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The island that never sleeps
The party continues
I try to picture the nuns who padded across the corridors of El Convento before it was converted from a nunnery intro a five-star boutique hotel. I get as far as imagining a doe-eyed Julie Andrews singing with her arms outstretched before concluding that other than the colonical architecture — including the stalwart two-story wooden doors at the entrance —which might be a bit austere, the mood is nothing but romantic.
In the center courtyard, vines and other greenery frame the potted palm trees from which strand upon strand of twinkling lights hang, creating a magical glow.
As the bellhop escorts me to my room, he tells me that Jennifer Lopez and Antonio Banderas have both patronized the hotel, but when I ask about any artists in residence, he shakes his head. I’m surprised because the hotel has such good energy and personality. When he closes the door behind him, I feel that this is still a place of sanctuary: Outside, locals buy shaved ice from plaza vendors, and tourists mill in and out of the shops looking for hammocks, sun hats and sundries before making their way to attractions like El Morro Fort just a few blocks away. But within these walls, there’s only silence. I resolve that if I write a novel, I’ll do it here, then I slip down to the manager’s cocktail hour for cheese and a glass of wine.
Later that night I meet up with David Martinez, a dive instructor I met earlier in the week. We’re sitting atop bar stools inside El Batey, a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall bar with concrete walls and a ceiling covered in the passionate graffiti scribbles of youth. We’re sitting close to the door so we can watch the steady streams of tourists and locals that float in and out of the bar with the breeze. In the back, the jukebox hums with a mix of tunes seemingly at odds — the Ramones and the Cure alongside Tom Waits and Ella Fitzgerald — but linked by a common denominator: All the voices overflow with passion.
I buy time and another round of the bar’s namesake drink — a mix of coconut rum, light rum and pineapple juice — and ask him what he wants to talk about.
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I wonder where to start and find myself describing everything all at once — el buceo de Desecheo que está loco (the diving at Desecheo that’s crazy), los monos (the monkeys) y corriendo en el mar a medianoche (running into the ocean at midnight). The week’s activities parade through my mind, and I realize I’ve barely slept during my time here.
Then another breeze perfumed by the flowers hanging from the residential balconies wafts in, and with it comes another group of tourists — their skin not yet sunburned, so we know they’ve just arrived.
“Welcome to Puerto Rico,” David says, raising his glass. “Tell me, where are you from?”
They rattle off their hometowns, the destinations of their cruises, the schools they’re on holiday from and what they hope to see in Puerto Rico. When they ask me what our plans for the evening are, I think of the Nuyorican Café with live music and all the restaurants, like the Parrot Club and Dragonfly, clustered on South Fortaleza Street in an area dubbed SoFo.
“I don’t know,” I say. “The night is full of possibility.”
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