18 Hours in Old San Juan

18 Hours in Old San Juan                                                                             

I stood waiting to board the metal bird¾my eyes followed a flickering little moth, tan and paper-like. I watched the little creature flit to the left then right, hovering near the entrance door of the plane. Of course I didn’t think about what time it was, or the people moving slowly in front of me, or if we’d nosedive somewhere out over Crooked Island or the East Caicos, no, I was wondering if the little moth would alight on the interior of the jet before the door was sealed; he would no longer be a Miami moth, but would be forever changed and become a Puerto Rican moth. Such things do happen, of course, but I was nudged along in the human link of passengers, found my seat next to a talkative woman and bled unseen tears for the moments she described to me of her life¾her deceased daughter, the heart which was harvested from the daughter’s still “living” body, whisked off by another metal bird years back now, to take the organ to a waiting boy in Chile, the very boy all grown up that the woman was on her way to visit.

We said our good-byes after landing, and I regained the company of my escort, my husband, who until now had remained a combination of quiet or asleep as he let the woman-with-the-dead-daughter talk. No luggage to retrieve, for we were only to stay until 3 p.m. the following day. We stepped out from the world of international airports and into the island night. Cabbies easy to get, we climbed into a white van of a taxi and told the driver, “Howard Johnson on the Plaza de Armas.” Into the night he drove us, across the Laguna del Condado and into the heart of Old San Juan. The Haitian driver exclaimed along the way, “Look¾look!! He’s drunk, drunk!” as we passed police dealing with an unsteady driver outside his vehicle. No one else on the road.

Dead quiet it was¾I’d expected Rio or Mexico City, maybe a pinch of Madrid¾lights, crowds, music¾it was only a little after 10 p.m. So few on the street, groups of three or four we passed by, we wondered at the soft blackness and the narrow streets. Dropped our few things off quickly in our room, and back into another taxi to find late night food. Told the driver we wanted real food, not tourist food.

“Ok, I take you to a place, a place open 24 hours¾best mofungo, best there is” he says. This cabbie enjoys pointing out the transvestites to us, “Look¾look!!” he says, “There, there is another.”

Childish giggles erupt continuously from our cabbie as we try to peer into black corners to see his source of amusement, but we see little more than a flash of a figure under a dark doorway.  We eat, (I trusted cabbie and ordered mofungo) and we take another taxi back, same driver, less adventure, and we sleep. We sleep in a tiny room with no window in an ancient building with thick concrete walls. We hear nothing, everything is quiet and shadowy. No dreams.

Morning comes all too soon, we, in our tiny room with no window, wake to the little alarm clock’s buzz. Husband must take care of the business he traveled to this island to do. He has never been to this place, nor I; he showers, kisses my cheek and is gone. I wonder at it all¾yesterday we were in our home¾today we are in a place where we know no one, and we know nothing of the customs. Foreign, yes, we are foreign in a U.S. territory. I think about the moth and I wonder.

I have a few hours before he will return. We will have a little time to walk the city together then, we hope. I shower, take my time. I realize I’m stalling. Am I afraid? I think about how I haven’t seen daylight here yet. I gather things, a map (I try to get a feel for streets now, to avoid looking touristy) phone, room key-card. I check everything again. I peek out, look to my left towards the hotel entrance and see daylight. I have apprehension. Where am I going? I think silly things¾ what if I’m kidnapped? What if I get lost? What if terrorists attack? Are there snakes? I decide to be the curious resident of the planet I am and one, two, three¾there I am, out on the street and I’m dazzled. Over five hundred years of city swirl around me in blazing island sunlight. I see colors, trees, smell sweet things and hear soft Spanish all around. I panic now, because I have such little time. I think of the moth again and wonder if it found its way, to anywhere?

Brilliant, I see bluest sky, palms (I’ve seen palms, I live in Florida¾but these are palms) and blue cobblestoned streets. I see too much, I am overwhelmed. I walk to the end of the street, look back at the entrance to the Howard Johnson and step off the curb headed towards Calle de Sol. I take pictures of everything: ten foot wooden doorways, ancient ironwork, overhanging balconies spilling greenery over the sides, door hinges like artwork, buildings painted salmon- pink, primary yellow and azure blue. There are religious artifacts everywhere, above doorways, soldered onto wall grates and painted on tiles high above street level. I take endless pictures¾I am in love¾and have ceased to have worries as I try to take in the centuries of life here.

Husband finds me soon enough and we walk to the city’s edge and gaze at the forty-two foot walls made of sand, water, limestone and mortar. We look out over what Spaniards built and left here. We realize everything is attainable. To my left, under an ancient archway, I see a golden winged moth in the sun.