Were you where the rich white people are?
Tuesday
The next day we check out of our first Airbnb apartment and prepare to meander our way along to our second half of the stay, moving from the part of the island where Monique’s maternal grandparents live to where her paternal ones do—from Rio Grande to Arecibo—and then on to our stay in Rincón, where none of us has ever been. By early afternoon we’re close to roads that feel familiar to Monique, and of course we have to stop for cows.
We head to Zanja Frija, Spanish for ‘cold ditch,’ a deceptive name for a beautiful swimming hole amongst mangroves, where turtles swim surprisingly speedily past us. Monique’s father had rattled off this place along with others as he made rapid-fire suggestions for things we should do on the Rincón side of the island when he was sitting with us at Logan before our flight. Zanja Frija’s clear waters and oasis feel remind me of Kikuletwa Hot Springs—one of the first places I went in Moshi (although with decidedly more friendly wildlife than the baboons there).
We walk 5 or 10 minutes down a path through a field to get here, passing some other tourists on their way out as we approach. A few minutes after we arrive, a man pulls up on his motorcycle. We end up striking up a conversation with him, Monique chatting him up while I nod my comprehension but keep thinking in French when I try to chime in in Spanish, and Matthias grins sheepishly on command when Monique explains that he doesn’t understand any Spanish.
Our new friend explains how to get to the nearby Rió Tanamá from here, waterfalls that Monique’s father had also suggested we see. It’s a 10 or 20 minute drive, and our friend tells us to make sure to leave things like my camera in the car—don’t take anything you don’t want to get wet. He points out tortugas for me as he waits for his friend to arrive, and he’s showing Monique some iguanas up in a tree across the way when his friend finally does arrive. His friend and I greet each other, and the friend slides off his sandals before jumping headfirst into the water, showing off by swimming through a pipe before reemerging. I clap courteously for him as he looks back in my direction.
We eventually take off towards Rió Tanamá, but we’re a little confused at the directions once we arrive. I’m definitely able to take things I don’t want to get wet, which include myself at the moment, as I’m not trying to be in a wet bathing suit in the back of a car for a couple hours. I stage a silly photo shoot with my remote shutter app while Monique and Matthias swim. Eventually they come gather me, as they’ve explored upriver a bit and have found something worth getting wet for.
Escape the hectic pace of the city, catch some waves & enjoy great food in this beach town.
The first line of Google search results for Rincón tell us, and they’re not wrong about it being a beach town. The waterfall being worth being delayed, we arrive at our next Airbnb after dark, and as we approach Matthias is already looking up restaurant options in the area because he knows he needs to eat—the granola bars we have from our grocery run earlier in the week aren’t quite a meal, and he’s at risk of getting hangry. Because it’s late, our options are limited, and we end up at Shipwreck Bar & Grill, and if that name doesn’t tell you everything you need to know, I’ll add that there were not one but two parties of Red Sox fans dining with us. Chef’s kiss. It meets expectations—whatever they are—and later that night I have a dream that the manager comes over to our tables and berates us for shit-talking the place, the patrons, the food, and the staff.
The house we’re staying in has a name on Google Maps. It’s made of concrete and cool—temperature-wise—designed with airflow and solar radiation in mind. There is a pool that I will lounge in. It’s well equipped and spacious with effective ACs. But I can’t figure out how to tell Matthias without sounding threatening that I feel like this is a house you get murdered in.
Wednesday
The next morning as we’re waking up and getting our bearings we’re talking about our accommodations. Matthias says to me contemplatively, ‘Yeah, you could kill somebody in here,’ and I say, ‘Exactly!’ in a way I’m still hoping doesn’t sound too eager even though I should know that he’ll know exactly what I mean. It’s too clean. It doesn’t echo even though it seems like it should. Concrete…so easy to scrub. Outside, off the walk to the pool, there’s a hill that just rolls down and down into an endless jungle bowl to our east. It’s a rental. No one would know.
We have a long day of tourism ahead of us and I double-check how I should be dressing: Beach or not? Bathing suit or not? Car sickness or not? We have a bioluminescent bay tour this evening but beforehand Monique wants to visit one of Puerto Rico’s macro murals in Yauco (another one, coincidentally, is right across the highway from our beloved Ralph’s). On the way Monique asks me to pull up a breakfast spot and I’m appreciative of the fact that I don’t need an international plan for my data to work here. We stop at Sharana’s Bistro and it has everything going for it except brunch cocktails. We happen to sit in the chilliest spot in the place, but when we ask the waitress if it’s possible to turn the air down, she simply shakes her head and tells us sadly no, the last time she tried she broke the AC. We all nod in understanding. I try to focus on feeding myself instead of shivering.
We poke about the Instagram-worthy staircases and abandoned buildings of Yauco and I, not having Instagram, enjoy our descent down the back alleys of the neighbourhood more. Perhaps I shall put the pictures up on this, my story of sorts.
We continue south and west on highways across coffee fields until we come to the place where our bay tour reservation is. We’re early, so we head back and park on a side street to find some food for Matthias and a bathroom for Monique. We try one place for the piña coladas that Matthias wants, but they themselves recommend another. I wait in line for drinks while Matthias runs back to the car for something, only to find that this recommended place doesn’t have piña coladas, but does have recommendations of places that might. I am weirdly annoyed every time a place that advertises piña coladas has none, even though I will also have none this entire trip.
We end up getting some pizza-by-the-slice-inspired pizza and Medallas, the local brew. The people-watching itself is the most entertaining, especially since from our seats in a booth inside the pizza place, the only view we have of the street is through a gap in the shuttered windows, so only the middle parts of everyone’s torsos is visible—from waist down to thigh—as they walk by before we can see the rest of their bodies through the door. This is an unflattering perspective for pretty much everyone walking by in this tourist town of boat tour launches.
After dinner I change in the backseat as we drive back over to the tours. It’s just about dusk, with a third quarter moon. There’s a bit of wind on the water which makes us appreciate our layers.
We walk down to the dock by way of a pretty, lit archway. Up until now, I’m still unsure whether our tour is kayaks or pontoon boat, and it ends up being the latter. We step onto the back of the boat, the second-to-last group to settle. We’re in what will be the front of the boat, and as we shove off, our guide does a very brief welcome in both Spanish and English before switching to Spanish to explain in more detail what to expect. I manage to get one picture less blurry than the others in the fading light before settling back to enjoy the half-hour or so ride over to the bay.
We arrive at the bay and it reminds me of the boat tour we took in Ha Long Bay: I feel isolated and adventurous before arriving somewhere there are already a dozen other boats. This kind of ecotourism is incredibly destructive to the environment, including to the little dinoflagellates that are the main bioluminescent attraction here—three of the five places in the world where they live in concentrations high enough to be visible are in Puerto Rico—and we don’t talk about that. We lay anchor, stand to strip off our layers, and queue up to jump off the back of the boat.
The water is warm again as it has been, throwing me off as I expect to jump into an icy deep. We’ve turned down lifejackets to be able to swim around, float, and tread water unfettered. There are some lights that flicker in the hills rising around the bay, and you can see so many stars. When you kick or move your arms, you disturb the dinoflagellates, and they flicker their annoyance at you. Occasionally sea lice or something else nips us, which makes me squeal.
Matthias discovers that when you lay back and float, putting your ears under the water, you can hear them crackling, like pop rocks. We float, laying back with our ears just under the water, and I look up at the so many stars. I fall back into a habit I am won’t to do: Triangulating my position on the earth based upon which constellations I can make out, and asking others which ones they recognise, or teaching them new ones. Monique and I see shooting stars, and make wishes.
I’m enjoying the freedom of swimming through the water in the dark, staring at the stars and the lighters flickering in the hills, and I decide to swim out and strip off my swimsuit to skinny dip, disappointingly the only one to do so. I twirl through the water with my swimsuit around my elbow, unworried about what might happen if I happen to lose it, because I know that I won’t. Unworried overall, a rarity.
I pull my suit back on under the water and swim towards the boat, where Matthias, Monique, and other tourists are gathered under the pontoons staring at the bioluminescence beneath us. It turns out it might be the dinoflagellates nipping us as they can be a little bitty, and another woman yelps in surprise as their tiny teeth or whatever pinch her. Eventually it’s time to get back into the boat and head back to the dock, and I pull on my seasickness bands in addition to my layers in preparation.
Thursday
Thursday we resolve to see what Rincón has to offer, and get breakfast around lunch time at Passiflora, a combination yoga studio and vegan comfort food restaurant. The food is some of the highest quality we have all trip, and although nothing can compare with Grandma Aida’s homemade cooking, it’s clear that this food is made with the same kind of love.
We make the day a driving, eating, and drinking day and head from lunch to a Ricomini Bakery, where we stop for drinks, donuts, and subversion. From there we drive out far northeast along the beach, stopping just after the rain does too, finding ourselves in Aguadilla walk along the beach. There’s a building that looks like it might serve food, and we find ourselves at a rooftop bar with fancy cocktails, Aguadilla Rooftop experience (or ARTe), where we order drinks and enjoy them overlooking the beach.
We cap off the day with dinner at a fancy restaurant that Monique’s father had recommended, La Copa Llena at the Black Eagle Marina, where we enjoy the stunning sunset even more than the food, which itself is delicious. We wander around downtown Rincón before deciding that we do not want to sit at a brewery more than we want to go home, and head home to pack for our departure tomorrow.
Friday
Our last day in Puerto Rico, we pack up and lock up at the murder Airbnb and drive back across the island to San Juan. On the way we stop at Church’s Chicken so Matthias can experience Monique’s beloved fast food restaurant. Sadly there are no vegetarian options (someday I am determined to enjoy a vegetarian Popeye’s chicken sandwich), but the experience is made complete by eating in the car.
Once in San Juan again, we park in our usual parking garage, and I want to get coffee at a place I’ve found in viejo San Juan, Don Ruiz. It takes a few attempts, but we finally figure out we have to walk inside the courtyard of Museo de las Américas, and then into the shop, where we get drinks and I get a breakfast burrito that makes me realise how hungry I am, it going on 4 PM and me haven’t having eaten all day.
After coffee, we wander around he grounds at San Felipe de Morro Castle, all the way at the tip of viejo San Juan. Matthias, as ever, is unamused at being photographed.
Our flight isn’t until 2 AM, so we have some time to continue to wander and grab dinner and drinks before remembering we can try Fifty Eight again and Matthias might just get his club and dancing scene experience after all. After dinner, we pause in a courtyard to escape the rain and hear what sounds like Solange, so we have to follow the music. We grab some sangria and I grab remote-shutter selfies in which my hair captures just how humid it is.
We drive downtown, and have to hunt for Fifty Eight. We wander around a hotel bar that doesn’t seem like it could be it, La Concha. Matthias and I decide to explore the grounds, and Monique follows asserting we shouldn’t be going where we’re going. We’ll go until we’re stopped, though, and eventually someone does stop us, up a staircase behind a pool as we wander towards what turns out to be a private event on a pavilion. We explain that we’re looking for Fifty Eight, and are instructed to go back into the hotel bar, to the back of the room, and either up or down a flight of stairs into the dance club. We do this and finally discover Fifty Eight.
It’s a little early for dancing, so the floor is rather empty, but I grab our customary club cocktail order and we head out onto the dance floor. Monique gets defensive about Black American women coming to her island and appropriating her culture, and somehow completes some strange experience coming full circle just in time for us to head to the airport to depart.
Puerto Rico feels closed to me in a way that’s difficult to explain. Perhaps it’s just the nature of travelling with a group, or this trip in particular, but I feel constrained and unable to complete some explorations. Perhaps it’s the fact that I only ever got to drive on two coffee runs down a hill. Perhaps it’s because I tried to enter the Catedral Basilica Menor de San Juan Bautista to light a candle for Nana and was told to wait—that we’d come back—and by the time we did it was closed. How is a Catholic church ever closed? Somehow, at least for my experience, it is just the nature of the place.