A Struggle Is Worth a Thousand Words: San Juan 2011 Edition

I don't even know what to say about Puerto Rico anymore, I really don't. You've heard about all the crazy there is to hear, right? Hahaa, oh, silly reader, of course you haven't, such a thing is foolish. There is ALWAYS more crazy in the Caribbean. If they can't find it locally, they import it.

A few years ago when we visited San Juan we were informed, upon arrival, that all of the water was off. As in, the water company, in what is apparently a rotine move, will periodically shut off water in various parts of the city to repair/maintain the pipes. So if you happen to visit during such times, don't worry, relax, have some rum, but don't expect to be able to shower, use the bathroom, or get some water. That's fine, though, really, I mean, who needs it?

I thought that was the worst trip ever. And really, it was. But this time when we went to Puerto Rico for your favorite Struggle's birthday, the electric company had surged our home and left us with no power. Okay, yes, we got it back eventually, but not before a week of anxiety, many broken bulbs, a fridge full of spoiled food and a broken microwave and dryer. Oh, and HOURS on the phone being passed between people who don't know what they are talking about. And if you think that's bad in English, you might want to try it in Spanish. Just saying. Sigh. I still had fun, though. It was probably the rum. And of course, I saw some strugglesome things. And I like to think that the universe works hard to make my birthday a complete struggle every year just because it can. I appreciate it, even, I think it's nice. At least is something special, right?

For your viewing pleasure, struggle in San Juan 2011, a photo display:

There's a lot to think about here. Plantain soup in a bag. Hedgehogs as spokespeople for soda. Pulpo. Prado. Struggle. I'll leave you to it.

Struggle y su avion

The worst thing about a vacation is having to come home. I recognize that this isn't a particularly original thought, but most essential truths turn out to not be original, for example, Love Hurts, No shoes, no shirt, no service, gravity is a rule, not a guideline. All true, all cliche, all painful if you find yourself on the wrong side of them (especially that gravity one, trust me on this as someone who falls down a lot).So I don't know why the hell I was so cheerful and optimistic when I stepped on the plane departing from San Juan heading back towards Struggledelphia. After all this time, you'd really think I would have learned that struggle dogs my every move, wouldn't you? Alas, my friends, just like the possibility of me tripping over a loud Puerto Rican family's luggage, the eventual epic failure was inevitable.

The trick with an epic failure is the build up. You can't fall from grace until you actually all up on top of grace, you know what I mean? In order for the fall, you have to have the pride goething, or it's not hubris, it's just ho hum. So as I was gently tucked into my soft, plush, fully reclinable first class seat (thank you, US Airways upgrades, you truly are amazing!), and plied with wine and warmed cookies and moist hot towels (I don't know why they do this, but I LOVE it. I want this service as part of my every day life. Note to self, marry rich...), I hummed gently with pleasure and curled up with Gogol's Dead Souls to enjoy myself. In the three and a half hours that it takes a plane to leave the Luis Munoz Memorial Airport and arrive in Philadelphia I had covered two hundred or so pages of the book, enjoyed two enormous glasses of cheap white wine, and stolen the majority of my mother's cookie. In short, I was really enjoying myself. And that's when tragedy struck.

Just as we were circling the landing strip, our valiant captain informed us that there was a storm directly over the airport. He also mentioned that the storm had come unannounced, which surprised me, as most storms send me a short email at least an hour before their arrival, but I went with it. He then mentioned that the plane didn't have enough fuel to continue circling the airport. This, frankly, terrified me. What the hell, enough fuel? What would he have done if we had been delayed in the air on the way? How was there no contingency plan? Come on, people, it's a giant metal object hurtling through the air, it's not going to propel itself! But instead of a fiery death in a heap of wreckage, instead we got the next worse thing. That's right, they decided to land us in Atlantic City.

I can't tell you anything meaningful about the Atlantic City airport because I wasn't permitted to enter it. Instead we sat on the plane for 2 hours (with nary an offer of more wine in sight) waiting for weather conditions to improve. Well, most of us did. A full 11 people actually opted to leave their baggage behind and get out in Atlantic City. I honestly didn't know you could really do that, treat a plane like a local bus line, but, hey, what do I know?

When we finally landed in Philadelphia, having been delayed for a full 3 and a half hours (for those of you playing along at home that is the exact amount of time it takes to get from Puerto Rico to Philadelphia, so it was double or nothing that night, apparently), my poor little family and I found ourselves waiting patiently at the baggage claim, dodging other passengers in their gladiator like attempts to wrestle with their luggage. Out came piece after piece after piece, but no bags marked Familia Struggle did we see. An hour later, my mother finally gave up and went to the US Airways  baggage center, where they told us that our luggage was patiently waiting for us at a completely different terminal. Sure. Of course. That makes perfect sense that our bags would be seperated from those for the rest of our flight and we would need to hike through a universe of car rental stops and concrete Escher-wannabes to find it.. And there they were, waiting patiently for us to find them, and finally, FINALLY, go home.

Upside to all this? I couldn't even remember my vacation to be nostalgic and sad about it. It all felt so far away...

Palm Trees and Strugglesome Parrots

I'm going to be 100% honest with you here (when am I ever anything but), I really love the beach. I always have. As a wee little struggle I could be found spending my summers padding about in the water, filling my hair with sand and, this being Atlantic City where I spent the summers of my misbegotten youth, avoiding beer cans and hypodermic needles as I trotted along the shore. My father, Padre Struggle, has always shared this affinity for sun, sand and surf with me, and to this day as our paler family members shroud themselves in cover-ups and sunscreen and hide in the shade of a nearby cabana, we two wander the beaches of the world bronzing in the sun and scaring fish. So when we decided to take a weekend trip down to San Juan, Puerto Rico, finding the steamy Struggledelphia summer just a touch too cool for us, it was only natural that we would find ourselves oceanside.

Now, the beaches of Puerto Rico are famous not without reason. Apart from the fact that the waters of the Carribean are so insanely clear that you can see far more of your fellow bathers then you might actually want to (plus, you know, animals, and whatever), they provide a welcome respite from the more, shall we say, colorful aspects of my fellow Islanders. In a culture with more hand gestures then an interpretive dance group and more deep-fried objects then a McDonald's test kitchen it can be nice to get away from el tapon (while a literal translation of this might give you plug, the denizens of Boriquen know it best as traffic jam) and spend some time relaxing with the sound of the ocean trilling in your ears. Of course, as it happens, in the months between May and September, you might not be the only person with that idea in mind. 

For example, when we strolled up to our favorite beach, El Escambron, a scant twenty minute walk from Viejo San Juan, ready to spend a little time getting to know skin cancer intimately, we realized somethings very quickly. Number one, every single other person who lives in the general area of San Juan had arrived there before us. And number two? They had brought the entire contents of their homes.

It must be said that my family and I do indeed bring quite a few things on any excursions we take ourselves. I personally am capable of packing a small suitcase for a less then 24-hour trip. And that's when I'm restraining myself. So I understand that when you take a beach trip you need sunscreen, towels, your sarong, your sunglasses, a book, another book if you think you might get bored with the first book, a notebook, a camera, a snack, a second snack because you burn so many calories burning in the sun, and a chair. At the very least. But compared to almost everyone I observed on Saturday afternoon, I'm like one of those Tibetan monks with 5 possessions.

Walking around, I noticed the following, none of which would have ever occurred to me to bring with me, well, anywhere: Multiple charcoal grills, a gas grill, several shopping carts filled with food, at least five full-scale infant play pens, tents, family sized coolers, three kitchen tables, and last, but in no way least, a sofa. Yes, that's write, a real living room sofa. Right there. On the beach. Because beach chairs? Just don't cut it any more, I suppose.

Now look, I'm all for comfort and convenience. I mean, as I currently type this I'm debating whether it's worth it to climb a total of two flights of stairs go get food (glorious food!) or to stay in this comfortable spot, and I can honestly say I have no idea which impulse will win. But bringing your living room and kitchen with you for a trip to the ocean? That's just crazy.

They did look comfortable, though. Maybe if I got a pick up truck? With some reggeton blasting and some bumperstickers on the back, I might fit right in!

Mira la Struggle!

It has snowed for the past 12 hours here in Struggledelphia, and this weekend I was literally stuck in my home, unable to leave, unwilling to put on real pants. As I indulged in my 3rd (5th) cup of coffee of the day, and contemplated my frost-imposed fortress of solitude, in one of the snowiest winters this town has seen in a long time, I couldn't help but reflect on the weekend before this past one, and how very different that was indeed.

You see, my cousin Elyse, (hi Elyse!), is moving from Buenos Aires to Bogota, because, apparently, a life lived free of the shadow of the Colombian drug cartel is just a life wasted. No, but seriously, after three years in the land of Tango and cheap beef she's making a life change at moving on to the land of Salsa and cheap cocaine, which I personally would consider an upgrade, but then, I'm sort of sick that way. Also, there is a serious tostone factor to consider. Anyway, because Elyse lives a hemisphere away from me, she can be, shall we say, a bit hard to get a hold of, at times, and when she told me she had a stop in Puerto Rico for a few days, well, I jumped at the chance to see her. Puerto Rico and Philadelphia may not be exactly neighbors, but, hey, I'll take what I can get, and besides, when it comes down to it, I tend to avoid going to places where I have a 75% chance of being shot (sorry, Bogota).

Now, those playing along at home will recall that I have a place down in San Juan (and no you cannot crash there. Stop asking.)So while it was below freezing here I hopped on a plane full of Puerto Ricans and headed down to Viejo San Juan, to the land of palm trees, coquis, and luchitas every where you turn. Because I had a couple of days without Elyse, between netflix viewings and cocktails, I found myself wandering around the tiny city, chasing stray cats, yelling at pigeons and generally being amused.

The truth is, while it's known as a vacation destination and a navel bombing site, in MY mind, a strange and twisted place, to be sure, Puerto Rico is known for being a crazy land of crazy-filled crazy, and one that I always adore. There are a lot of hilarious things just about San Juan, and while we no longer dance fight on fire escapes (so 1961), we DO do a series of other bizarre things, the top five of which I will now relate to you.

1. Everyone flies kites. It's weird, it's strangely wholesome, and I always think that giant birds are flying down to attack me for at least a minute before I figure out what's going on. I don't know anyone other then Charlie Brown who flies kites, so it's Charlie Brown, and the citizens of San Juan, Puerto Rico. That's quite a club.

2.There is a Polo Ralph Lauren outlet. And a Guess outlet. And a Burberry outlet. And a Marshals. And only one supermarket.

3. There is a small section of the city called "La Perla" which is literally on the sea and outside of the jurisdiction of San Juan. That's right, it's a LAWLESS neighborhood. And it's funded by a potato chip company.

4. There is a Bacardi factory. I've never actually been there, but it's a life goal of mine to go. It's right up there with making it through an evening in high heels and watching every episode of Stargate SG-1. I'm dreaming big.

5. There is a Taco Bell. Now, that's just, that's offensive, is what that is.

As I hugged Elyse goodbye at 4 in the morning so she could catch her flight to Bogota and begin her new life as a drug baroness, I was glad to have been able to share this special little strugglesome world with her. And besides, compared to Puerto Rico, Columbia's going to be a piece of plantain, right? Right?

More snow is predicted for this Tuesday. It was 80 degrees and sunny when I left San Juan. I think I deserve some days without real pants.

Struggle Does Some Housework

I know you've all been dying to hear from me this past week, and you feel stunned, betrayed, hurt and saddened that I haven't had a chance to write. Maybe you talked to some food about this. Maybe you went a little overboard with the prescription drug and vodka cocktail that I like to call "the junior high delight". But whatever your coping mechanism was, I apologize for putting you through that, and I assure you, I will try not to let it happen again. But Leah, darling struggle of our hearts, you cry, where WERE you? Well, my chickens, I was in the land that time forgot, the world of yesterday, the struggle behind the struggle. Yes, that's right. I went back to San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Now, before you moan and groan and beg me to take that silver spoon out of my mouth before it CHOKES me, let me remind you of a few key facts. One, it is now August, so Puerto Rico is face the approximate temperatures usually seen on, say, the surface of Jupiter, or a particularly warm moment in Hell. Two, this event may well have been titled: Puerto Rican Highways have I known, because we spent at least two full days marveling at the complete lack of logic that went into Puerto Rican highway design. And three, most significantly, we went to Home Depot.

There may be people out there that love, nay, adore Home Depot. There may be people who live for the lighting displays, the stacks and stacks of thinly sliced wood, the floor tiles which go on as far as the eye can see. I, however, am not one of them. Frankly, having once gotten lost in a Home Depot at the tender age of six and finding myself sobbing at the front of the store until my parents heard the loudspeaker announcement and came to my rescue, I'm not so much a fan. And despite the claims that everything sounds sexier in another language, asking for drill bits in Spanish didn't really light my fire. Wandering the aisles and aisles of screws and bath fixtures, I couldn't help but think that no matter where you go, home maintenance is a huge bitch. Thanks, terrible economy, for saving me that lesson first hand.

I ended my trip by being an extra in my cousin Jessie's movie, which meant three hours in a studio with 50 other people pretending to be the audience for a fake talk show, Nada Que Perder, or Nothing To Lose. As my aunt Jeanie plastered make-up on my face ("this is no-glow, dios mio, Leah, your skin! You gonna thank me...), I though back to the live iguana I had seen days before, strolling the streets like a lazy tourist. Now that's a creature with nothing to lose. Me, I'm still somewhere in the Home Depot. Check in the kitchen section. I like the stove tops.