Between Rain and Saltwater

It’s been eight long years since my fingers last created enthusiastic ripples into my keyboard and wrote something that genuinely moved me. Eight years since that copy of me existed breathing life into epic fantasy worlds, manifesting intricate characters that felt as real as the neighbors in my apartment complex. That writer had once felt butterflies in his stomach when he wrote, and what fueled him was his small devoted fan base that pleaded for more. This was all before he dealt with his own real world catalyst that molded his character arc for the last eight years, or as his sister would call it, a train-wreck divorce. Now what’s left in that hollow shell of him?

As I lay on the couch of my dimly lit apartment, surrounded by empty Styrofoam cups and plastic wrappers, I could almost feel the ghost of my former self who gave up searching for any kind of inspiration. Then, unexpectedly my sister Karina rings my phone, for a split second I thought about walking away. I’d felt like I deserved a break from people, even though I’d hardly been around any lately, my social battery was already flashing red screaming mayday. She sends me a text message instead, and I always fell into my compulsiveness to read a note directed to me. It was no different than my compulsiveness to read those harsh online reviews of my old published works.

I hesitantly opened the text message and it’s already too long, “Hey Little Brother, just another reminder, I finalized my flight tickets and rental. The airbnb is beautiful! We’d really love your company, kids want to hang out with their Tio, and Brandon wants to smoke cigars and play dominoes with you. I just want you to get away from that decrepit-ass apartment for a few days, besides, you’d never visited Puerto Rico, and it’s never too late to get in touch with the motherland. You gotta leave the doom and gloom of Seattle for a bit. C’mon?! Think about it!!! LOVE YOU, HERMANITO!” The messages followed with a photo of the airbnb and way too many emojis, flag of Puerto Rico emojis, salsa dancing emoji, baby with a pacifier in his mouth emoji.

I rolled my eyes and shoved a fist of chips into my mouth and unmuted the final episode of a dark fantasy series I started on a whim. When the credits had begun to roll, I saw a reflection of a sad man on screen. He had no drive, and he is worn down and grounded into mush by a failed marriage. He is slowly sinking deeper into the leather couch. It almost makes me vomit. So, I made what I considered as a major effort of the day, and got inspiration to gather the overflowing trash and make a trip to the dumpster outside. As I stood feeling the cold breeze, I saw a sliver of sunlight breaking through the usual blanket of grey smothering clouds. The pavement beneath me is glistening from the scattered rains, but behind the green hills, the tiny glow of light warmed the sky above, for a moment it reminded me of an adventure, like a chance to become lost and take in a new terrifying and exciting opportunity.

Later that night, I allowed the daydreams to linger longer than they should, allowing the what-ifs and pros and cons bicker in my head. The pampered version of me was already complaining about the inconvenience of a six hour red eye, and a stop in Fort Lauderdale, then the extra three hours after that. I hated long flights; even back when I had books to promote, I stuck to trains and cars whenever I could. Later that night, my mind wandered and instead of rotting in the couch for the next few weeks, I thought about maybe joining my sister on that trip. Then I slept and dreamt for the first time in a while.

The next morning, I get a call from Karina.

“Woohoo!” she yelled. “I’m so-oh excited!”

“Huh? I… I have n no idea what you’re saying…” I said with a lethargic voice.

“Real funny, you already forgot you called me in the middle of the night?”

“Oh.” It just occurred to me, what I thought I dreamt actually happened.

“I have the MOST PERFECT ITINERARY FOR YOU!!” her joyful screams gave my ears tinnitus. She continued on painting a long list of activities to try from a rambunctious rum tasting tour to salsa classes, places to eat local authentic foods, beaches to explore and all types of escapades.

“Okay, okay, Karina. You need to give me a chance to catch my breath here.”

“Bullshit, by the time this trip is over, you will be the biggest “Rican Papi that side of the North Pacific.

Karina always knew how to persuade me to do something that’s over stimulating even when we were kids, it was always her aggressive pushes that helped me socialize with the other kids.

Two weeks later, I’m descending a thousand feet from above ground level, and I find myself looking down at those beautiful green tropical trees surrounded by a turquoise colored ocean that looked like you could drink from it. It’s such a stark difference being at the opposite side of the country; the gloomy Emerald City to the blue skies of the Land of Enchantment was a pretty vivid change. My eyes are glued to the window of the plane, and a big goofy authentic smile formed on my face.

When, I exited the terminal, I felt giddy and I am wandering around the airport when two nice taxi drivers take notice and offer me some directions.

“¿Cómo te puedo-ayudar, Papi?” a man about my age asked. “¿A dónde busca?” “Uh… busco el… passenger pickup area?” I stammered, my high school Spanish face planting on the floor. They spoke in a dialect of Spanish my brain could not comprehend, like they hit fast forward in real life.

But, the two men were quick to accommodate me in English, I was grateful. They pointed me to something called a “wawa” so I walked in that direction and hoped for the best.

A few feet away, I found my sister mid-argument with a police officer threatening her with a parking ticket for lingering too long, and I jogged closer to the van with the screams of my nephew and niece welcoming me. “¡Tío! ¡Tío!”

“I’m sooo happy to see you here!” my sister yelled planting a firm hug. “Brandon knocked out in the hammock at the airbnb, but he is planning a little boy’s night out for just the two of you.

“Please don’t call it “little-boys night out.”

“Oh shut up. I meant a little night out.” She laughed. “Don’t have too much fun without me, I swear if you guys go to La Placita de Santurce without me, I’m castrating his ass.”

“We won’t, I promise you.” I yawned. “Thank you, Karina. I am feeling a little jetlagged though; maybe I can get some rest at the house first before exploring San Juan.”

“Estas loco?” My sister’s voice went a full octave. “You’re only here for a week, we leave on one condition, since we’re so close to San Juan and the first few days we’re staying in the countryside, might as well take in this first glimpse of the Island. We need to get you fatter with empanadas, some frituras, maybe a few alcapurrias, Ohhh, don’t you want to be in a nice food coma before crashing?”

She drove us somewhere called “El Morro” and I’m running on caffeine from an energy drink I bought from the street food cart whilst holding a rowdy toddler. My niece is holding my sister’s hand while she ordered a half a dozen fried things. The taste of the first frituras are delicious, warm crunchy, some with plantain shell filled with chicken filling. It sort of overwhelms my taste buds, its delicious but its not a cream cheese hot dog from Pike’s place. We walk a bit more and the view is astounding. I think back at how different it is from anywhere I’d been, a large open green field with a fortress walls, the kids are fixated on some iguanas climbing on the edges as they struggle to scale it.

We pay our ten bucks to enter and we make our way towards where the old Spanish cannons are pointing, and I find myself inside the watchtower peaking through the lookout slots.

The miles of clear blue oceans, and scattered islands, was what I had envisioned in a scene for my story, the ethereal homeland of my protagonist. I found myself entranced by the Spanish colonial history, catching a glimpse of the past from the view, I saw pirates steering weather-worn wooden ships, the smog of gunpowder drifting above the waves. For the first time, in years, I felt an eagerness to jot notes for a story on my phone, seeking inspiration from the old fort, so I took a break in the shade and typed on my phone. I kept typing before my niece pulled my hand to take her to explore the small prison cell. We both pretended we were enemies of the state, perhaps privateers for the Dutch, as we squeezed through the cramped spaces and laughed the whole time.

“Oh no! I’m in Jaaail.” My niece whimpered humorously.

“We need to escape! I have a way to picklock these iron warded locks. Wanna help?” And she quickly agreed, but not after my sister took a few funny photos, we managed to escape.

When, I went back to the minivan, I fell asleep on the ride to the airbnb. Later that evening, Brandon had been ready to take me on a night outing, we went back to old San Juan of all places, not far from El Morro.

“I thought we were an hour away from here?”

“Ha! You deserve being tricked after believing Karina. She is reliving the island vicariously through you, do you know how much energy your sister has? I can barely keep up. Serves me well, marrying a Boricua.

Karina had lied about staying the first day in the country side, we weren’t far off from San Juan afterall, she just wanted me to take in as much as possible during the short stay. Brandon said he’d make it up to me by buying us two cigars, but I don’t smoke. It didn’t matter, after a few cocktails, I had felt like an experienced smoker.

We walked uphill with cigars between our fingers towards the historic district, stomping through uneven blocks of brick-paved streets. The place had been like being an outdoor museum, old colorful buildings surrounded the corners, and there were so many tourist walking in their scantily-clad outfits enjoying murals of taino inspired art, Reggaton was blaring from each alleyway. I enjoyed myself, Brandon chose an outdoor bar and we watched a guy with a with an afro and slit-shutter shades sing karaoke of Bad Buddy songs and then an older woman serenade us with romantic salsa classics. We had one or two or five Pina Coladas and coconut mojitos as we bar hopped. We walked so much my calves were in pain, the streets had been too steep and so many live music shows after each fifteen minute walk, but the energy was irresistible, I wanted to be a part of it all. We ended the night sitting on a table at a rooftop bar, the Puerto Rican flag draped and dancing in the winds, the DJ playing bachata almost drowned a drunken Brandon rambling to me about buying a second home on the island, and a part of me wished the night never ended.

The next day, I spent the whole morning at the beach recovering from a hangover, at night, my sister left the kids with our Uncles and Aunts who lived there in the rural side before we three finally hung out for night two, and Karina and Brandon had been wearing something really flamboyant. We took a taxi to La Placita de Santurce and the town center was just a place surrounded by music blaring and dance circles, an old man banged the pan drum gently to the rythym of Frankie Ruiz's beautiful tunes. For some reason we gathered against a wall of a rum bar where we noticed a crowd gathering, waiting for some kind of sign. Then someone played Hector Lavoe’s El Cantante and the groups of people waiting shifted their bodies towards each other. Brandon and Karina quickly placed their pineapple rum cups by my feet and walked towards the center.

It dawned on me then, this was the place the skilled came to show off their moves, some of the most beautiful salsa dancing I’ve ever seen. Even my sister and Brandon were incredible, their bodies moved so effortlessly to the rhythm of the songs, I had been so impressed. After a few drinks, I even decided briefly to watch a 30 second dance tutorial and a little drunkenly tried some footwork for my own amusement. We ended the night eating chuleta kan‑kan, a delicious fried pork dish served with habichuelas and arroz con gandules and that's when the food won me over. After the fun outing, we went back to the airbnb and I shuffled to my room for bed, but before calling it a night I found more inspiration to write another story, writing a few sentences of a town community for my fantasy world with a culture with an affinity for enjoying music and dance.

The next morning, I boarded my flight heading home, and there had been a three-hour long delay which would have driven me crazy before, but, now it gave me more time to write. By the time we finally reached Florida, It sunk in how much I'd miss the island, but I had taken a part of it with me. A new world was taking form sentence by sentence and writing was no longer an outlet to escape but a way back. Back to Puerto Rico, back to my old self.