Ciao...

It's over? Am I really leaving all this behind? 

Every time I leave a country it feels like a break up. Knowing that for now, this country and I can't be together brings about an overwhelming sense of sadness. 

I feel the pain of separation creeping up on me as the plane leaves my newest love behind. I am overrun with thoughts of how we can rebuild our love–of how quickly I can get back to rekindle this relationship. 

The first week back home is miserable. All I can think about is that country. All I can talk about is that country. I miss the country terribly; my lost love. 

Eventually, the wound heals and I am ready to love again. 

But I know it is only a matter of time before I fall once more, and the next country is left to pick up the pieces. 

I am forever being unfaithful to my own country. I am heartbroken, but for now I must say ciao to it all. 

First and foremost, mallorcas at La Bombonera, for all your sweet and savory deliciousness, you will be severely missed. Refreshing and tropical humidity, I know it sounds crazy, but I love you. Concalma, I have a beautiful bag to take home to remind me of you, but I am sad to leave the 'take it easy' attitude of your brand and your people behind. Medalla, I won't know what to drink without you. And last but not least, ciao to my kayaking boatsmen, your strength and beauty will stay with me forever. 

Sigh. 

Puerto Rico, te amo. This is not the end. You have too much beauty left unseen, too much delight left untasted, and too many beautiful people left unmet. 

I promise I will return to you; muy pronto. Ciao...

Uncle Jorge

A slushy machine?

Jorge, the bartender of the millennium, set the tall glasses in front of us, complete with the little umbrella and a cherry, and waited patiently for our reactions.

I did not have high expectations.

Had I not already seen Andrew Zimmern's shocked reaction, I would have been just as surprised that the "original" and supposed best Piña Colada, was a pre-made mixture from a slushy machine.

I tried it.

The sticky, humid temperature of the evening made that first cold sip quenching and almost heavenly. It really was the best Piña Colada I had ever tasted!

We told Jorge exactly this, to which he replied:

"Ah come on. You never had a Piña Colada in your life. This is your first."

I think he might have been right.

I had traveled up the uneven sidewalk lining Fortaleza Street to the Restaurant Barrachina, where the Piña Colada is said to have been born in 1963. Tucked into an old colonial building, the tropical and open courtyard greets you with an air of paradise. A young woman welcomed us in Spanish, and my amateur knowledge of the language was not enough to decode her greeting. The blank expression on my face as the wheels spun furiously in my mind must have given me away.

Considering that I have this unexplainable urge to be mistaken for a local wherever I travel to (which I know in some places just won't happen), I knew I had failed when she translated into English. Damn. Must. Learn. Spanish. And French, and Portuguese, and Italian, and...

Anyhow, delicious Piña Colada, and language frustrations aside, Jorge really was the highlight of the evening. He was awesome. He was funny, wise, comforting, and profound all at the same time. He was the kind of bartender that had something to offer to every person that took a seat at his bar. The kind that could look into your eyes and tell you things about yourself that you hadn't even realized yet. He could cooly help you reevaluate your entire life with one simple statement, and not even notice it.

Uncle Jorge, as he preferred we call him, told us of the Puerto Rico we should have been seeing. Not the over touristy, commercialized one we had seen instead. He told us about Liquid, a club where Puerto Rican music artists Daddy Yankee and Don Omar drop in unannounced from time to time and perform surprise concerts for their fans.

He said that La Placita is the best place to find local food, drinks, and people enjoying local music and dancing in the streets. He told us to have a Medalla, a local (and my new favorite) beer at El Batey, where Benicio del Toro is even said to stop for drinks when he is at home.

He could have filled an entire itinerary for our stay in his country; if only we had found him sooner. I suppose I have no choice but to come back.

It was hard to leave La Barrachina. We were there until they turned the chairs over on the tables. By the end of the night, I really did want to hug Jorge and call him tío. 

Uncle Jorge is definitely a man to meet.

Café in the Plaza

Trying to channel my inner artist and writer, I searched endlessly for Cuatro Estaciones Café, a café known as a popular meeting place for artists and writers.

After asking hotel guest services, several locals on the street, the girl behind the jewelry shop counter, and the man in the restaurant opposite the plaza, all of whom had no idea what I was talking about, I thought I might never find it.

But lo and behold, the third person we asked at the tourist bureau knew what it was and where to find it. And when I finally saw it, I understood why no one could help me.

It was just a kiosk in the middle of the plaza. A place that locals have probably passed by and frequented a thousand times without ever realizing it had a name.

At first glance, it does not look like the type of place that would draw artists, writers, or anyone that is even remotely interesting. There are pigeons that will be glad to escort you to the window while you order your café con leche, and are even kind enough to return to your seat with you and keep your ankles protected. You can only hope that their friends in the trees above don't decide to drop any surprises in on you.

It seemed highly anticlimactic after all of my searching. But considering that the temperature was reaching new levels of sweltering and we had been ambling through the cobblestone streets of Viejo San Juan for some hours now, we stopped to have a drink anyway.

As I sat in the iron chair under the cool shade of the trees and took a look around, I realized why people come here. They come here to feel the daily life of San Juan. They come here to see the people, the culture, the highs and lows of society, and everything else that passes through the plaza.

They come here to grab a coffee en route to work, or to sit and enjoy one, not in a rush to anywhere at all.

The women across from us sit together on their lunch break discussing el color de su pelo. They are not talking about work, what happened at work, or what work they still have to do; they are taking a real break and hair color is at the forefront of their minds.

The businessman shares a bench with the homeless man and enjoys a laugh at his crazed rants; they almost look like friends. The security director outside of the Departmento de Estado greets the female police officer with a standard kiss on the cheek as she arrives.

In my world, I can hardly imagine any male officer of the law greeting any female officer with a kiss on the cheek, under any circumstances. At least not in public anyway.

Things are different here, I like this world. It is quiet and busy at the same time. The wealthy and the poor share space as though it were natural. Life takes priority over the rigors of work, and things still get done.

As the subtle Spanish music plays, setting the scene perfectly, I really almost feel like I could sit here and paint San Juan. The old doors, the colorful buildings, the cobblestone streets, I can see them all from right here. I get this place.

Channel inner artist and writer: check. It was worth the search for my café in the plaza.