Good PR, Part I: Melting and the Melting Pot

Pou’s enormous smile (which at its widest could probably be seen from space) always radiates welcoming warmth. As if anymore were needed. On exiting the Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport, I felt like I had just been slapped with a balmy, damp towel. I dialed Pou on my cell and told him which terminal I was melting outside of. Within ten minutes, I turned in the direction of my name being called and became momentarily blinded by sun gleaming on enamel. My apparent striking resemblance to the darker Puerto Ricans hanging out at the airport was the reason Pou gave for his delay as we hugged. It was comforting to see him again after a long absence and even more comforting, as it always is, to see a familiar face in a strange land.

OK, that’s being a tad dramatic. Thinking of Puerto Rico as strange and unfamiliar is absurd once you drive by the San Juan outposts of OfficeMax, Kmart, Big Kmart, Super Kmart, Sears and the dozen or so Starbucks scattered around the metro area. Still, my Spanish was exactly that, mine and apparently no one else’s. It’s my “second language” in the sheer sense of knowing several nouns and being able to string them together, verb-free, to form Cro-magnum-like sentence structures. I’ve found it to be about fifty-fifty whether or not my intended meaning is conveyed or I’ve only angered the natives.

While thankfully within the speeding confines of Pou’s air-chilled, Toyota, he explained the geography of the city. San Juan proper, mostly encompassing Old San Juan, was actually on its own island. Bayamón and Guaynabo, where Pou lived, were the other two areas making up San Juan metro. Pou spoke with an obvious affection for the place, even while deftly dodging the homicidal whims of Puerto Rican drivers. Leaving the island after high school, Pou had recently come back after several years as a graphic designer in DC, which is how we met. All of his family was still on the island and, as I would learn that week, his heart had never really left.

From the airport, it was a quick drive to Guaynabo, a fairly affluent section of town, filled with condo high-rises and terra-cotta-ed villas. Heavily gated communities sat alongside one another in bright colors, each fronted by their own piked security stations. Immediately, the scene recalled a brief stopover in El Salvador a couple of years ago. The capital, San Salvador, was rife with such walled-in, barbed wire-topped, fortresses. Somewhat understandably, Salvadorans had just gotten over a twelve-year civil war. What was Puerto Rico’s excuse?

Pou’s place was a very modern, clean apartment in a shabby-less building situated just off the main drag. After settling in, we re-entered his car and literally went about two blocks around the corner to where everyone in the neighborhood went to see and be seen.

I have been to many a strip mall in my life, but I can definitely say I have never been to one emulating a country club so much more than a retail destination. Pou lived right on the other side of this small cluster of stores and cafes often frequented by whom he referred to as the “Ladies Who Lunch”, a wonderfully derogatory term for the well-off neighborhood wives who apparently spent their days having coffee and salad after their L.A. Weight Loss appointments.

It seemed especially apt while standing in line at Ponte Fresco, an express soup and salad joint where staff in ridiculous red and black, pseudo-pirate regalia will chop lettuce and over twenty other ingredients into a plastic bowl for your pleasure. The Puerto Ricans in line were all, for the most part, pale white and had they not uttered a word, could have been mistaken for NASCAR fans. The women were thin, curvaceous things; definitely a playground for the eyes. The men were themselves healthy and well-dressed in the latest designer threads which didn’t fail to make Pou’s eyes speed a few laps around the track.

After forking over about thirty dollars for a soup, salad and drink for each of us, we got back in the car – Starbucks coffee in cup-holder – and headed to Old San Juan. The highway rose above sprawling malls and shopping plazas and about four car dealerships per mile. We passed the giant resort hotels and city beaches of the trendy Condado neighborhood. San Juan’s notorious public housing projects began to crop up the closer we got to the city center. Pou told me, as we drove alongside, that one project in particular, La Perla, used to be so dangerous you couldn’t even drive near it. Today, tourists walk on the footpath overlooking the virtual collection of shanty structures with satellite dishes perched above as if admiring a new animal exhibit at the zoo. 

Fort San Felipe del Morro ruled the northwest point of the islet of San Juan like an anchor. Behind its ancient and watchful presence, lay Old San Juan’s cobblestone streets and colorful facades, harkening back to a not so simple time. The Spanish, English, Dutch and eventually the Americans, all laid mostly violent siege to the city at some point in its colonial history. The fort’s weathered stone and splintered gates told a behind-the-brochure story of bloody conquest. Meanwhile, the large expanse of hilly green the fort sat on, where red-headed kids flew kites and ebony teenagers made-out, told a different story. Perhaps one of harmoniously assimilated cultures, or maybe a fractured coexistence, carefully maintained as Puerto Rican identity.      

With some giddiness, I digitally explored the area with my camera, bounding stone steps and short walls like an eight-year old. Afterwards, we took advantage of a prime parking spot and delved right into the old burg. Tired old fan blades sliced away for an hour or so in a snug, stuffy bar Pou and I found off a side street. It was hot. An ice cold Medalla Light, Puerto Rico’s main brew, melted on a napkin in front of me.

Comments

[Anand M.]

I liked it when there was a FOTW mentioned, I always hoped I would make it to that infamous list, just once. Where are the personal stories? Where are the tales of food?

I am alright in Buffalo still. I am going to grad school for linguistics. Please e-mail me and say hello.

[Sian]

You're making me want to get on a plane right now! I didn't know Old San Juan was technically an island. Are the old buildings in San Juan Viejo still being maintained and restored? Please tell me there is still very little commercialization in that area...

[Acai Berry pure]

I enjoyed reading this post. Thanks for a wonderful job! i really learned a lot from your blog...