Manana Culture

Sometimes in Rincon, the water is "just out." You can't pee, you can't drink tap water, you can't wash the sand out of your butt. No one frets or worries about the arbitrary lack of water because when it happens, it just happens, life goes on, and you can just pee in the ocean. Take shots to dehydration, and worry about it manana.

We befriended a bartender, Maria, who had sold everything in the United States just to realize her fantasy of living on a tropical island. She wore colorful wrap around tops, took care of an old man in order to live rent-free, and never created more than one tab because it was too much work. We asked her what she wanted to do next; she shrugged, and said, "St. Thomas, and at some point Spain." We asked her where in Spain, and Maria didn't know. She would figure it out soon enough.

Her boss, Miserable or Mad Mike, was the owner of Casa Vieja, a small, hot, dingy tavern in a small alley. He was American, old, grumpy, and had lots of opinions and cheap drink and food deals (buy one burger, get one free). Casa Vieja played only 70s American tunes and catered to a unilingual population--American expats and tourists. We went to Casa Vieja every night, for french fries and margaritas and the grumblings of an old man.

Antonio, the bartender at our resort had a soft voice, soft features, and would hydrate us with ice water and stories of his life. His favorite vacation was his trip to Spain and Portugal; he enjoyed himself so much that his 2 week vacation became a 2 month vacation, and he lost his job, spent all his money, and "had to start all over" when he returned home. We sat in a stupor, drunk from the blazing sun and exhausted from our 8 mile walk. He saw all of us staring at him in bewilderment, and said, "It's a once in a lifetime experience."

After we parasailed, we walked back to our resort. We wanted to save money, save the environment from CO2 emissions, and just explore the little rickety fruit carts and fried chicken trucks en route to our hotel. The drive seemed short, (it was 15 minutes), and we wisely concluded the walk wouldn't be that much longer. It took us 3 hours, much of it uphill, to get back to the resort. After two hours, we were unsure whether or not we were wet from parasailing or from sweat. People in cars would slow down, stare at us, honk, and sometimes even yell indiscriminate things in Spanish. We even caused a traffic jam, for one car stopped and then every car behind it stopped. People honked not out of impatience, but to add to the grand orchestration of cat calls. We weren't sure if they were giving us attention because we were girls or because we were tourists, but soon we figured out that our peeling faces, our sweaty backs, and the limp with which we dragged on spoke volumes about our gringa nature.

The Chinese restaurant we passed on the way home had a simple and direct title--"China Rest." They seemed to have gotten over the last 6 letters of the word, and decided a period would suffice to relay the message. However, unlike the other letters in the title, the period didn't light up, and so the restaurant simply read "China Rest" and it still managed to attract a few unaware customers into its abode.

Elaine, our driver on the last night, told us that Puerto Rico may never become its own sovereign because the people are too scared to let go of the US, that the island would have to learn to grow on its own. Right now, she explained, everyone just worked and partied. There was no unified strength, no sense of ownership--just $1 Medallas on the beach. She then dropped us off to Tamboo Tavern, so that we could engage in that culture, too. Work, party, and repeat.

In Rincon, everything moves at the pace of the waves. There is no agenda, no stress, no days of the week--just sun and blue drinks and iguanas. We thought our fantasies would be dispelled when we finally arrived on the island; instead, every dream of island life was true to life, realized by our 4 nights of non-stop nothingness and laughter. It is manana culture but people live today. It is like existentialism turned upside down, transformed from a Frenchman shooting Arabs to Americans getting sunburned. And we could have walked in the sand declaring carpe diem, except that we were always feeling too lazy to seize anything, and simply allowed the waves to wash our footprints away.

Puerto Rico, Day 1

We knew that our spring break in Rincon wouldn't be the classic college kids gone wild intoxication fest, given that our resort is known for its family appeal, but we were excited nonetheless. In fact, we were eager to be released from the confines of our own youth, and to simply live our fantasy of an island vacation with dresses and blue drinks.

Though we barely slept the night before our flight, (I napped from 2-3, and Asal and Bianca just didn't sleep), and barely slept on the flight (I was scared to miss the free plantains/chex mix and pineapple juice/sprite), we dove into the ocean almost immediately after arriving to the resort. The water was warm, blue, and friendly. We swam for a few hours, got out and got some blue and red refreshments, swam some more, and then passed out on the beach. I woke up to a hostile sun, which had already managed to sautée my skin.

The entire day we ate cookies, crackers, cereal bars, and apples. In the evening, our bodies finally revolted, unable to tolerate the burns and the sporadic snacking, and we headed into town for some hot food and coconut drinks. The hotel to which we were directed by our hotel (attempt to make a cut) was famous for its "pirata especiale," which were sweet cinnamon concoctions in fresh coconuts, which the bartenders and waiters sliced (hacked) open with axe-like knives, spurting coconut water everywhere.

Like true gringas, we ate rice and beans, chicken alfredo, and french fries, listening to the black waves crashing against the beach in between bites. We laughed, we swung on our chairs, we took pictures. We stopped pretending to mingle with Puerto Rico, (except when Bianca speaks Spanish) and colonized the island with our foreign, youthful playfulness and curiosity. The seniors smiled at us and moved away, making room for the three college kids we saw across the room, who became the first group we could finally call our peers. We all decided to hang out the rest of the week, and to explore Rincon nightlife and surf and make bonfires.

And spring break was officially brought to Rincon.

this is why you don't play with fire

Looks can be very deceiving. Unfortunately, whatever impressions people get about me from the frazzled state of my bangs truly speak volumes about my personality, my behavior, and my currently frazzled state of mind.

Two weeks ago, I thought I should get a haircut to look presentable for all the meetings and interviews and appointments that I have to have to secure a socially acceptable future (apparently Neverland does not exist). One week ago, I burned my bangs, which are now so short and frayed that it will be impossible to get a haircut without scarring my forehead. I was taking notes by candlelight, for the soothing smell and ambience, on the Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women, and got a text message from Patrick. It was a picture of a cat with the text, "hey there frenchie!" I wanted to reply with an equally nonsensical message, and tried to take a creepy picture of myself behind the candle, hoping that my face would be aglow.

I heard a crackling sound, as though something were burning. I leaned in closer. I couldn't see anything but heard the crackling sound grow louder. I shrugged, took the picture (twice, because the first one didn't come out well), and sent it to him, with the message, "can't wait to punch you in the face! miss youuu." I continued to do my homework. 15 minutes later I went to the bathroom.

I saw mysterious brown bits in my hair when I looked in the mirror. They looked like dead grass. I pulled one out, and saw that I had in my hand what looked like clumps of limp hair. I yelled out in shock and disgust. And suddenly, that putrid smell of burning consumed my nose, my lungs, my flesh, and I realized that that crackling sound had been my bangs on fire.

I look like a cross between Albert Einstein and Kelly Osbourne. And I have not gained the fame to pull off a look of electrocution. I am the ordinary New Yorker, student, girl, all first impressions gone to ashes.

If I don't find a job, I won't be able to blame it on the economic recession. I will, however, blame Pier 1 Imports' line of buttercream vanilla fragrance.

I never turned six years old

Last night, I decided to renege on all responsibilities and obligations (does my GPA truly matter?) and go down to the East Village to eat couscous in celebration of Lindsay's birthday. The couscous was delicious, small in quantity, and expensive. Everyone wore shiny bangles and eyeliner, and the small restaurant was dimly lit and red and crowded. I ate, I smiled, I chatted. But all I wanted was a piece of caramel.

I don't remember when I discovered caramel, but I have not grown since that one moment. I am still five years old (or seven, or ten, or whenever I first experienced that sweetness). Like everyone else, I pretend to be a grown up and pay my credit card bill and read the Gotham Gazette, but in reality, all I want to do is eat caramels on my front steps in the summer.

When Bianca and I left the dinner last night, we decided to head home to finish some homework. We both needed some candy (her candy of choice was Riesen.) On the way to the F train, we stopped at a Rite Aid, which had already put bars on the windows. The guy in the store told us it was closing in 5 minutes, in hopes that we would turn around and leave. Instead, we raced around the store, breaking a sweat, looking for the goods. We found lots of easter eggs and nail polish, but kept running past the candy aisle. "Why the hell do easter eggs get their own aisle?!" Bianca was screaming and I was flailing around the store. Everyone was staring at us. We thought we were beautiful. They thought we were criminally insane.

Once in the candy aisle, we scrambled through all the piles of candy, rummaging through the bins and the hanging bags, until finally we realized that what we were looking for was right before our eyes. And then we ran to the counter. The cashier had resorted to banging against the cash register instead of tapping her long fingernails. Bianca's credit card had to be swiped 5 times before it registered. Everyone was waiting for us to leave. Our mouths were watering, our foreheads were drenched in perspiration. And as soon as we ran out of the store, they turned off the lights.

We ripped open our bags of candy as soon as we stepped into the frigid night. And then all the purple people in the East Village and the wind and the cigarette butts converged into one single bite of bliss. We held hands as we crossed the street and walked underground, so we could catch our train home.