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Fantasy comes to life. Those pretty pictures of island life is not a fairy tale. Join this traveler as she escapes New York to believe in Puerto Rican fairies (that drink rum)
I can still clearly remember the first time I laid eyes on “my” virgin island. The water shimmered on my computer as if gold lay just beneath the surface of the screen. The winds swept through the palm trees and whispered “come have a drink on me.” As I clicked my way around the Vieques travel guide, I felt as if I had finally found a home. I read stories of enchanted waters that glow like underwater fireworks. And stories of hidden beaches, only accessible by dirt roads that weave through lush forest land. I laughed when I heard stubborn wild horses rule the roadways. This place was the ultimate fairy tale. I felt this was an opportunity to escape from my current reality. I’m a New Yorker and stress rules my life. The noise, pace and attitude of city life can and will break a person down. And no amount of yoga and/or weed can ever fully help release my tight shoulders and sore feet. A total relocation for a few weeks seemed to be my ticket for happiness. And plus I needed to breathe in some fresh, old fashioned, unpolluted air. So that was it, my mind was made up and I was on the first plane out of JFK. Next stop San Juan, Puerto Rico.
I stepped off the plane and expected to be embraced with culture and rum but, to my shock, I found myself in another concrete hell, just about forty degrees hotter. I wandered my way over to an orange shirted “tourist helper” and snagged a taxi into Rio Piedras. I knew Rio Piedras wasn’t a touristy area and she obviously knew this too because she asked me four times if I was sure that was where I wanted to go. I could have easily taken a Cessna plane from San Juan right onto the island of Vieques but my budget was tight and I was adventurous. So the taxi drove out of the airport and twenty minutes later I was the lost white girl in a sea of horny Puerto Ricans. Rio Piedras was some sort of town. Bachata blasted from bars and men walked around with open shirts and beers. The streets where packed with fruit stands and smelt a mix of gasoline, rice and beans. I found my way to the public bus station and ended up in a Jane Fonda type bus with six locals. I’m glad I paid attention to Spanish 101 in high school because otherwise I would have ended up in the rainforest sleeping with the iguanas. One thing you should know about Puerto Rico is there seems to be no traffic laws. Lanes are optional and signals are a distant memory. Bus stops are two seated dugouts and drivers have the option to stop or not. My driver seemed to be quite aggravated and nearly ran over five people on our way to the ferry. But either way, an hour and a half later, I was in the small town of Fajardo. The town was similar to Rio Piedras only an ocean breeze flowed through my long curly hair and washed away the sweat that soaked my shirt from my long adventure. Here was the first place where I began to feel a layer of stress lift away. I made sure I grabbed a ferry ticket first and realized I had about two hours to kill before the ferry departed for Vieques. So I wondered to myself, how do you kill two hours? The bar and the locals had my name written all over them. I made my way inside a small corner dive bar and ordered a Medalla and an empanada. I was in heaven. The flavors were authentic and were a far cry from the hot pockets that I ate, before leaving New York. I guess I must have attracted some attention with my pale white skin because soon enough I had three guys around me offering me beers and laughs. The group consisted of a captain and two deck hands. The captain, Boris, pointed out his boat and told me his story of traveling from Russian to the Caribbean on said boat. He smoked a pipe and wore his wrinkles with pride. He was the perfect gentleman I must add, one to take home to mom and dad. Only he was old enough to be my dad, so that was the strange part. But wisdom comes with age and it was quite evident with the cold war stories he told. Boris also spoke of his quest to find a place called home. He said he had found it in Vieques. My hopes rose like the tides and I quickly realized how connected we are as a people, even through difference and disagreement. Two hours had passed by this point and I was a good eight beers in. I said my goodbyes and stumbled my way to the ferry dock. The boat whisked me away into a clear blue abyss and my vacation was finally about to begin. I clearly remember the salty air cleansing my face. I felt all the bad energy within me being washed away into the careless waves. Freedom seemed within my reach.
I’ve heard many times before that a vacation will be whatever you make of it. And in agreement with this, I decided to make this a learning experience at best. Vieques is a small neighborly island filled with untouched natural beauty. There are no chain hotels or restaurants on the island. The people live a mellow, uncomplicated life. They ALL are on island time. Meaning, it will get done when it gets done and I’ll be there when I get there. And as you can guess, New York lifestyle isn’t exactly in tune with island time. This was the biggest obstacle and my lesson to be learned from this trip. But, as we all know, teaching an old dog new tricks isn’t exactly easy.
I guess mother natures’ nurturing waves put me fast asleep, because I awoke to our rinky-dink ferry smashing into the waiting dock. I jumped to my feet thinking I was getting robbed but to my surprise all I saw was endless plush green mountains to my left and clear blue water to my right. I sighed with relief, grabbed my backpack and headed off to the waiting taxis. The second thing I noticed about the island, other than the natural beauty, was how much of a small town it really was. The online travel guides failed to portray the character that wafted through the air. The winds carried on with their own beat and blew just as my virgin skin began to burn from the strong willed sun. What I saw in front of me was truly unreal. Tiny houses, in a rainbow of color, stood side by side like Bob Ross painting. I fully expected him to pop up next to me, to start painting a “happy little tree” into the scene. I jumped into a waiting publico, as the natives call them, and was finally on the last leg of my day long adventure.
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