’s boss’s boss were a bunch of dolts. So any hope I might have had of getting a free ticket or even convincing her to loan me four bits vanished with the incredulous look on my face. So I was here — and not going anywhere.

With my plans for a ferry ride to Old San Juan thwarted, I decided to see some of Cataño. I wasn’t too put out, really. The weather was uncertain and sprinkling rain. I made a mental note to come back for the ferry when the sky was bluer.

The area around the ferry terminal wasn’t rich, but neither was it poor. There were some restaurants, apartments, and commercial buildings. All looked modest but well-kept.

There was a public dock where one sport fishing boat was moored.

I watched across the bay as an enormous Carnival cruise ship edged along the San Juan peninsula, angling to dock at one of the piers along Calle Marina. I’ve never taken a cruise or even been aboard a ship like that. I don’t think it would be the way I’d want to travel — I prefer a more unscripted approach to new lands — but I wouldn’t rule it out forever and ever.

A few blocks away from the main waterfront area of Cataño, I found another ship that wasn’t quite as fancy as the Carnival Horizon. It was, however, definitely more fun to photograph.

I also found a much poorer part of town and was reminded, oddly, of Chelsea, Massachusetts, where I lived for a while when I was 20 years old. Perhaps I have a strange affinity for down-at-the-heels seaside towns. I saw an old woman sitting out on her balcony, surveying her surroundings. I didn’t want to intrude on her Sunday morning by walking up to her house and taking a photo, so I captured her from far away. It was another reminder of Chelsea: an older population sitting out on their porches surveying the gradual decay of a neighborhood they’ve probably lived in for decades.

I headed for the town square and found a modest but well-kept pavilion, some gothically decaying architecture, and an interesting church whose bells were summoning the faithful.

Across from the pavilion was a mixed-use building that housed a Chinese restaurant. This, too, reminded me of another place I’ve lived. During my year in China, people would sometimes express surprise that I knew how to use chopsticks and liked Chinese food. I explained to them that Chinese food is their country’s gift to the world and you can find Chinese restaurants even in the smallest, most out-of-the-way towns in America — and indeed, around the globe.

A few blocks away, though, the local bakery was out of bread and the pizza truck hadn’t woken up yet.

Having completed my accidental tour of Cataño, I was heading back to San Juan when I saw this motorcyclist, pulled up beside him at a red light, snapped his picture, and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Moments like that make me smile for hours and remind me how very glad I am to live here.

Windy Day at Playa Último Trolley

My favorite beach in all of Puerto Rico is in the San Juan neighborhood of Ocean Park. It’s called Playa Último Trolley — Last Trolley Beach — because it’s near the final stop on the now-defunct San Juan streetcar line. I’ve gone there almost every weekend for the last five months. It’s a locals’ beach, a place where Puerto Rican families go for swimming and sunning. There’s butter-soft sand in some parts and flat shoreline rock in others.

Some Saturday mornings, an older man drives up, parks his car, and opens the trunk to reveal medium-large speakers. He sits in the parking lot on a lawn chair with an old wooden box about two feet long in his lap. Then he cranks up the salsa, drums along on the box, and rocks the whole beach. It’s that kind of place. I take everyone who visits me there.

Last Sunday it was windy. When I arrived in early afternoon, the ocean was dotted with windsurfers and the sky was speckled with kiteboard sails.

I walked east to the less populated end of the playa, the part that’s across from the swanky real estate on Calle Park Boulevard.

The breeze was coming toward me and I could smell the sweet tobacco of this man’s cigar from 75 meters away.

But I didn’t come to smell the smoke; I wanted to be nearer to where the windsurfers were congregated.

I’ve never gone windsurfing or kiteboarding — but I’d sure like to try someday.

On my way back to the main part of the beach, I passed this mountain bike. Everything about it looked seemed catalogue-perfect.

I passed by families enjoying themselves in the shallows and a vendor doing a good business in cold drinks on a hot day.

Weather permitting (and it usually does), I’ll be back next weekend.

And in case you want to check it out, Playa Último Trolley is here:

One Year in Puerto Rico

One year ago today, I moved to Puerto Rico to take a job as a Managing Editor for a web startup that reviews and compares consumer goods and services. I’d never set foot on the island before. I’d never worked full-time as a writer. I had no clear idea of where I was going to live or how I was going to get around. But having been in similar situations in China and Tunisia, I was confident that I would get things figured out.

And I did. It took two weeks, but I found a beautiful apartment (with a super landlady) in Hato Rey, the business and banking district of San Juan. I bought a used but well-loved Toyota 4Runner from a coworker and started to explore my new island home.

I took a quick trip to the Dominican Republic over Labor Day weekend.

I’d been on Puerto Rico for exactly one month when Hurricane Irma grazed the island. Though I was without power for six days and the streets flooded outside my apartment building, nothing too terrible happened. I improvised and made do. I thought then that I was a seasoned resident of the Caribbean basin. Category 5 storms? Bring ‘em on!

But just five days after power was restored, my hubris and high spirits were blown away by a Cat 5 bitch named Maria. I fled the island shortly before the San Juan airport was closed and spent five weeks on Curaçao and two weeks in Panama.

Curaçao was beachy and lovely.

Panama was urban and vibrant.

But for much of the seven weeks I was a hurricane refugee, I felt lonely and slightly depressed. When I finally returned to Puerto Rico on November 5, I found that a formerly verdant tropical paradise had been stripped of its leaves. Tens of thousands of homes had been destroyed. And the laid back Caribbean populace was suffering from PTSD. I busied myself on weekends with relief work in Utuado, Canóvanas, Aguadilla, and elsewhere.

During the work week, my colleagues and I played a morbid daily game of Utilities Roulette in which the whims of the gods of chance seemed to dictate whether we would have power, water, and internet service on any given day.

I learned a lot in those four months. I realized that working remotely, even from fantastic places like Curaçao and Panama, isn’t all I’d hoped it would be. I learned that I like office camaraderie more than I’d suspected. I discovered that it’s not easy to learn a new job when you’re working remotely.

By the time I returned to Ohio for Christmas, I needed a break. And the cold weather of Toledo in late-December revived me. I liked the bite of winter against my cheeks and the crystal blue skies overhead. Feeling less gloomy, I returned to Puerto Rico and rang in 2018.

For the next six months, I worked to establish routines that had eluded me in my short time in pre-Maria Puerto Rico. I went to work Monday through Friday and immersed myself in learning new skills. I experienced what it’s like to be part of a startup in its manic growth phase, as the office of six people I started in became an office of 32. On the weekends I went to the beach, painted my apartment, shopped, and wrote. I zipped back to Ohio twice, once to do Shakespeare and once for dentistry.

During that time, though, my personality pendulum swung too far toward introversion and routine. I was living on a Caribbean island the size of Connecticut that I’d scarcely explored. Hell, I’d hardly explored San Juan.

When I moved here, I enthusiastically sought out new places, explored different parts of the island, and delighted in the richness of the Puerto Rican experience. But Hurricane Maria was a little too much novelty for me, and so I spent the six months after I got back to the island seeking out a comfort zone. Having seen how quickly things could change, I craved stability.

I decided that the cure for routine lay in South America, so in early July, I took an eight-day trip to Peru.

That trip was like a sample of my old life, the one I lived from 2013 to 2015, when I was traveling all the time. It made me hungry for the new and different. So when I returned to San Juan, I got out of my comfy rut and started to revisit Puerto Rico. I went to new bars, beaches, neighborhoods, restaurants, museums, libraries, monuments, and tourist attractions. I paid special attention to Old San Juan, which I may have disdained initially because I was too sensitive about being perceived as a tourist instead of a resident.

It took a year of ups and downs, but I now feel like I’ve got exploration and routine in proper balance. During the last year, I’ve been helped, comforted, accompanied, and loved by Lori Seubert. Without the peace, encouragement, and equilibrium she brings to me, I’m sure I’d be a lot worse off after this tumultuous year.

Both my sons, Spencer and Josh, accompanied by friends of theirs, made it down to San Juan to visit me — and to bring me joy.

Friends from my past and friends from the world of social media also came to visit and let me know that though I was far away, I was not forgotten. And I’ve made new friends of my colleagues, fellow relief workers, and neighbors.

I don’t know what the future holds for me. None of us do. And wanderlust still seizes me from time to time. But I’ve renewed my lease for another year and I’m not planning any moves. There’s a lot to like in Puerto Rico and a lot of it left to explore.