Write in the Kisser

[Editor's Note: I'm on vacation till the 4th, so please enjoy these squishy regurgitations in my absence. The following article was originally published in the North Shore Sunday on 6/12/09.]

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[Editor's note: Fans of the interweb may read parts Uno and Dos of this tres part series by clicking on their respective links. For those of you reading this in hardcopy, try not to move around too much: I don't think your daguerreotype has completed its exposure yet.]

Having lived to tell the tale of our various and sundry aquatic pursuits, Kelly and I reconvened with Bruce and Linda back at the resort to map out plans for the rest of the trip. As members of the MTV generation, we were all highly susceptible to any form of marketing featuring slick graphics and minimal content, and thus decided to book not one but two of the activities suggested by the colorful pamphlets at the front desk for the following day.

The first would consist of a bus tour of El Yunque National forest, the only tropical rain forest in the United States National Forest System. Since yunque means “anvil” in Spanish, I’m assuming that the forest was named for the object that the indigenous Taíno tribes most wanted to drop on the heads of their Spanish oppressors after they first came to “visit.”

The second activity would take place after sunset in the beguiling waters of Las Croabas Lagoon in Fajardo—pond zero for one of the most magnificent bioluminescent bays in the world. Adding to the frivolity, we would be joined on this latter excursion by two friends who happened to be vacationing on the island at the same time. Since they were (and are) two chiquitas who have definitely earned the moniker “bananas,” we were greatly looking forward to the occasion.

First though, we had to survive our trip to El Yunque. As the brochures promised, the local flora was spectacularly green and lush, and the air muggy and enveloping. The views from the Yokahu observation tower were also quite captivating, stretching all the way to the ocean in some directions.

However, the scenic splendor as a whole was somewhat undermined by the disconcerting signs warning visitors to be on the lookout for rabid mongooses (mongeese?). Not surprisingly, Nancy — my King Cobra — was not particularly pleased by this development, and she made her displeasure known by sinking her fangs repeatedly into my jugular.

Luckily, her neurotoxic venom had been inadvertently neutralized years before in a tragic water skiing accident, and we made it back to the hotel without further incident. Eventually, four would become eight as we were joined by the aforementioned amigas, Jess and Amanda, along with Jess’s sister Jamie and Amanda’s boyfriend Colby. Before we could leave, however, Amanda mischievously suggested that we look at some of the photos she had taken just two days before in Old San Juan.

Leaning over the small LCD display on her digital camera, I observed a dashing gentleman slouching against an unidentifiable antique automobile with a broken windshield, no more than ten feet from the photographer. Despite the diminutive screen size, I was instantly able to identify the rakish fellow, as he was none other than my all-time favorite actor, Johnny Depp! Filming had apparently just begun on his new movie, The Rum Diary, and the iconoclastic actor was waiting for the crew to clear out looky-loos like Colby and Amanda before work could resume. Grinning like a she-devil while describing the encounter, Amanda confessed that her only regret that morning was that she didn’t flash Johnny while she had the chance.

Oh, alas and alack! I silently bemoaned. If it hadn’t been for Bruce’s wishy-washy flip-floppery, I could have been the one whipping out the ol’ “black pearls” for Captain Jack last Sunday! Luckily for my erstwhile roommate though, thoughts of keelhauling and plank walking would fall by the wayside soon after our arrival at the steamy shores of Las Croabas.

Having adopted the alter ego of Ferdinand Manconver for the journey (inspired by our hotel’s hilarious misspelling of my actual surname during registration), I suffered a brief identity crisis when the van driver handed me a credit card receipt made out to Trevor McCuglin. However, I decided that one not-so-secret identity was enough for the night and signed it without comment.

Eventually, it was time to make our way to the bay. With two or three people per kayak and guides in the front, middle, and back, our disjointed flotilla paddled not-quite-single file through the murky harbor and into the suffocating darkness of the haunting, mile-long mangrove canal, where we battled churlish currents, low hanging branches, and returning tour groups for 30 invigorating minutes until finally emptying out into La Laguna Grande. And grande it was, stretching hundreds of yards in all directions with nary an artificial light source in sight. Not that we needed any, because by this point everyone in the lagoon was happily producing a dazzling aquamarine glow with each splash of their paddles. With half-a-million Pyrodinium Bahamense living in each gallon of water, a single flick of your fingers was all it took to send thousands of luminous spheres flying through the night sky like a Lilliputian meteor shower. The bioluminescent plankton were also more than willing to catch a free ride on the local fauna, creating startling streaks of light beneath the water’s surface as dueling denizens of the deep darted and dove to every point on the compass like an undersea fireworks display.

It was truly one of the most thrilling experiences of my life, and certainly a memorable way to end our vacation. It also helped to cushion the logistical slap in the face that marked our unceremonious return to the real world when our connecting flight from D.C. to New York was canceled the next day for unspecified “weather-related reasons” and we were forced to place an emergency call to Bruce’s brothers in Virginia for last-minute transportation and lodging. As you might expect, it required all of our Zen reserves not to introduce the exasperating airport personnel to the nearest yunque. Lucky for you, dear reader, that’s another column entirely.*

[*Editor's note: No it isn't.]

[Editor's Note: I'm on vacation till the 4th, so please enjoy these squishy regurgitations in my absence. The following article was originally published in the North Shore Sunday on 6/5/09.]

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Welcome back compadres! For those of you who missed the first installment of my titillating tres part exposé of my vacation to Puerto Rico: You’re welcome! There’s five minutes of your life I don’t owe you for once. That being said, for continuity’s sake, you may still wish to review Part One (”I Want to Go Back to San Juan“) by taking a moment to click on that link.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

All caught up? Excelente—let’s continue!

When last I left you, the intrepid foursome consisting of myself, my girlfriend Kelly, my college roommate Bruce, and his girlfriend Linda, had just been assigned our awesomely chic rooms by the two-tiered infinity pool at the fabulous La Concha Resort. After settling in, we returned to the streets in search of a traditional Puerto Rican meal. After passing a traditional Puerto Rican Wendy’s, a traditional Puerto Rican Subway, a traditional Puerto Rican Dunkin Donuts, and a traditional Puerto Rican Applebee’s, we finally came to the stellar Waikiki Lounge & Oyster Bar.

Requesting outdoor seating, we were shown to a rustic, moonlit terraza overlooking the crashing Caribbean surf. After enjoying our first taste of mofongo — the ubiquitous island concoction made from mashed, fried plantains with pork cracklings and garlic — and asking the waitress where to find the best margaritas in town (Her own restaurant? No. Applebee’s? Yes.), we headed back to our rooms to rest up for our excursion into Old San Juan the following day.

The next morning, Kelly and I awoke bright-eyed and bushy tailed. While an ongoing medical malpractice suit prevents me from commenting any further upon the latter, suffice it to say, we were ready to face the day. At least we were, right up until Bruce and Linda informed us that—despite plans democratically agreed to the night before—they’d rather spend the day at the beach and save our excursion into Old San Juan for the late afternoon hours instead. A seemingly innocuous flip-flop at the time, their vexing vacillation would ultimately prove to be the worst decision of our vacation, and—on a more personal note—of my entire life.

Thankfully, such heartbreak was in the future (specifically, Part Three of this series), so we were able to shrug off the change of plans and enjoy our day in the sun before setting out for the old port. During the taxi ride, I examined the tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror. It billed itself as a “Car-Freshner” ® and I laughed out loud at the silly Puerto Ricans and their poorly spell-checked products, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the Little Trees line of air fresheners is actually produced by the “Car-Freshner Corporation,” which is based here in the United States. The passage of time has yet to dull the keen edge of my concern for the future spellers of America.

Arriving in Old San Juan, we beat a quick path to the Castillo de San Cristóbal before it closed for the night and then continued up the hill to the north side of the island, where we were greeted with a peculiar sight. There, parked along the sidewalk as far as the eye could see, was a gleaming collection of antique automobiles. Admiring their classic lines, we speculated about their presence but could see no one around who might explain it to us. As such, in the innocent way of children flitting from one shiny new toy to the next, we soon relegated the venerable vehicles to our cerebral storage facilities and continued on with our exploration of shiny new Old San Juan. One gorgeous sunset and a few sweet fried plantains later and we were on our way back to the hotel in another Car-Freshnered cab of diction-defying proportions.

A 5:45 am wake-up call for a 6:30 am scuba appointment dictated an early night for Kelly and I, while Bruce and Linda—eschewing almost certain death beneath untold fathoms of crushing, merciless ocean—debauched late into the evening, needing only to recover in time for a midday jet skiing excursion led by a gentleman who, in Bruce’s own words, “portrayed himself as Captain Jack Sparrow, but came across as Captain Jackass.”

Cue the crack of dawn: Kelly and I are awake, bathing suited (not to be confused with “birthday suited,” which offers little protection for certain sensitive areas against certain indigenous sea creatures), and seated in the lobby awaiting our promised transportation. We check our watches: 6:30…then 6:35…then 6:40. Her: “Should we confirm the pickup time with someone?” Me: “Nah, they’re probably just on island time. Let’s give ‘em a few more minutes.” 6:45…Now 6:50. Finally, at 6:54, I can stand it no longer and head to the front desk to confirm our reservation.

Naturally, said reservation doesn’t exist, and the young lady who was supposed to have made it for us isn’t on duty. Fortunately, Francisco—the friendly concierge—is a scuba enthusiast himself and he manages to rustle up a last-minute dive for us. Only ten minutes from the hotel, the small reef isn’t quite as exotic as we had hoped for, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway, despite a guide whose idea of low impact diving included handling every living organism in sight and thrusting them upon us for photographic documentation. (See: photographic documentation.) Fortunately, we survived the briny depths and surfaced an hour later with the lyrical musings of Sebastian the crab running through our heads.

Returning to the hotel, I could only wonder about the adventures that awaited us in our remaining day-and-a-half on the island, while simultaneously hoping that future readers of any potential columns wrought from said adventures would have the patience to tune in next week to find out, since I would undoubtedly exceed my word count well before any sort of satisfying conclusion (or even unsatisfying conclusion) could be reached.

[Editor's Note: I'm on vacation till the 4th, so please enjoy these squishy regurgitations in my absence. The following article was originally published in the North Shore Sunday on 5/29/09.]

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Ahhh, Puerto Rico, land of contradictions: home of the Sharks, but arrived at by jets; renowned for its sandy shores, yet containing the only tropical rain forest in the U.S.; represented in Congress, but only by a nonvoting delegate (which seems a little like finally getting to second base with Megan Fox, only to find out that she’s actually your sister).

Fortunately, no amount of contradiction could diminish the relaxing results of my all-too-brief respite in this tropical paradise some weeks ago. The story begins with my college roommate’s late winter invitation to my girlfriend and me to accompany his girlfriend and him on an early springtime sojourn to somewhere fun, quasi-exotic, and above all, warm. After checking on the number of dollars in our respective tax returns (literally dozens) and the number of children in our household (literally zero—present company excluded, of course), we quickly agreed.

Being frugal by nature (also the name of my critically acclaimed hip-hop group, incidentally), and neither expecting nor hoping to spend much time in our rooms, I proposed to my future travel companions that we stay at the least expensive lodging (devoid of cockroaches) available and spend the money saved on more licentious pleasures during the vacation itself. Faced with such impeccable logic, my suggestion was seriously considered…for about seven seconds, at which point it was dropped like a hot tamale in favor of a slightly more ostentatious destination—one that happened to come in at number 11 on the Travel Channel’s “21 Hottest Caribbean Escapes.”

The Caribbean escape to which I refer (and from which we would never want to) was and is the exoskeletonally derived La Concha: A Renaissance Resort. My more linguistically oriented and/or fritter-obsessed readers will probably assume that the hotel is named for the iconic conch shell. If so, give yourselves a prize (preferably not H1N1), because that’s correct. However, it’s not the whole enchilada. As my many streetwise South American readers will tell you, there is another compelling piece of nomenclatural trivia involved here: namely, la concha’s second—let’s call it, “more informal”—definition. As this is a family paper, I cannot in good conscience provide a translation from the original vernacular, but if you’re desperate to know what it is and pathetically unfamiliar with the workings of The Google, please email me and I will be sure to pass along your query to Bruce, the aforementioned roommate, whose own street wisdom is unsurpassed. He will be happy to explain La Concha’s slang derivation in loving, disturbing detail.

But I digest.

Naturally, with a gleaming ranking on the Travel Channel and a pretty penny spent on renovations in the last few years (so sayeth their website, anyway), we had pretty high expectations for our boarding destination. Amazingly, it did not disappoint. After a surprisingly smooth series of flights and a brief taxi ride, we found ourselves at the eye-catching, fountain-laden vestibule leading to La Concha’s cable-featured lobby cum bar area. Though deserted for the moment, it would soon fill to capacity with a colorful mixture of local vocationers and yokel vacationers soaking up the overpriced drinks and overhead novelty lighting until the wee hours of the morning.

Before we could join them though, we would need to choose our rooms. Bowing to Bruce’s superior (self-proclaimed) negotiating skills, I listened confidently as he explained to the receptionist that we would require two rooms with an ocean view on the highest floor available. After assuring her that we would not take no (or, as they say in Puerto Rico, no) for an answer, we were given our room assignments: two standard rooms with a pool view on the first floor. Fortunately, yours truly was there to mitigate the less-than-ideal outcome with some old-fashioned boyish charm and a megawatt smile. Unfortunately, my handsome efforts paid no more dividends than Bruce’s—though I did manage to save a little face by convincing the receptionist to slip us a premium, all-you-can-eat pass to the icemaker…gratis. (Mama Mac didn’t raise no pushover.)

In any case, our proximity to the hotel’s central lounge area, coupled with the spacious balconies opening onto the enchanting, rainbow-hued waters of the split-level infinity pools, would actually prove to be one of the most appealing parts of our vacation, so in the end, our haggling incompetence paid off. Plus, I was able to score free ice for all my friends and family back home, saving me tons of money on presents. (Or, at least, it would have if airport security hadn’t confiscated it all at the first checkpoint. I tried to explain that the large sealed container of what they perceived as “liquid in excess of three ounces” was actually a rare collection of unfrozen Puerto Rican ice sculptures, but they said my argument didn’t hold water. I countered with what I thought was a rather clever, “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” but I think something must have been lost in the translation, because that’s when I was asked to join the nice gentleman with the rubber gloves in his private office.)

Unfortunately, I’m just about out of inches (no jokes please), so I invite everyone to join me next week for part two of this scintillating vacationary recount: “I Know a Boat You Can Get On.” Until then amigos!