I don't know about your respective educational experiences, but here at the not-Yale graduating seniors have developed one of the more stupid traditions possible to celebrate the end of their time in academia. That is, until they go to law school. While my parent's and their generation probably indulged themselves in post-finals campains to impeach Nixon and support Chavez, preferably doing either of these things on some form of acid (hey, it was practically legal then) my generation has decided to devote ourselves to the lofty pursuit of drunkeness and herpes, and we flock in droves to the sandy beaches of North Carolina or Florida to get a little lose and make some bad decisions. Now, I'm sure that this event, the senior week beach vacation, is a world of fun for those who enjoy that sort of this. For example, my friend Shaughnessy is having a wonderful time, and well she should, she deserves it, poor girl spent last week frantically researching the life of Albrect Durher. Girl needs some beach time. But for me, hater extrodinare, I couldn't imagine anything less appealing, and so, with two like minded friends, I scorned the world of drunken evenings on the beach and flew to Puerto Rico. Where Lisa and Becca and I could have own our drunken evenings on the beach. World of difference, I swear.
Anticipating a bright and glorious world of sea and sun with attractive young men not burdened by too much clothing serving us mojitos and peeled grapes, I was not prepared for the pouring rain that has been flooding the island for the past week. Now, okay, my expectations MAY have been a little high, I mean, who the hell peels grapes, realistically, but still, I didn't think it was too much to ask on a Caribbean vacation to actually be able to see the sun. Color me shocked. As the rain slammed into the city of San Juan, transforming the charming cobblestones into charming death traps, I looked gloomily at my friends, as if I could apologize for the weather.
Lovely and resilient young ladies that they are, Lisa and Becca just shrugged and asked about indoor activities. So yesterday we found ourselves, after some awkward false starts and a brief trip on the wrong bus, heading towards the district of Santurce, which is a colorful neighborhood spotted with deco-style buildings and friendly homeless people. Having always wanted to do so, I dragged my friends with me into the Museum of Contemporary Art, a large building which looks like a traditional Spanish-style mansion was converted into a space station. In the future. In Sweden. Or something like that. As we walked into the museum we were immediately confronted with museum employee who greeted us and proudly shoved roughly 50 pieces of paper into our arms, none of which was a museum map. We were then lead through the museum. A curious thing about museums here in Puerto Rico is that you have to be let into each room by an attendant, who will unlock the door and follow you through the exhibition rooms, helpfully pointing out any sign you might have missed or neglected to give your full attention to. When you have finished observing and enjoying the art you look quizzically at said attendant, who then will lead you to another door, and let you out. This attended will pass you off to another attendant in front of the next room and then the whole process will begin again. It's like being on a school trip which a set of very strict chaperons. God forbid you do things out of sync, that's the worst offense you can commit here. If there weren't palm trees everywhere I would swear I was in Soviet Russia.
When we woke up this morning the sun was partially visible through the cloud cover. My standards have really slipped, because I almost shouted for joy. I guess you can adapt to anything, given time.
Leah Franqui is a fairly interesting person/director/writer/reader/eater/drinker. She likes ugly dogs and dislikes her hair in the morning. She's a sucker for environmental causes and plays hardball with deals on chewing gum. She is a struggle.