PR3b: Puerto Rico by Ricans

...and I used that Mustang to drive off into the other side of PR, where the locals live, work, and play.  We didn't schedule anything, so most of our days were spent just chatting, so I'm going to summarize while launching off on massive tangents.

We had to drive back from San Juan to Ponce, which is an excellent jumping off point for most of my tangents.

1) Mustangs: The 200hp flavor of mustang (now replaced) looks sexy, but is slightly lacking in power. And, as I've always believed, automatic mustangs are an abomination that should only be sold to paraplegics.  Not only did I reach for non-existent pedals and levers, but I found myself dropping the hammer to squirt through a yellow light only to downshift seconds later.  However, given proper advance notice, the Mustang (pronounced "El Mūs-tæng") is a capable beast.  On a dry highway, it will pull strongly from 75 to 120, and the brakes will calmly bring it back once you notice there is a curve ahead. In the wet, clicking off traction control will let it powerslide enough to scare passengers and tick that checkbox off the bucket list.

Which brings us to the next point: A muscle car is not a sports car. There's more body-roll, a sensation of riding above the road more than on the road, and there's a reason they are always parked like jerks: It's huge. Front seats are huge (I had to reach well back to grab the seatbelt).  The hood is huge. It does have nice black-plastic lower trim, which is good for finding curbs while parking.


2) PRican roads: The pavement alternates between sweet and terrible. You can be cruising the highway at 90 and then suddenly find yourself confronted by a bridge that thinks it's a jump. That, my friends, is a mistake you only make once. The next time it's on purpose!  Joking, joking... I didn't spring for the additional insurance.

Lane discipline, turn signals, and signage are basically non-existent. I was rudely surprised by one-way-streets that suddenly weren't and lanes that shifted into the shoulder for construction, only to have the shoulder disappear without warning.  When renting my car I thought the automatically enabled fee for using highspeed-toll-lanes was a scam. An hour later I learned that it is a blessing, and that the scam is highspeed-toll-lanes which split from the "throw your coins at this bucket" lanes well before any signs indicate which are which.

These would destroy drivers here in DC, but PRican drivers have learned to actually pay attention. Which is nice when every turn involves sticking a massive hood well into the intersection so you can see around buildings.

3)Directions (basically, me ranting): Giving wrong directions is worlds better than giving directions wrong.  Please warn me before the exit ramp you want me to take, "that tree" is not an appropriate landmark while in a forest, and for the love of God when I ask "left or right" at a high speed fork the answer is not - and never will be - "ummmm....."



We arrived at Delly's (a friend of my 'Rican cousin, and our host for the weekend) to find her working. She was back in her tattoo room, singing along to dubstep while emblazoning her friend's arm with the symbol for the Jedi Order. This makes her, officially, one of the coolest people I know.  In the year since I'd last seen her she'd found a new super-chill boyfriend, picked up two jobs, and moved from devouring books on the subject to putting together a professional grade studio and doing professional-grade tattoos. I even spent several hours myself upon the tattooing table.... because it was a comfortable place to sit. Aminta got inked though, while our friend Keke introduced me to the magic of using a zoom lens indoors:

We had a hurricane... which was 12 hours of heavy rain. We did go to the grocery store to prepare though - which offered us plenty of empty parkinglots (see "El Mustang," above).  There was no bread left on the shelves. Luckily, this was not a problem as we were buying steak, potatoes, and beer. It was a good hurricane.

I spoke before about the "other" Puerto Rico.  Trying to track down a birth certificate threw this disparity into sharp relief. We had to visit three buildings on different sides of the town, each of which had directions to where the necessary offices - which didn't answer phone calls - had moved. We eventually found it behind another building in a government complex, in a bland, non-air-conditioned room complete with a fenced-in-patio. And by fenced in, I don't mean the way a yard is fenced in, I mean the way a prison is fenced in.

I lived in a house with no AC, no hot water, and no glass in any of the windows. Which is entirely normal, enjoyable, and completely different from the tourist's Puerto Rico.

To switch topics entirely, Pets. Delly has two cute dogs who loved me (I almost titled this post "PR3: I slept with b*tches!" but figured that'd be tasteless) and a parrot. I fed the parrot a few times.... It would be all cute and coo (instead of screaming "MA! MAMI! MAAAAA!") and even asked for "lo mismo" - absolutely blowing my mind.  The parrot, in it's turn, would feed the pigeons, tossing some of his seeds on the ground so that guests would fly into the garage and keep him company. Again, blowing my mind. On a somewhat related note, we did a photoshoot (that's what girls do). I say somewhat related because, well, see below for my favorite shot.


All in all... It was fun, but I don't think my Spanish improved any. I can understand Americans y los viejos, but still have to ask "Como?" when talking to anyone under the age of 50, usually multiple times. For most conversations I would tune out until someone mentioned "gringo." To be fair, Ponce is known for fast, slurred speech... which was probably a contributing factor when I unintentionally picked up the accent... after a few drinks.

PR3a: Puerto Rico by Hilton

My most recent trip to Puerto Rico highlighted the two different sides of the Island. I began the trip traveling with relatives of mine from the States who were visiting the island seen by tourists.  We started in the San Juan Hilton. It's magnificent, with restaurants, bars, and a private beach (with water warmer than most of the pools I've been in). Speaking of pools, it has plenty of them too. It was beautiful. We stayed in a suite that had this for a view:

From the lobby, you walked past the parrot that would swear at you, past the ballroom, and through the private garden, and over the koi pond across the bridge guarded by peacocks. It's ridiculous and wonderful.  We spent the day enjoying the facilities while some family from the island visited us.

We then crossed the island to Ponce to visit other family members, again staying in a Hilton. Still ridiculous with a private beach, fountains, and even a speedboat hung over one of the bars. Business contacts got us bumped up to the "executive tower," and our view was somewhat less decadent than previously:

I know, right? How disappointing. And only egrets instead of peacocks? Psh. Still, being an executive had it's perks. A private lounge that had breakfast every morning and happy hour every evening. They only had rum, but I still mixed myself a drink on the general principle that is free alcohol. For free.

We caught up with people, learning just how tall my cousin has got and how much she looks like her father. We went for an afternoon stroll, where a roaming pooch followed us and chased part of the tennis court I tossed off to the edge of the pavement.  The girls thought this was adorable. I thought it was less so, calling it "fetch with stray dogs and asphalt."

That night we had a late dinner down by the bar, where they were using bags of salt as impromptu sand bags in anticipation of the incoming tropical storm.   After the mosquito spayers drove by us kids decided it was time for a swim in the pool, away from the - and I quote - "SlutWater" of the hot tub.

Concerned by the incoming weather, my gringo relatives flew home, and I went to pick up my rental car... which wasn't ready yet. But then the rental agent said the magic words every man wants to hear. Even sweeter than "My hot Swedish supermodel twin and I think you're cute" is the phrase "...but we could offer you a free upgrade to a Mustang."

Montreal Round 3: Everything goes wrong, then make the hairpin.

The night before we left, the friend I was planning on taking realized that while she might be able to get into Canada, she wouldn't be able to get back to the states.  A few last minute emails found my one friend with a passport and no weekend plans.  Lis, my sometimes-girlfriend was talked into going, but only after I promised that there was no chance my car would break down and strand her away from work Monday morning (For those of you paying attention: Foreshadowing).

So I picked her up from work, driving her by her house so she could get some clothes... and adding a couple of hours of rush-hour traffic to an already long drive. But positively, said traffic gave me a chance to learn that my horn wasn't working, so while Lis packed a bag I cannibalized my already-dead alarm system to McGuiver my horn into working.  Then, on the way through Maryland the alternator belt started squealing worse than my little brother. Luckily, that's a thing my car does, so I knew how to fix it! We stopped for dinner - during which I bought a pair of pliers, tightened the bolt, and called it a day.  A few hours later it happened again, only differently.  The AC gave up, quickly followed by the power steering. I got off the turnpike, popped the hood, and found that the bolt I had tightened decided it didn't want to live in my car, and would rather retire to PA.  I called AAA, but apparently the turnpike people won't let tow-trucks in, not even on the ramps outside the toll booths. Hearing this, I decided to take my chances and try to move it.  It started! WOOO! I thought about just getting off the ramp and calling back, but we were rolling so we figured we might as well try for a car shop. It's 10 o'clock, everything's closed. We set off for Lowes: Closed. Home depot: Closed.... but there were people out. I threw myself on their mercy and they took pity on me - I bought a bolt/nut, a mini adjustable wrench, and some gloves so I could avoid touching the exhaust headers (I grabbed them once, years ago, and my plasticized skin made me rue said decision for months).

After I got everything bolted in place I went to hook the belt... and found its tattered remains instead. The home depot guys helped me check the tractor belts and directed me to the nearest car parts shop, but it was not to be. We got the gps to send us to the nearest hotel and, lights dimming, pulled in.  We got a room for the night (WITH A TRIPLE A DISCOUNT MOM AREN'T YOU PROUD!).

In the morning a local repair shop rethreaded the alternator, replaced the belt, and we were back on our way.  Breaking our drive into two hunks really wasn't that bad, and thankfully Lis was super-patient with me. By the time we got to Montreal we'd missed qualifying, but there's worse things. Such as not having hotel reservations: the hotel couldn't find ours. We drove around the block a few times, decided it must be the right hotel, and used their lobby computer to pull up our reservation number.  They still couldn't find our room, but they found our payment, which got us a room on the ground floor (woo cane!). We ditched our stuff, changed into nicer clothes,  and set off to find an ATM before dinner.  The closest bank was not there, the next closest was inside a closed campus center, the third inside a closed mall.  We finally got directions to an ATM, but it refused my cards. Worn out, we decided to grab a bite somewhere close and crash for the night. We selected a nearby pub on the GPS, and then marveled that it was taking us so far to dive to a pub that was so close.

It turns out, the tide that is my luck had changed. We were directed across the river to old-town Montreal. We found close parking that was, when we checked the meter, free on weekends. We walked down the closed cobble-stone street and a table opened up streetside. We ate (I tried escargot and vastly preferred my steak), we split a bottle of wine, and we watched the myriad of people walking past. It was awesome.  After dinner (luckily they took credit cards) we wandered the gift shops, f1 store, bars, asked waiters for news on qualifying, found ATMs that worked... it was awesome.

The next day our luck held! It's only fair, we had a lot to make up for. We drove the quarter mile to the metro out of deference to my bum leg, parked, and trained over a stop to the island where we grabbed our tickets. Not too long after we set up our chairs in the shade just past the hairpin and turn 11 and began the day's task: The ever-important job of cheating the chairs in front of you up slightly every time they leave so that you have an awesome view come race-time. We got to our seats just in time to watch (on the screen) a mini flip (the driver walked away shaking his head dejectedly) during a warm-up race - ironically after I'd convinced Lis to buy a mini on the trip up... she says that as a girl, she didn't recognize it as a mini until weeks later.  We cheered for our drivers (and Kobayashi was less confused and actually smiled when we saw our flag this year).  After the Ferraris (which sound soooo good) and Porsches went around, it was finally time for the F1 race.... right after twin flyovers. Flyovers are awesome. I can't hear a flyover and not smile.  Then the race cars went past. I can't hear a f1 engine without smiling either. It was a good day.

None-the-less, earplugs went in.  Some of our neighbors who had turned down earplugs before the formation lap reconsidered and I passed out a dozen of 'em.  The race was brilliant. Kobayashi put in a solid drive, but we were distracted by the front of the field, where 6 different drivers fought to be the first to win two races this season.  Around us, South Americans, Europeans, and Canadians spoke at least 4 different languages while being a huge family. Within this family of Formula 1 they shared food and drink with one another, offering cheap beer, fine cheese, even salami and crackers regardless of who you were cheering for. Out on the track Lewis Hamilton (the good guy) gave up the lead to pit an extra time for new tires. With 17 laps left, Lewis needed clean laps and his opponents' grip to deteriorate.  As I listened to the radio commentators announcing his successively fastest laps he began closing the gap with brutal efficiency. He pulled out the win, sailing past the lead cars - moves he kindly began right in front of us. I'm sure my screaming helped.

After the race we walked down to the track, squeezed some of the tire-rubber which is almost gum-like in texture, and got blocked in by a closed gate that turned a short-cut into a long cut. A mile and a very welcome free Dr Pepper later we ended up in line for the metro, which was slow, hot, and possibly just as bad as it was last year in the rain. At least McLaren had won though, if I had to stand next to all those Ferrari fans after a loss...

The trip home was pretty uneventful. We finally made it home around 1am, my car didn't break down, and Lis even made it to work on time. All in all, a successful weekend.