Siglo de Amantes

Down here in the tropics the holidays officially go on till El Dia de los Reyes, but the party really goes on until Las Fiestas de San Sebastian, a carnivalesque blowout in Old San Juan in the third week of January. But just before you think it might be over, the radio starts pushing El Mes de los Amantes, because Valentine's Day isn't good enough for one day; it becomes an entire three-day weekend, and that becomes another month of passion. This ranges from the old school trio music indulgence, in which Trio los Panchos and En Mi Viejo San Juan are floating in the ether, to the salsa romantica of Cheo Feliciano, and finally, the depraved yet delightfully honest prurience of reggaeton. Papi papi dale mas duro, indeed. Sporadic fleets of minibikes stream across Puente Dos Hermanos to find love in the rankest recintos of La Perla.

All this as losing gubernatorial candidate Pedro Rosello buys himself a seat in the senate, something he accomplishes, it is rumored, by threatening a newly elected senator with exposing his underground gay life. The struggle now begins with longtime statehood senator McClintock over control of the Senate, with rabid talk show listeners peppering the airwaves with support for the blue-eyed monster. Meanwhile, on Valentine's Day, a female caller waits for an hour and a half on hold so she can declare her love for a wonderful man. How long have you been together? the announcer asks. Well, we're not together, she says. He left me.

There was an entire refrigerated case of $50 rose bouquets awaiting me at the Pueblo that afternoon, and it seemed everyone walking the streets of Condado had flowers in their hands or one of those shiny silver balloons with a red heart on it. Musicians paced in their apartments trying to devise a rhythmic structure for the Cora-Son. I drove around in circles at Plaza Las Americas until I gave up and parked on the steps leading to Level 2.


On the tiny beach on the west side of the Condado Plaza, I sat writing a poem. "Tu me has hecho mi corazon como una placita donde se puede comprar viandas y velas." The velas were for my latest book proposal, and my repetitive calls to my agent started to seem like the ones Paul Giamatti made in Sideways. (Any ideas on why this title? Wish they hadn't shown so much trailer in the theaters, and every time you open up a visual graphic in The New York Times. Would have been more pleasantly shocked by some of the plot turns. But it's not going to make me stop drinking merlot.) But the placita was a magical place, set up in the hills of Santurce, feeling like a jibaro version of the plaza mercado in Santiago, Chile where I once had some very strange fish.

Then, I got back in the car and followed these directions:
estacion de policia municipal (pasar)
entrar por bocacalle a la izquierda, voy a ver un letrero ferreteria
al final, voy a ver otro cuartel de policia municipal
virar a mano izquierda
pasar un puesto texaco
voy a encontrar otro puesto de gasolina
en el cuchillo a la derecha
pasar colmadito que dice pega tres, sigue
pasar buzones de correo a mano derecha,
meterte por bocacalle a la izquierda en letrero que dice camino los benitez
bajar subir cuchillo a la derecha
bajar otra cuesta seguir a la derecha, camino pedro bonilla
porton abierto al final

It's a good thing the porton was open because I'd left my beeper at home. I drove slowly into the driveway, and there at the front door was awaiting that rama de todas maneras rosas (Maelo's spirit lurking) I couldn't find. And the sweet smell of tropical flowers prevailed as I closed the door behind me.