I don't have the energy to go day by day, so I'll just give a melange of impressions:
Let me be clear: the people here are wonderful. The climate is also wonderful. I mean, hell, it's a tropical island, right? And did I mention the people are beautiful, especially the men? Puerto Ricans are a mix of Spanish, African, and Taino indian.
Mocha. Chocolata. Ya. Ya.
And perhaps it would be a different vacation for me if I had a pal that I grooved with. Perhaps. The other day my sister and I just walked around -- my sister is of course company, but she's also not company. I have to make pretty much everything happen. Anyway, we found a contemporary art museum with a few small, earnest but not very impressive installations, mostly having to do with the displacement of people from a local neighborhood when developers took over.
I'm not a touristy person. I can understand why my family loves it: the weather, the casino, the pool and the beach. But I'm not someone who travels to gamble or sit on a beach or by a pool, or to shop. I'm not someone who wants to be surrounded by thousands of my compatriots who marvel over a mango.
I've taken two all-day tours with my father and sister. (Did I mention my father is drinking again? Yessirree Bob. That, and my sister's generally mentally exhausting tendencies have made me a one-woman tongue-biting squad.)
Let me say a couple of things.
1. If you have kids under 10, leave them home. I don't care what your argument is, you're wrong. Leave them home, or take them to Disney World, where they are less likely to ruin the vacations of other people. If you want them to appreciate other places like the huge underground caves the rest of us wanted to enjoy, wait until they are old enough to focus on the majesty and beauty of the caves, rather than being engaged for three minutes at a time before being demanding and noisy and making it impossible for the rest of us to stay focused. I also don't need to see you breast feed on the tram. I just don't. Wear a loose shirt and try a little discretion, or I'm going to start taking a crap or screwing in front of you to see how much you love watching Nature in action. Read my lips: I. Do. Not. Worship. Motherhood.
2. If you are visiting a place, especially a spot of natural beauty, for the love of God, shut up. Stop turning every corner of the planet into just one more backdrop for a Facebook-bound selfie. That rain forest we just left was a sacred place for people who were slaughtered by greedy, brutal invaders. It's a natural wonder, unique in the world, and I wanted to hear it speak to me, to experience its magic, cripes, hear some birds, but I couldn't because of the nonstop chatter and horseplay and the endless photo-taking. Stop performing and start engaging. Have a little respect.
3. A beach, no matter how blue the water and no matter how palmy the trees, is still just some sand and water, and unless you have good company to chat with as you walk along it, is boring as fuck.
So it's pretty clear I'm not digging my trip. Here's the thing: I've lived in major cities, and it is not novel for me to be served by a Puerto Rican at a restaurant; it's just another day in Chicago. I guess if you live in a homogeneous area, if your idea of ethnic food is Italian or Chinese, then this may seem novel or exotic. If, like me, you've lived in a neighborhood where there is more than one person of color and your local market serves Caribbeans and Africans, you are not a stranger to the cherimoya or to plantains. So I put on my Pleasant Face, try to have something positive to say ("I like that, despite being a big tourist destination, they don't try to gouge you." "Wow, this weather is great.") and struggle to find things to do in an area overrun with tourists. At night I watch TY. Yeah. I watch TV. Why? Because it doesn't involve being by the pool or in the lobby bar or in the casino or anywhere else outside crammed with tons of noisy, boisterous people and/or screeching kids.
I'd really like to go back to Old San Juan, sit alone at a cafe and read the horrible book I borrowed from my mother, but it will be Saturday and even more overrun with tourists. I have no idea where I'll find refuge. Normally, I'd rent a bike and go somewhere, but three words: Puerto Rican drivers.
You know what PR is like? It's like a cruise ship on land. That's the best way to put it. It doesn't feel like a real place.
And now we seem to have new people in the room next to us who have brought a baby. A baby that cries loud enough to be heard through the wall. And my sister is back and watching "Glee." And the next circle of hell has opened.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Puerto Rico - Day 1: Departure
My uncle lives not far from an express bus to the airport. The plan was that friends would pick up my uncle, sister, and me from my uncle's house, and another friend would drive my parents.
The bus left at 6:15 am, and the station is bout a ten-minute drive from my uncles, so I set my alarm for 5.
Everyone else was up at 4. Loudly.
The friend who was driving, "Dan," had to be reminded to slow down so as not to miss the turn, which he of course did, meaning we had to go to the next exit, where he got back on the highway and began speeding again.
I wanted to smack Dan. Wanting to smack someone before 6am is not a good way to start the day.
We all got to the airport. My uncle and parents had apparently never used anything but curbside check-in, so I had to show them the very complicated process of waiting in line to hand over your ID and be handed a boarding pass.
I'd had a bagel before I left the house, but everyone else wanted to grab a bite. All but my father and I were headed for the restrooms, so they told us what to get them.
The choice of eateries was: a Sbarro, a Japanese place, Burger King, and a burrito place.
They wanted coffee cake.
coffee cake?!?
"Where are we going to get them coffee cake?" asked my father.
"I have no idea," I replied.
My father began to get agitated. Have I mentioned that I have a neurotic family?
"Dad, we'll just let them decide what they want when they come back," I said. A headache was starting already.
When everyone arrived, they got blueberry muffins from the Sbarro. We went through Security fairly easily (one of the friends called my cell at this point to make sure we'd gotten there OK and safely (as opposed to what? The bus getting lost in the half-hour it took to get there? A Logan Express hostage situation?) and on the other side was a refreshment cart. With coffee and coffee cake.
The passengers at our gate were comprised of an alarming percentage of young couples with kids and babies.
Our plane had been diverted at the last minute when it arrived from an international flight, and they needed to clean it first. We finally got on the plane, which smelled like ripe cold cuts, and there was a delay because we had too much fuel, which meant too much weight. They resolved that, then they had to have the wings de-iced. I recalled that this procedure seems to be mentioned frequently in news recounts of pre-takeoff events when talking of planes that plummeted to earth. I thought about The Day The Music Died. The constant irregular CLUNK-CLUNKCLUNK below me in the fuselage did not ease my mind. My headache was getting worse.
We took off, there were no babies behind me, and I managed to sleep a bit, which gave me a stiff neck and amplified the headache. My sister kept turning up the volume on the TV screen on the back of the seat in front of her and sticking her face close to it before I explained three times that you need a headset to hear it. She finally got one, and relaxed.
At one point I used the restroom, and to give you an idea of how old this plane was, it had an ASHTRAY in the door.
At San Juan, we debarked, got our luggage, and caught a taxi at the stand. I don't recall the formal name of ours, so let's just call it Not The Cleanest Taxi taxi. It was driven by Not The Slowest Non-Heart-Attack-Inducing Driver.
I was in the back, and I had a speaker literally next to my arm, so during the entire 20-minute ride my headache was bathed in amplified merengue, followed by the rapid-fire Spanish of a demented raving DJ whom I quickly wanted to disembowel.
The hotel is lovely, as is the staff, and they give you rummy fruity drinks as you check in. My sister and I are in one room, and in a connected room next door are my parents and my uncle. Our room balcony overlooks the front, which is a main street and pretty noisy, but the glass doors are pretty sound proof.
We split up and my sister and I took a walk up the main drag, which is very touristy (thank goodness the Hard Rock Cafe planned across the street is not yet there) and oddly shabby. My headache was worse, so we stopped for food at a small indie burger joint that had a delicious black-bean burger. As we sat eating, I saw my uncle walk by. He had a smile on his face and was clearly happier than a pig in the most fragrant, creamiest of ordure. I ran out and surprised him. He was just out "checking things out," and I could tell he was so happy to be back here. That look on his face, the one he had when he thought no one was watching, made me determined to enjoy this trip as much as I can, although frankly, beautiful weather and beaches aside, I can't see what the big deal is about. Chicago in summertime has hot weather, gorgeous beaches, and all the Spanish-speaking people you want. Although here they speak English, too. Unlike Chicago.
After eating, my sister and I walked about a mile to the bridge that leads to Old San Juan, and then came back. My head was hurting very badly so I took a couple of pills, a hot relaxing bath, and was in bed by 6:30. I slept pretty much to the next morning.
The bus left at 6:15 am, and the station is bout a ten-minute drive from my uncles, so I set my alarm for 5.
Everyone else was up at 4. Loudly.
The friend who was driving, "Dan," had to be reminded to slow down so as not to miss the turn, which he of course did, meaning we had to go to the next exit, where he got back on the highway and began speeding again.
I wanted to smack Dan. Wanting to smack someone before 6am is not a good way to start the day.
We all got to the airport. My uncle and parents had apparently never used anything but curbside check-in, so I had to show them the very complicated process of waiting in line to hand over your ID and be handed a boarding pass.
I'd had a bagel before I left the house, but everyone else wanted to grab a bite. All but my father and I were headed for the restrooms, so they told us what to get them.
The choice of eateries was: a Sbarro, a Japanese place, Burger King, and a burrito place.
They wanted coffee cake.
coffee cake?!?
"Where are we going to get them coffee cake?" asked my father.
"I have no idea," I replied.
My father began to get agitated. Have I mentioned that I have a neurotic family?
"Dad, we'll just let them decide what they want when they come back," I said. A headache was starting already.
When everyone arrived, they got blueberry muffins from the Sbarro. We went through Security fairly easily (one of the friends called my cell at this point to make sure we'd gotten there OK and safely (as opposed to what? The bus getting lost in the half-hour it took to get there? A Logan Express hostage situation?) and on the other side was a refreshment cart. With coffee and coffee cake.
The passengers at our gate were comprised of an alarming percentage of young couples with kids and babies.
Our plane had been diverted at the last minute when it arrived from an international flight, and they needed to clean it first. We finally got on the plane, which smelled like ripe cold cuts, and there was a delay because we had too much fuel, which meant too much weight. They resolved that, then they had to have the wings de-iced. I recalled that this procedure seems to be mentioned frequently in news recounts of pre-takeoff events when talking of planes that plummeted to earth. I thought about The Day The Music Died. The constant irregular CLUNK-CLUNKCLUNK below me in the fuselage did not ease my mind. My headache was getting worse.
We took off, there were no babies behind me, and I managed to sleep a bit, which gave me a stiff neck and amplified the headache. My sister kept turning up the volume on the TV screen on the back of the seat in front of her and sticking her face close to it before I explained three times that you need a headset to hear it. She finally got one, and relaxed.
At one point I used the restroom, and to give you an idea of how old this plane was, it had an ASHTRAY in the door.
At San Juan, we debarked, got our luggage, and caught a taxi at the stand. I don't recall the formal name of ours, so let's just call it Not The Cleanest Taxi taxi. It was driven by Not The Slowest Non-Heart-Attack-Inducing Driver.
I was in the back, and I had a speaker literally next to my arm, so during the entire 20-minute ride my headache was bathed in amplified merengue, followed by the rapid-fire Spanish of a demented raving DJ whom I quickly wanted to disembowel.
The hotel is lovely, as is the staff, and they give you rummy fruity drinks as you check in. My sister and I are in one room, and in a connected room next door are my parents and my uncle. Our room balcony overlooks the front, which is a main street and pretty noisy, but the glass doors are pretty sound proof.
We split up and my sister and I took a walk up the main drag, which is very touristy (thank goodness the Hard Rock Cafe planned across the street is not yet there) and oddly shabby. My headache was worse, so we stopped for food at a small indie burger joint that had a delicious black-bean burger. As we sat eating, I saw my uncle walk by. He had a smile on his face and was clearly happier than a pig in the most fragrant, creamiest of ordure. I ran out and surprised him. He was just out "checking things out," and I could tell he was so happy to be back here. That look on his face, the one he had when he thought no one was watching, made me determined to enjoy this trip as much as I can, although frankly, beautiful weather and beaches aside, I can't see what the big deal is about. Chicago in summertime has hot weather, gorgeous beaches, and all the Spanish-speaking people you want. Although here they speak English, too. Unlike Chicago.
After eating, my sister and I walked about a mile to the bridge that leads to Old San Juan, and then came back. My head was hurting very badly so I took a couple of pills, a hot relaxing bath, and was in bed by 6:30. I slept pretty much to the next morning.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Card Night
Please let them all go home soon.
It's not even my house, and I hate having people over.
I got the job, by the way. First step: a car.
It's not even my house, and I hate having people over.
I got the job, by the way. First step: a car.
Friday, February 27, 2015
He was, and always shall be, our friend.
Leonard Nimoy died today.
I have loved Leonard Nimoy since I first saw him as science officer Spock on "Star Trek" when I was six. Many have speculated on Spock's appeal: we wish we could be more logical; we wish were were more in control of our emotions.
None of this was ever true for me. What I loved most about Spock was that you could trust him. With Spock, there was no subtext; he was loyal, principled, honest, wasn't mean, and didn't gossip. He told it like it was, and the human side of him gave him humor and compassion.
I know that one is the actor and the other the character, but I love the actor for bringing me the character. I loved Nimoy for staying a class act and for not ruining the character of Spock for me, and for being a good actor who knew how to mock himself. Who remained someone who deserved our love.
When we played the "who would you have dinner with, if you could have dinner with anyone?" game, Nimoy was always on the list. I knew it was extremely unlikely, but I did harbor hopes of one day meeting him in person to thank him for everything. That is, if I could speak at all.
Goodbye, Leonard. You are not dead if we find a way to remember you. And we most certainly shall.
I have loved Leonard Nimoy since I first saw him as science officer Spock on "Star Trek" when I was six. Many have speculated on Spock's appeal: we wish we could be more logical; we wish were were more in control of our emotions.
None of this was ever true for me. What I loved most about Spock was that you could trust him. With Spock, there was no subtext; he was loyal, principled, honest, wasn't mean, and didn't gossip. He told it like it was, and the human side of him gave him humor and compassion.
I know that one is the actor and the other the character, but I love the actor for bringing me the character. I loved Nimoy for staying a class act and for not ruining the character of Spock for me, and for being a good actor who knew how to mock himself. Who remained someone who deserved our love.
When we played the "who would you have dinner with, if you could have dinner with anyone?" game, Nimoy was always on the list. I knew it was extremely unlikely, but I did harbor hopes of one day meeting him in person to thank him for everything. That is, if I could speak at all.
Goodbye, Leonard. You are not dead if we find a way to remember you. And we most certainly shall.
Waiting for go,Houston.
Had my interview with the Big Cheese I'd be supporting, and I loved her. Absolutely loved her. Met privately with the current admin who, unless she is a world-class lair, seemed very sincere when she said, "My new job will be walking distance from my house. But I'll really miss this job. It really is a great job."
They also loved me, so I expect an offer once the reference thing is done. No problems expected there -- one of my colleagues emailed me and said, "They want three areas of improvement -- I can't think of any. Can you?"
"I talk too fast?" I suggested, after thinking a bit.
So she put that I can sometimes talk too fast when I'm passionate about something. Oh, the humanity.
From conversations with The Boss and and their HR person, I have every confidence I'll get the pay I want, and I hear the benefits are very good. We're trying to get things wrapped up today before my family trip next week, although I said I'd take my laptop to be on email, just in case.
This could be the job -- the job that incorporates my strengths and allows me a variety of real responsibility. Lord, let it be.
They also loved me, so I expect an offer once the reference thing is done. No problems expected there -- one of my colleagues emailed me and said, "They want three areas of improvement -- I can't think of any. Can you?"
"I talk too fast?" I suggested, after thinking a bit.
So she put that I can sometimes talk too fast when I'm passionate about something. Oh, the humanity.
From conversations with The Boss and and their HR person, I have every confidence I'll get the pay I want, and I hear the benefits are very good. We're trying to get things wrapped up today before my family trip next week, although I said I'd take my laptop to be on email, just in case.
This could be the job -- the job that incorporates my strengths and allows me a variety of real responsibility. Lord, let it be.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
This time for sure!
I love to think about the future. I love to take lessons learned at the feet of brutal experience and apply them to decisions made firmly and securely, while smugly patting myself on the back for using previous adversity to achieve Perfect Bliss.
Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa.
Take home ownership. After my six years in a Chicago condo, a condo that I loved and condo politics I loathed, and some condo members I'd not have mourned had they shuffled off their mortal coil with or without assistance, after years of another Boston condo shared with two others who are frustratingly reticent to invest in necessary upkeep and repairs, or who are fairly inneffectual (but still stubborn!) I vowed I would never, ever buy another condo again. Never again would I throw my lot in with people who had the legal right to make decisions about my property, no matter how ill-informed or -motivated. Never. Ever. I would buy a mobile home before I had another argument about plumbing or electrical updates or noisy tenants.
And then I see a real-estate posting for a vintage condo, and one look at original bath tile and a shiny white enamel bathtub, and I'm swooning.
Here is my problem: I can see the ideal in every situation. In a condo, I see the closeness of neighbors, the sensibility of planning, and most of all, the ability to live in a property far nicer as a set of rooms than I could ever afford as a house.
I'm someone who likes vintage. Old. I watch house-flipping shows and I scream in outrage as one cute, cozy kitchen after another is ripped out and replaced by something that looks like the mutant result of a drunken congress between a spaceship and an army mess hall. No matter what the style of the house: cape, Victorian, bungalow, OUT goes the bead board and cute white cabinets, In goes the black granite counter tops, cherry cabinets, stainless-steel everything, and the ubiquitous island-slash-eating area.
When did we forsake the warmth of a kitchen as the heart of the home for something with all the charm of a rail car?
And the bathrooms! I watch as buyers enter a bathroom that has original tile and turn their noses up at the "ugly pink," and replace charming vintage color with something that has all the appeal of a surgery.
The modern kitchen and bathroom craze is the housing equivalent of Botox and boob jobs, and to both I say, fuck off. My tastes mean that a house others would disdain is right up my alley, and go me.
So I look at small homes that are fixer-uppers, and I have all kinds of jonesing to restore them to their original charm, and I desire yards and porches and a cellar, and space and boundaries and a driveway, and then I see a gorgeous vintage condo in my home town, the town I vowed to get the hell out of as soon as I can, only this place is in the upscale part, which is no small feat for this town, and is a block from the beach, and I see that big, uncluttered kitchen and the original bathroom, and I begin to think that maybe this condo won't be as bad...
I have condo battered-wife syndrome, is what it is.
I need to make a list of everything I want and don't want so that I can look at it like Guy Pearce in Memento and trust that Another Me has it under control if only Current Insane Me would let her.
Tonight I have a call scheduled with the friend that is the current board president in Chicago. She wants to decompress and update me on the insanity of the latest board meeting. This might do the trick.
Ha ha ha haaaaaaaa.
Take home ownership. After my six years in a Chicago condo, a condo that I loved and condo politics I loathed, and some condo members I'd not have mourned had they shuffled off their mortal coil with or without assistance, after years of another Boston condo shared with two others who are frustratingly reticent to invest in necessary upkeep and repairs, or who are fairly inneffectual (but still stubborn!) I vowed I would never, ever buy another condo again. Never again would I throw my lot in with people who had the legal right to make decisions about my property, no matter how ill-informed or -motivated. Never. Ever. I would buy a mobile home before I had another argument about plumbing or electrical updates or noisy tenants.
And then I see a real-estate posting for a vintage condo, and one look at original bath tile and a shiny white enamel bathtub, and I'm swooning.
Here is my problem: I can see the ideal in every situation. In a condo, I see the closeness of neighbors, the sensibility of planning, and most of all, the ability to live in a property far nicer as a set of rooms than I could ever afford as a house.
I'm someone who likes vintage. Old. I watch house-flipping shows and I scream in outrage as one cute, cozy kitchen after another is ripped out and replaced by something that looks like the mutant result of a drunken congress between a spaceship and an army mess hall. No matter what the style of the house: cape, Victorian, bungalow, OUT goes the bead board and cute white cabinets, In goes the black granite counter tops, cherry cabinets, stainless-steel everything, and the ubiquitous island-slash-eating area.
When did we forsake the warmth of a kitchen as the heart of the home for something with all the charm of a rail car?
And the bathrooms! I watch as buyers enter a bathroom that has original tile and turn their noses up at the "ugly pink," and replace charming vintage color with something that has all the appeal of a surgery.
The modern kitchen and bathroom craze is the housing equivalent of Botox and boob jobs, and to both I say, fuck off. My tastes mean that a house others would disdain is right up my alley, and go me.
So I look at small homes that are fixer-uppers, and I have all kinds of jonesing to restore them to their original charm, and I desire yards and porches and a cellar, and space and boundaries and a driveway, and then I see a gorgeous vintage condo in my home town, the town I vowed to get the hell out of as soon as I can, only this place is in the upscale part, which is no small feat for this town, and is a block from the beach, and I see that big, uncluttered kitchen and the original bathroom, and I begin to think that maybe this condo won't be as bad...
I have condo battered-wife syndrome, is what it is.
I need to make a list of everything I want and don't want so that I can look at it like Guy Pearce in Memento and trust that Another Me has it under control if only Current Insane Me would let her.
Tonight I have a call scheduled with the friend that is the current board president in Chicago. She wants to decompress and update me on the insanity of the latest board meeting. This might do the trick.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Et tu, ovaries?
So I went to bed last night feeling anxious and Emo (as you all know, since you had to read my whine post). My feelings about the anxiety of a job hunt and of having fond memories of colleagues collapse in the face of indifference to my current job search are real. But this morning I woke up actually excited at the idea of a job. Not just that -- excited at the idea of being the right-hand person to a decision maker. What changed?
Well, yesterday afternoon I started having abdominal pain. At first I thought it might be back pain from doing next to nothing this past week, not getting to a gym. Then the pain grew worse, and I realized the pain was something else. It felt like I was ovulating.
I'm 51. My last period was last August, a kind of last hurrah, or so I thought. So unused to dealing with this was I that I was out of practice with regard to ignoring my emotional state when the symptoms present themselves.
Don't get me wrong -- I still have reservations, but they are in the context of an overall eagerness to get on with my life, to have an income that will allow me to start on the strategy for success I had in mind when I decided to move here. So I'll be doing a new kind of job -- that's not new for me. Will they like my big personality? Why not? I have a track record of ingratiating myself with even the most irascible.
I'm a hardier person than I was when I left Boston almost 10 years ago. I'm more resourceful, less put off by hardship, more confident in my ability to make my life happen. If my commute involves a bus to a commuter rail to a long subway ride, that's what it involves,and the fact that I can make it happen is more important than whether it's enjoyable. Once I get a car, I can stay in town to catch a movie or a play, catch up with friends and not worry about the bus service ending before I get home on the commuter rail. I can visit my best friend via the discount airline that flies right into Toronto. I can get to Chicago and see the kids. I know all of this is idealistic, but it helps to envision the scenarios I'm aiming for in order to appreciate the essential value that a job has in making them come true.
So tomorrow I dress up again and sally forth in frigid weather to sell myself to the big cheese. Its not a job; it's power.
Well, yesterday afternoon I started having abdominal pain. At first I thought it might be back pain from doing next to nothing this past week, not getting to a gym. Then the pain grew worse, and I realized the pain was something else. It felt like I was ovulating.
I'm 51. My last period was last August, a kind of last hurrah, or so I thought. So unused to dealing with this was I that I was out of practice with regard to ignoring my emotional state when the symptoms present themselves.
Don't get me wrong -- I still have reservations, but they are in the context of an overall eagerness to get on with my life, to have an income that will allow me to start on the strategy for success I had in mind when I decided to move here. So I'll be doing a new kind of job -- that's not new for me. Will they like my big personality? Why not? I have a track record of ingratiating myself with even the most irascible.
I'm a hardier person than I was when I left Boston almost 10 years ago. I'm more resourceful, less put off by hardship, more confident in my ability to make my life happen. If my commute involves a bus to a commuter rail to a long subway ride, that's what it involves,and the fact that I can make it happen is more important than whether it's enjoyable. Once I get a car, I can stay in town to catch a movie or a play, catch up with friends and not worry about the bus service ending before I get home on the commuter rail. I can visit my best friend via the discount airline that flies right into Toronto. I can get to Chicago and see the kids. I know all of this is idealistic, but it helps to envision the scenarios I'm aiming for in order to appreciate the essential value that a job has in making them come true.
So tomorrow I dress up again and sally forth in frigid weather to sell myself to the big cheese. Its not a job; it's power.
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