photo: McNair Scholars in Caguas, Puerto Rico

Thursday, July 17th

5:55 a.m.

I wake up, like a rock might wake up: having attained consciousness, yet lacking the necessary appendages to transverse the terrain or manipulate its surroundings -- That is: I can’t move. My eyes rolls back and forth within their sockets, I can feel them pivoting with relative ease, though the muscles in charge of this movement throb with pain. My mind begins formulating a plan, and I quickly discover that this too causes a particular throbbing.

6:15 a.m.

I sit, cross-legged, on the beach, at the border between the smooth sand and the sand yet to be graded by the kindly man on the tractor who has gotten used to swerving to avoid my bag. The salt water is good for me, but I can’t run anymore. I’m still not exactly sure how I came to be here.

9:00 a.m.

The McNair entourage is loading up, having showered, eaten, woken up (some of us), and medicated. This morning our destination is Caguas. Before too long we are in a busy city-center plaza, bustling with shoppers, tourists, locals, automobiles and construction workers. We stop to ask one of the latter where a good place to park might be. He spreads his arms in a gesture of obviousness and exasperation: there are cars and people everywhere, good luck. We eventually do park and make our way to the tourism office, where we receive our walking tour passports. These are small booklets with each of the museums on the walking-tour having a space for a stamp once one has visited. On the sidewalk outside is a color-coded compass with arrows informing you where to go to get to what museum. We visit quite a few: a tobacco museum, the City of Caguas museum, the Casa del Trovador (featuring information on Puerto Rico's rich musical heritage), and a fine art museum (with some amazing artwork), among others that we couldn't make for lack of time.

In the plaza itself are a number of attractions: a fountain, a large clock sculpture with famous historical figures embossed on it, a very large parrot cage, a carousel playing popular children's songs I recognized, and an extremely large tree that rained its acorns (?) every time a breeze blows up, prompting a couple of city-employees to spend a good half-an-hour sweeping them up afterwards. A certain gentleman sits on a bench in its shade, seemingly un-phased by the downpour.

We eat at a Taco Bell-plus type fast food restaurant that is way better than Taco Bell, where they laugh at my attempts to converse in Espanol. Having sated our appetites, we depart for the botanical gardens.

The garden sits on the spot of an old plantation, and signs of its former life -- as well as various flora and fauna -- are everywhere. We stroll about leisurely, snapping pictures and enjoying each other’s company, until a slight altercation concerning the map and how to navigate the remaining portion of the garden causes a schism, and we separate. Myself and my comrades Sylvia Niccum and Eric Alicea make a painful decision: to take the road less travelled by, and abandon momentarily our jolly band of touristas as they wander down and ill-informed path to nowhere. Shortly on arriving to our destination we receive a phone call. The Donner party has given up and headed back to the van, and we are called to do the same. We do, but it takes awhile. And I feel bad for being late. And right. Kind of.

We head back to the hotel to prepare for our final hoorah.

Later...

Having assembled in the lobby, decked out once again for an evening on the town, we depart for Metropol, a restaurant that turns out to be about a block away. I have a shrimp and rice soup, with generous amounts of a mysterious home-made hot sauce, and it is wonderful. There is a large window on the other side of which is a small pond. There are three turtles in the small pond. After lively conversation (with my friends, not the turtles), we are leaving, bound this time for a street festival in Old San Juan.

Later than that...

We are standing before a massive stage, after having searched for parking for a very long time, listening to what has been described to me as the winner of the Puerto Rican American Idol. The festival is in a lot right next to the water, adjacent to large shipping ports. Behind us are the walls and buildings of Old San Juan, and above us the moon shines over massive storm clouds piling high in the sky. We stand, huddled in the cooling night that threatens to rain on us.

As the headlining band prepares to perform, word gets to us that the final act is Victor Manuelle, a big-shot Salsa singer. Before leaving for Puerto Rico, Dr. Robert Rodriguez, the McNair director, had made us all a mix cd of Puerto Rican music, old and new. “Amartes Es,” the third track on it, was a Victor Manuelle song. Upon hearing the news, Dr. Rodriguez is very exited, and his excitement is contagious.

Then, just as the band is warming up, it begins to rain. Large, tropical, in-from-the-sea cold rain drops pelt the crowd. Virtually everyone in the crowd scatters, except us. Resolute to the end, we’re too excited to let a little rain send us packing. We stand there, getting more and more soaked, patiently waiting it out. It starts and stops and starts and stops until finally Roxane decides to take a vote.

“O.k.” she says, “anyone who wants to go home now, raise your hand.”

She looks at us, dripping wet and shivering, but not a hand gets raised.

“I’m sorry!” I laugh. But I’m not. I’m having fun. At some point I begin to think of what my state will be the following morning, considering the state I woke up in that morning. I shrug my shoulders. What can I do?

Eventually the rain stops and Victor and his band take the stage. I knew before coming to Puerto Rico that I wanted to take in the culture as much as possible. I knew that this would involve experiencing the Salsa music and dance traditions. I hoped that this would be possible. I can’t believe how fulfilled that one, simple hope became. You have not experienced Salsa until you’ve stood by the sea listening to Victor Manuel and his band and watched the crowd of Puerto Ricans dancing: friends, couples, families, children -- everyone -- dancing. It was fantastic.

Walking back to the van, soaked to the bone, shivering, and anticipating the following morning’s misery, I couldn’t help but think how lucky I was.

Thanks for reading,

-theblackrabbit