Bienvenidos a la República Dominicana

After nearly the first six months, I've finally gotten out of Puerto Rico for some travel.  Sure, the first part of the weekend was spent in Miami hosting dealers who won a trip to the NASCAR race, but on Saturday morning my boss and I flew to the Dominican Republic.  Every fall, my company helps dealers fund advertising for a charity project, and the dealer in the DR holds one of the largest events and has actually won our most prestigious dealer award.  So off we went.

This is quite possibly the first time in my entire life I landed in a country that I hadn't really researched.  Normally I've got the Lonely Planet travel guide in hand months before departure, but with guests in for the half marathon the weekend before and going 100 miles an hour at work, I hadn't had so much as a second to even complete a Google search. 

I hadn't been out of the US and its territories in over four years, so I was pretty happy that'd I'd even remembered my passport (yeah new stamp!)  The first thing I noticed was the currency listed on the signs at the gas stations.  Hmmm, also failed to think about converting any cash before I left.  Got to my room and quickly did an Oanda.com search on the exchange rate of the DR peso.  The second thing I noticed was that unlike Puerto Rico, Spanish is CLEARLY the language of choice.  It's unheard of in Puerto Rico for a hotel employee to not have some level of English, but I had to break out my Spanish to converse with the staff here. 

The third thing I noticed?  I'm not sure that I'm going to be able to adjust to this Latin culture.  We were invited to a dinner party at the dealer's house as it was his birthday.  We were told we'd be picked up at 8:45 to get there by 9.  We knocked on the door precisely on time like the good little Americans we are, and are the first people to have arrived.  A steady crowd started to flow in between 9:30 and 11 and it's all the three of us (my boss's boss also flew in for the event) could do to stay awake. 

A uniformed maid answered the door when we arrived, and at least three tuxedo-clad waiters kept the drinks coming and the wine flowing.  I'm told these aren't simply people hired because it was a party, but their full time wait staff.   Ahh, so this is how the other half live.  (Well, let's face it, it's far less than a half.)  I gotta tell you, it makes me a little uncomfortable.  I remember being in Nicaragua for a wedding, and we'd be invited to the bride's family's house for lunch.  After everyone had eaten, I tried to be the daughter my mother hoped I'd be and assist with the clean up.  I'm picking up plates and asking where to put them when I'm told, "Leave them alone, dear, the maid will get it."  Awkward.  And uncomfortable. 

I say awkward and uncomfortable, and thus far I've always been on the side of the waited upon, not the one doing the waiting.  Yet that doesn't stop me from wondering what those in the role of servitude think about their lot in life.  How does it feel to watch your wealthy employer drink and dance and carry on as you clean up the spilled wine and clear the dinner plates?  Do you question the chain of events that led you both to this station, or blindly accept your fate and make the best of it?  Or, God willing, are you fundamentally happy enough with life that you don't feel the need to ponder such matters?

I'm thinking all this one night, when the next evening we learn that the dealer will not be joining us for dinner as originally planned.  He'd found out one of his employees was dangerously ill and had been taken to the hospital.  The dealer had rushed there himself to try to make things happen for his employee.  And this gets me thinking that maybe working in the homes of the wealthy are the most coveted jobs in these countries….. 

Back to party night.  Dinner was eventually served around 12:30.  The gringos were the first in line, and it was all we could do to keep from face planting in our plates we were so exhausted.  The highlight of the meal was a tasty little ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in a plantain instead of bread.  I've probably mentioned it before, but I'm a huge fan of the plantain; wrap some meat and cheese in it and I'm sold.  We bolted around 1:30, and learned the next day that the party wrapped up around 5am.  When was the last time you were at a 50-something birthday party that made it 'til nearly sunrise?  Not this girl. 

It feels weird to have spent three days in a country and to have hardly seen any of the touristy highlights.  This is one of our largest dealers, so undoubtedly I will be back – hopefully while I still have a good friend from A&M living there to show me around.   Having only glimpsed the country, I don’t feel equipped to make any sweeping generalizations, but the streets are a bit dirtier, the buildings a bit more run down, and the drivers a tad worse than Puerto Rico.  Driving into Santo Domingo from the airport, I was equally drawn to the view to the left of the gorgeous sunset over the Caribbean through the palm trees, and that to the right of run down, partially demolished buildings piled high with trash and debris.

Today I learned that for more than a year, all cruise ships ceased porting in the DR because of the pollution after a Carnival ship broke a propeller on a refrigerator.  I'm told there is no garbage service outside of the city, so those who live in the countryside use the river to dispose of their trash.  Eventually, it ends up in the ocean and a good majority gets washed up on the beaches.  I heard some statistics today about the tonnage of trash removed from the beaches that I can't regurgitate here but suffice it to say were appalling. 

In other news, somewhere in the last few weeks I've gone from telling people, "No hablo español" to "Hablo un poco español."  And I've got to tell you, it's an exhausting state to be in.  I was totally mentally fatigued after a full day at the dealership, straining to listen to each Spanish conversation in hopes of catching enough to get the gist of it.  At least the Dominicans are slightly easier to understand than the crazy pidgin Spanish the Puerto Ricans use, but I desperately need to get over this hump;  right now I'm thinking it would be much easier if I were oblivious!

I Love Puerto Rico!

Or Puerto Stinko, as Insta-Friend referred to it tonight.  I’d been thinking it was time for a new post, but really wasn’t feeling inspired.  Since Dad left, nothing much exciting has happened.  Well, except spending Halloween weekend like a 25 year old in Vegas, but even then I didn’t have any really interesting stories to share.  Oh, and dealing with a mild tick infestation.  But I can’t elaborate on that here if I ever expect my sister to visit.  Let’s just say I’d been warned they are a problem here, little did I know.

Well, careful what you wish for, right?  Today was a very strange day.  It started with a meeting I was hosting at work to train the Puerto Rico dealers on selling our Extended Service Plans.  Have you ever thought about what it might be like to be in charge of the ebb and flow of a meeting that is largely being conducted in a language you don’t entirely understand?  I have.  It’s disconcerting.  Sure, they all speak English, and do so when addressing me, but it’s not their first choice.  When the conversation gets going, they all revert to Spanish, and I’m sure I’d do the same.  Fortunately, my coworker was there to assist, but when you’re supposed to be the one keeping things moving and you have no feel for the mood or context of the conversation, of if what you're about to talk about has actually just been discussed, it's a challenge.

After two and a half hours of that, I went straight to my Spanish lesson, also stressful.  We’re getting past the stuff I already knew, and it seems more often than not, when we’re done I have a mild headache.  After the lesson I had a phone call from our Michigan offices that turned into an in-depth conversation about the math behind the Return on Investment required for a promotion I want to run.  This also proved stressful, as I was finding the math WAY too difficult for someone with an MBA.  Ugh.

I left the office spot on five o’clock, not sure if I was headed straight home or making a detour at the gym.  Usually, if I leave right at five, it doesn’t take me more than a half hour to make the five mile trek home, and most of the time I can do it in 20 minutes.  Well, not tonight.  Tonight we set a new record: One Hour and Eight Minutes to go 4.9 miles.  For absolutely no good reason other than there are far too many people on the road here without a clue how to drive, let alone when there’s a mild sprinkle falling.  Ugh.  Needless to say, the time I would have spent at the gym I instead spent in the car, so straight home I went.

As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong.  There was a noise coming from the back bedroom like someone had a power blower on.  Turned out it wasn’t a blower, but a toilet that had turned into Old Faithful and was spewing water all over the back half of the apartment.  Hence, Puerto Stinko.  Luckily, it was clean water because it was ALL OVER the master bedroom.  Into the closet, pooled under the bed, bathmats completely soaked, bed skirt saturated.   After the commute home, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I turned the water off and the spewing stopped, then called the landlord.  She gave me the number for a plumber who didn’t answer.  I googled “Puerto Rico Roto Rooter” and came up with nothing.  So I called my contact from the relocation firm my company has us work with, and she is a miracle worker.  Scheduled a plumber to come out at 8pm.  I was told the relo company gets 10% of our rent each month the entire time we are posted here.  As far as I’m concerned, it’s money well spent to know I have someone I can call with connections.

Not knowing where to start with the clean up, I drug all the bathmats out onto the patio.  Thinking about how many towels and how many runs of the dryer it was going to take to soak up all that water, I knew I had to come up with another plan.  My first thought was that I really wish I had the shammy demo guy from the Puyallup Fair on speed dial.  I could’ve used a couple dozen shammies.  Obviously that wasn’t going to pan out, but it did lead to my second thought.  I have a big window squeegee the previous renters left for washing the big patio windows.  And the floors are tile.  So I squeegeed the water all through the bedroom, into the bathroom and down the shower drain.  I thought my walk in shower was kind of cool and modern, little did I know it would also prove handy and functional; I could just push the flow right down the drain.

It took about an hour to squeegee the place, and the best part is, the floors probably haven’t been this clean since, well, the last time the place flooded.  The real miracle of the night? The plumber showed up on time!  Took him 10 minutes to replace a hose and be on his merry way.  And put one more check in the column for never owning a home again.

Mi Primer Huesped

Ahhh, Puerto Rico.  It’s the end of October but you’d never know it.  The weather hardly has changed at all since I first got here in June.  Today I spent the early afternoon on the beach, watching the teenaged surfers and feeling a little (OK, a lot) like Mrs. Robinson.  The guys playing paddle board in the surf were slightly more age appropriate, but they were wearing wedding rings.  Though the jury’s still out on exactly what that means to the average Puerto Rican male.  Ahhh, Puerto Rico.  Anyhoo….

I had my first guest last week.  I just sent my Dad back to rainy Washington yesterday morning.  It was good to see him and good to have some company.  It’ll also be nice that he has a frame of reference from now on during our weekly chats.  Of course I had to put him to work for a few days – what are dads for?  After borrowing a coworker’s drill to put some screws in the concrete, the place is really looking like home now that there are things on the walls.  The footboard of my bed set hasn’t been attached to the frame in the six years I’ve had it.  This wasn’t a big deal when my bedroom had carpet, but on the marble floors it was sliding all over the place.  After finally finding the Home Depot (third time’s a charm) we were able to find something he could use to screw it all together.  Yeah! 

We had some fun, too.  The first Friday he was here we took a brief tour through Old San Juan before heading back to my ‘hood for a light dinner and a night at the casino.  Second weekend in a row I’ve introduced Three Card Poker to someone, and “someone” came out a couple hundred ahead.  I’ve apparently paid my luck forward because I can’t seem to win for losing.  Saturday we did the Home Depot run and opted for a night in since the plan was to get up early and drive out to Toro Verde Adventure Park for a canopy tour.

On the phone with Dad a couple of weeks before his trip, I’d joked, “It’s not like we’ll be doing any canopy tours or anything.” To which he responded, “Why not?”  So I went to work researching canopy tour options.  I’d done one before, in Costa Rica, and it scared the crap out of me.  However, I’d always thought it wasn’t a “real” canopy tour because we never got more than about 50 feet off the ground and the lines weren’t more than a couple hundred feet long.  And it still scared me.  But I figured if Dad was going to do it, we were going to do it right and Toro Verde came recommended by the drill-lending coworker. 

The tour consists of eight lines that crisscross a valley.  I was nervous, but the good thing about this tour is that you sort of gradually find yourself hundreds of feet of the ground; there’s no stomach-dropping start like a bungee jump or that giant swing thing I’ve done a couple of times.  So I warmed up to the experience and stopped myself from dwelling on the fact that I was basically being held above the ground by two carabineers and some nylon.  There was more hiking involved than I know Dad wanted, but this was the real meal deal.  The last line was a half a mile long and over 600 feet off the ground.  I almost had to bail on that one, but couldn’t chicken out at the very end.  I got up so much speed that I had to let go all together and when my hard hat touched the line I could smell it melting.  Awesome.  Now that I’ve done it I don’t know if I’ll feel better or worse about doing it when the next guests want to!

Half the adventure was the drive out there.  About a half hour out of San Juan we turned up a narrow, winding road full of hairpin turns.  It was very pretty and lush and you felt like you were heading out to the middle of nowhere.  But people must live out there as every few turns there’d be a local little bar tucked into a wide spot in the road.  If not for the bottle of wine and half a bottle of whiskey on my patio the night before, I would have been tempted to stop and see if I could chat up any of the locals. 

Dad had to keep himself busy the next three days while I was at work.  On Thursday, we went out to El Yunque, the only tropical rainforest in the US National Parks system.  We spent a couple of hours there; stopped at the visitor’s center and then hit a few of the sites along the main road through the park.  We then decided to keep heading east and find a nice place near the water for lunch and a cerveza.  Well, for an island with over 300 miles of coast line, it’s surprisingly difficult to find a waterfront restaurant in this place.  We drove for hours through parts of towns I’m sure very few non-natives have ever seen before we finally threw in the towel and headed back to Condado. 

Friday we did a few more projects.   We needed a different size screw and when Walgreens had nothing for us I asked the cashier if there was a hardware store nearby.  My Rosetta Stone is paying off, because when she obviously didn’t know “hardware store” I was able to pull “ferreteria” out of thin air.  (If I had more confidence I could have led with “Hay una ferreteria cerca de aqui?” but alas, not there yet.)  That night we had dinner at the Italian place on the corner for the second time (Dad loves the Italian sausage appetizer for his meal – is anyone surprised?) and then went back to the casino, which was a bust for all.

Again, I know I’m adjusting because of Dad’s reaction to the traffic and the drivers.  What is now just a normal day on the roads for me is still worthy of comment from the newcomers.  He made a great observation, “It’s like they all just got cars about six months ago and are trying to see what they can do.”  (I do fit in a lot better now that my Explorer has a nice gash along the driver’s side – came too close to a concrete wall and the wall won.)

Three weeks until the next guests arrive.  Unfortunately, that also means half marathon time.  I’ve made up my mind to walk it.  Not only have I not been training for this run, I haven’t been working out at all.  The gym finally opened three weeks ago and I’ve been exactly three times.  This is the week, though, that I get back on track, start eating right, and get in shape again!

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

A good friend (love you BH2) put this on her Facebook page the other day, and you may have seen it shared on mine.  Never were truer words spoken.  I had a plan.  But once the Australian dumped me and I realized I wasn’t going to marry my college sweetheart, another plan went into motion.  I was going to go to grad school and have a CAREER, by God.   I often joke about the fact that I went through my midlife crisis at 26, when off to Texas I went.  But what you might not have known is that deep in my heart and mind, I still had a back up:  I’d get married in time to have two kids, one at 36 and one at 38.  With my 39^th birthday not too many months off, it looks like this plan is shot to hell, as well.

Which I’m surprisingly OK with.  Many of you know that 2010 was a shit year for the Muehlenbruch clan.  I don’t want to bring any of you to tears, but losing a parent kind of makes you take stock of things.  I made some changes on the personal front, and others fell into place.  My sister and I vowed that 2011 was going to be our year.  She got a big promotion with her company in March, and shortly after, I got this move.  And as I said in my last post, I know it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

A couple of weeks ago, I went back to Puyallup for my 20 Year High School Reunion.   I’m still at a loss as to how that happened.  I remember when my parents went to my mom’s 20 Year – I was 14, for heaven’s sake.  She seemed so old to me then, how could I possibly be that age?  I remember her telling me that the 10 Year was nothing but an extension of high school – everyone is still in their cliques and trying to show off all they’ve done, which it was. But she told me by the 20 Year people were over it.  And so I was really excited for the reunion.  A woman whom I was really good friends with in junior high, before we drifted apart in high school, had put on her Facebook page something to the effect of, “I look forward to seeing everyone and watching the cliques crumble like the Berlin Wall.” (Appropriate, since we were in high school when that happened.) 

I tell you all this because I’m not sure there’s a better judge of how comfortable you are with where you are in life than having to attend your 20 Year Reunion.  And I can say with total confidence, I honestly didn’t give a SHIT what anyone thought.  The best part of the night?   Seeing the people who obviously felt the exact same way.

Granted, I think I’ve done well for myself.  I have a great career with a company I’m proud to say that I work for.  I’m spending the next three years in an arrangement some people will only ever dream of; but we all judge success differently.  I am 100 percent certain that there were people at my reunion who measure success by marriage and family, and in their eyes I’ve failed miserably.  And that's OK – to each their own.

Because I'm pretty excited about the next three years.  It finally feels like I am settling in for the duration.  Going back and forth from a hotel never feels like home, and even once I moved into my place, I had a trip planned every few weeks, between Vegas the end of August and Puyallup the end of September.  Now that all that is behind me this has finally started to feel permanent.  Over the last week, I've randomly run into people I know around my neighborhood.  I see tourists on the street wandering aimlessly, probably looking for somewhere to eat (my 'hood is surprisingly 'chain' free) and I no longer feel like one of them.  I'm ever so slightly more comfortable attempting to speak Spanish.  All of these things - combined with the fact that my insta-friend is finally here permanently – have me excited about seeing all that Puerto Rico, and the Caribbean, for that matter, have to offer.  Stay tuned!

Soy de Puerto Rico?

Where are you from?  It’s a question I’ve struggled with since leaving Western Washington, where I’ll always be “from.”  The question, of course, is very different from “Where do you live?”  But for a good majority of the population, the answers are the same.  In Vegas a couple weeks back, if someone asked where we were from, I just went with the group and answered Seattle.  Can I say I’m from Puerto Rico?  (In Spanish, the answer to the title question is no, I cannot.)  I sure as hell don’t look like it, talk like it, or have a name like it.  The General Manager at one of the accounts I work with had a jolly laugh about how quintessentially “American” I look.  Whoever dares ask me this question during the next three years better prepare for a lengthy answer, “I just moved to Puerto Rico from Texas, where I lived for 12 years since moving from Washington State.”  There. Not so bad – under 20 words!

Regardless if I look it or not, I have made big strides toward settling in during the last couple of weeks.   Charlie got a haircut last Friday, and I got myself scheduled for one next weekend, as well.  This is a big step, first time in 12 years anyone new has touched my hair.  I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous, especially since my 20 Year High School Reunion is the following weekend!  Not exactly the best timing to be branching out with a new stylist, but what’s a girl to do?

I’ve also finally started my Spanish lessons!  I had my first session with my tutor last week.  She told me I really need to relax and start speaking because I know more than I think I do.  To which my standard reply is “Mi espanol es perfecto quando estoy borracha.”  (My Spanish is perfect when I am drunk.)  I read somewhere that students who are perfectionists about their school work tend not to do well at foreign language because they don’t want to make mistakes, something that’s inevitable when studying a language, and this fits me to a tee.  When I try to speak, everything comes out sounding like a question, because I’m questioning whether I’ve said it correctly.  Which is ridiculous.  No one in their right mind is going to make fun of somebody who is making an honest effort to speak their language.  At Texas A&M, three of my very best friends were from various countries throughout Central America.  They all spoke English as their second language.  Was it always perfect? No.  Did I always understand what they meant?  Mostly.  Was I always insanely jealous they could speak two languages?  Absolutely.

So once I got a taste for it, I decided two hours a week isn’t going to be enough.  I finally took the plunge and splurged on a Rosetta Stone.  I don’t know why I didn’t do it months ago.  It really is a great way to learn.  And it’s not only lessons on CD; once you finish a unit, you can schedule a live online session with a native speaker to practice.  It’s doing wonders for my confidence, and so far I’ve managed a couple of conversations with the building’s evening security guard, who doesn’t understand a lick of English.  I’ve calculated how many lessons there are on my Rosetta Stone, and if I can get one done a day, between that and my tutor I’m hoping for some measure of fluency by Christmas.  Last Friday I was at a meeting with all eight Puerto Rico dealers that was conducted entirely in Spanish.  The general manager asked if they minded doing the meeting in English (which lasted about seven minutes) and I hated that they’d have to do that for me (well, and my boss.)  The coworker coming in from LA is also gung-ho to learn, so my competitive spirit won’t let him get better than me.  I’ve always wanted to be bilingual, and it’s now or never.  Let’s do this!

I’ve also managed to put in some beach time the last couple of weekends.  (Gotta work on the tan for the reunion.)  There is way too much Speedo wearing for my liking around here.  Don’t get me wrong, I find Puerto Rican men EXTREMELY attractive, despite the fact that at least half a dozen people have told me to stay as far away from them as possible.  But man, some things really should be left to the imagination.  Maybe they were tourists; who knows?  But I sure hope the guy who set up camp next to me last weekend with his full body tattoos, nipple rings, and polka-dot Speedo was gay, because that wasn’t AT ALL attractive to this red-blooded female.

The ocean has always fascinated me.  I read somewhere that over 80% of all life on earth is in the ocean (it could have been Wikipedia, so don’t quote me.)  I can keep my mind busy for hours, just sitting in my beach chair watching the waves roll in.  Some questions I could research – “how long can crabs hold their breath?” while others will remain forever unanswered – “I wonder where that piece of drift wood came from” and for others only time will tell – “how long until the waves beat down that rock formation?”  Because the water always wins: the Grand Canyon,  the 12 Apostles in Australia and countless other examples that don’t come to mind right now prove that eventually, the tenacity of the waves and the current will win the war.  

I’ve had a couple of beach stalkers so far, too.  Today I was haunted by crabs. Granted, I’m not talking about anything of the Deadliest Catch variety, or even anything as big as what you might find on the Washington Coast.  But they weren’t little sand crabs, either.  I’d say they were about baseball size.  Enough that if they were to sneak up on you for a pinch on the toe it would surely give you a fright.  While I’m certain the little guy wanted less to do with me than I him, it was all I could do to keep track of him.  And the more I tried to keep an eye on him, the more crabs I found there were to keep my eye on.  They are cool but creepy, with their beady little eyes and oversized pinchers.  And they can scoot, too.  I never realized how fast crabs can go – I won’t be taking any in a foot race anytime soon.

My other beach stalker was of the human variety.  Labor Day weekend I went down to the nice beach and paid my three dollars to rent a lounge chair.  It was early, about 10 am, and not many were on the beach yet.  I’m quietly reading my book when I notice a man, barefoot but dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, wandering the area with a half-drunk Heineken in hand.  Sure enough, I accidentally made eye contact and he started babbling at me in Spanish.  I told him I don’t understand and he wandered off, only to return two or three times, all up in my personal space, still babbling though I’m saying over and over with increasing irritation that I don’t understand him.  Then he starts in with, “Muy bonita, muy bonita.”  Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m wearing a bathing suit, I’ll take a ‘muy bonita’ from just about anyone, even a half-drunk homeless man at 10 in the morning.  (Shortly thereafter he passed out on the concrete wall separating the beach from the street.)

All in all, things are still going well.  Yes, I’ve had a few cultural frustrations (like when the hurricane shutter repair guy said he’d be here at 10 and showed up at 2, only to work until 8pm on a Friday and infringe on the one night I’d actually made plans with someone.)  I’ve felt a little sad when I am sitting around alone while things are going on in Washington or Dallas that I would normally be a part of.  But when I take a step back and look at the big picture, I still know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Honeymoon. Is. Over.

After four days back in the cool efficiency of the U.S. of A., I’m about to lose it after just 24 hours back in Puerto Rico.  I’m really questioning how I am going to deal with the crowds and the traffic for the next three years.  I’m either going to have myself a cardiac event and a couple of ulcers, or finally learn to chill out and relax about the things I cannot control.  Or just drink a lot.  Which seems to be the plan so far.

I live five miles from my office.  Most days, it takes me about 30-35 minutes to get home.  Occasionally, if I walk out the door no later than 5:01, I can do it in 10-15 minutes.  If it’s raining, forget it.  It can take up to an hour, which means if I’m feeling particularly athletic that day, it would literally be possible for me to run home quicker than to drive. 

It’s not just the mass of humanity; it’s the complete lack of urban planning that went into organizing traffic flow.  I really hope THAT guy is out of a job.  Actually, it’s a little ridiculous to even suggest there was any thought put into an “urban plan.”  It’s hard to explain, but there are very few ‘rules’ to driving in Puerto Rico.  It’s completely acceptable to pull out in front of people, block traffic from all directions while you nose your way into a left turn, stop in the middle of the lane and decide you want to back up, or stop all together in the middle of the road if there is no where to park.  Each and every one of these sends me into a tailspin of rage that I’ve been told I really need to learn to control.  And not just because it’s not good for my stress level, but because the Puerto Ricans apparently are no strangers to a little gun violence with their road rage.

A few weeks ago, returning from my epic venture to the Wal-Mart in Caguas, I happened across a toll booth on the way home.  Six lanes of traffic were WIDE OPEN – for those with toll tags.  Of course, I hadn’t gotten around to doing that yet.  So my fate was a total clusterf*ck of AT LEAST a hundred vehicles crammed into what might have been two lanes trying to pay an attendant.  After not moving for over five minutes, I decided I didn’t care what the fine was (this would run me no more than $25 in Dallas, and I was more than willing to pay $25 to get out of that line.) I said, F it, and blew through the completely empty express lanes.  Only to find out on Monday the fine is $100.  I’m really hoping when the bill comes I can put my blonde hair to use and play the “but I really didn’t know, sir” card.  (I can always tell him I couldn't read the signs, that's no lie.)

So the Monday after this toll experience, the boss, my other coworker (a Puerto Rican local,) and I headed to the toll office to get me and the boss tags.  Coworker had to come to be the translator.  Since the Australian boyfriend, my biggest fear while traveling is being the stereotypical American – impatient, self-important, expecting everyone to speak English (well, maybe not so much that last bit while in Australia, but you get my point.)  So I stood there patiently waiting our turn for over an hour, despite my boss insisting I go ask about our status several times.  Finally, I give in, ask, and get someone to assist us.  Only for our names to be the very next called.  Oh well, 90 minutes is more than enough time to wait to get a freaking toll tag.

I go shopping and after wandering my way through new stores (K-Mart, of all places, is popular here – no Target yet) I find myself waiting in line to pay for over a half an hour.  Back in Dallas, I would have abandoned my cart about 10 minutes in and gone somewhere else.  But here, even if I could find a “somewhere else,” I know the line would be just as long.  There’s really no point.  It’s a whole different way of living that is going to take some getting used to after the wide open spaces of Texas.  Looks like it’s time for another glass of wine….

Irene - Tropical Storm or Hurricane?

Monday, August 22^nd

Jesus.  Excuse my language, but holy shit.  Sunday night/Monday morning, Tropical Storm Irene blew through Puerto Rico.  Yes, Tropical Storm.  Not a hurricane.  I can’t even imagine and probably won’t have to since some level of hurricane is inevitable during my stay.  Of course, I would have been oblivious to the whole thing if not for a text from Dallas on Sunday afternoon:

2:00 – Text from Sammy in Dallas asking me if Charlie and I are hunkered down.  I have absolutely no idea what he is talking about (I can’t find local news in English, and even if I could I probably still wouldn’t know what was going on.  Must add regular viewing of the Weather Channel to the to-do list.)

3:00 – Rain starts hammering and I wish I would have brought the furniture in off the patio.  It’s soaked.  I can’t see the beach through the rain.

4:00 – Rain stops and pretty much dries up.  Still very windy.  Head to the corner store for provisions (aka - splurged on the $10.99 six pack of Michelob Ultra for my Hurricane Party for one.)

5:30 – Rain picks up again. This time I move the nearly dry patio furniture inside.  Power and cable go out.  Generator kicks on, have power but no TV or internet.  It’s REALLY windy.  Palm trees are blowing every which way and I’m thinking this is kind of cool.

7:30 – Cable comes back on, so I get to watch most of the Cowboys game.  Wind is really blowing now and the rain is hammering.  Not quite so cool in the dark.

10:30 – Power and cable go out again.  The generator kicks on, but I miss the last five minutes of the game.  I try to go to bed, but my bedroom is on the eastern side of the building and the whole eastern wall is a huge sliding glass patio door.  It’s chattering and slamming and the hurricane shutter that I can’t get closed is banging around.  Head back out to sleep on the couch.  Fall asleep around 11:30.

1:00 – Wake up from the clattering and banging of the western facing sliding glass door.  I can see the glass flexing in the wind and the noise is making it impossible to sleep.  I start to worry about the glass blowing right out and then realize I don’t have renter’s insurance yet.   Sit on the couch for about an hour and a half, curled up in a ball with my heart pounding, waiting for the worst.  I live on the sixth floor of an 18 story building made of concrete and I can feel it swaying side to side.  Charlie is sleeping like it’s his job. (Come to find out that this was actually the timing of the WORST part of the storm.)

2:30 – Finally head to guest bedroom in the middle of the apartment to try to get some sleep.  Figure whatever is going to happen is going to happen.  The wind is no longer cool.  It’s downright sinister. 

4:00 – I may have dozed for a few minutes on and off but can't get any good sleep due to the noise.  And I have to get up every 20 minutes to make sure the windows are intact.  At one point I walk into the living room and step in a huge puddle of water.  As I appreciate the fact that I am renting, I grab and towel and soak it up, figuring this is why the floors are marble tiles and not carpet.

Sometime around 4:30, I finally fell asleep.  The chattering of the hurricane shutters finally died to a point where I wasn’t consumed with the thought that any minute the glass doors would burst.  The office was closed today – no power, internet, or air conditioning will do that.  So I spent all day at home without TV or internet.  I have some serious cabin fever.  Charlie and I got out for a walk around 2pm. The streets are absolutely littered with palm tree debris.  Entire light posts are bent in half and billboards are down.  The streets and sidewalks are an obstable course of downed limbs and branches.  Let the clean up efforts begin!

Wednesday, August 24^th

I was so excited to see some blue sky peeking out this morning! It's been raining for over 48 hours.  And not a nice Seattle drizzle, but tropical, heavy rain.  I’ve just finally done some research, and from what I can tell, Irene was just below hurricane status when it passed over San Juan.  At 11pm on Sunday night, reports said we had sustained winds at 70 MPH.  I've learned that 74 MPH makes it a hurricane.  That report was two or three hours before the worst of it, so it had to be right on the cusp of official hurricane status.  I can’t explain the sense of relief that gives me.  It was pretty scary, so at least I don't have to live with the mystery of wondering what a real hurricane would be like.  Now I have a measuring stick by which to compare all future potential storms.  Living in Houston, you could always just get in the car and drive inland if you wanted to get away from a threatening storm.  You don't have that option in Puerto Rico; the entire island is about 30 miles wide.  God help me if a Category 2 or worse heads my way.  

My boss here is a California native.  We’ve chatted a bit about living in earthquake territory, and how I was leaving tornado country, and I thought I’d prefer hurricanes.  They have a decided advantage over earthquakes and tornados in that you can see them coming.  Well, after this experience, I might prefer 20 minutes huddled in the bathtub to eight hours of pounding winds.  Tornados and earthquakes wreak their havoc in a relatively short period of time.  Irene went on for hours.

We went back to work yesterday, and it was nice to get out of the house.  My building is still on generator power, and the cable and internet finally came on as I was getting into bed last night.  After two full days being alone with my thoughts and no TV to distract me, I welcomed heading to the office.  Once there, I learned several co-workers were still without power and water.  So I decided not to bitch too much about not having the internet.  I did make it the first 25 years of my life without it, after all.  Though it was rough trying to do my Fantasy Football draft from my cell phone and I fear my team will suffer the entire season because of it!

Home Sweet Home!

Well, I’m in.  After a week of unpacking and organizing, me and all my worldly possessions (less three plastic totes of exterior Christmas decorations sent to my Dad’s farmhouse for safe keeping) are once again under the same roof.  And it feels good.  It seems like just yesterday I was wishing it was the middle of August and I was settled.  It took three attempts to finally get the couch in. The first delivery day they discovered the elevator was too small.  The second try, the building’s elevator guy was on vacation and they sent some scab who clearly didn’t know how to work the elevator and scared the crap out of the moving company guys.  Finally this past Monday the stars aligned - it’s in, so we can be damn sure they can get it out!

The couch situation about put me over the edge, though.  It was one of those little things that showed me how close to the precipice all this transition has put me.  I can’t explain how frustrating it was to stand there and listen to the movers talk and strategize about how to get the couch upstairs and not understand a single thing they said.  As far as I knew, the conversation on Second Attempt Day went something like this: “Yeah, we can probably get it up there, but I really just don’t feel like it today.  Let’s go back to the warehouse.”  I’d have been none the wiser. 

That said, my first Spanish tutor flaked out on me.  On the day that was to finally be our first lesson, after two cancelled sessions before that, I finally texted him when he was 20 minutes late and he responded that he’d gotten a full time job, didn’t my relocation counselor tell me?  So now I have a new lady who comes highly recommended by the company people before me.  We are supposed to start next week.  In the absence of formal instruction, I am making progress, though.  I always felt that if I was just in a situation where I was surrounded by Spanish that I could pick it up, and I can already tell that I understand more simple conversations in the office.  I’m as excited as a kindergartener sounding out his first word when I comprehend an entire sentence or question. 

So, I don’t have any excuses for not getting out and meeting people.  This is it.  This is my situation for the next three years.  As mentioned in a previous post, I always figured when I got relocated I would just join a CrossFit and meet people there.  It worked so well in Grapevine that I had no doubts it would work elsewhere.  Except I hadn’t planned for the fact I’d move to a corner of the world that CrossFit hadn’t yet infiltrated.  So I joined the new fancy gym in town.  Apparently the only other one is in Manhattan and it’s the latest craze.  I was warned about how expensive it was when I told coworkers I was going to check it out.  Turns out it’s half a much a month as CrossFit.  It’s so new it doesn’t open until September 1.  But they boast of 50 different kinds of classes, things like Kettle Krazy (very high hopes for this one) and Anti-Gravity Yoga (not so sure about this one) so surely I can find a class or two I like and meet some people that way. 

I also caved and signed up for the freaking half marathon in November.  Three friends from three completely separate eras of my life who have never met will be joining me in Puerto Rico for the run and I couldn’t be more excited.  Last night while walking Charlie I finally got brave enough to break into a jog, and found it’s not so bad having to pay such close attention to the road.  It breaks up the monotony of running that I so loathe.  So I paid my money and even if we end up blowing it off and walking the thing with a thermos full of mimosa (and by “we” I mean Lynda and I, I am sure Kim and Jessie have more willpower!) at least I have a goal to work toward.  I should probably research if there are any “running clubs” in the area and use that as an excuse to meet people.

The Friday before last, a coworker invited me and the other new guy moving in from LA to happy hour with some of her  friends.  The happy hour was a celebration for a woman in their circle who’d just taken a position in Austin.  When she found out I’d just moved from Dallas, she mentioned the terrible heat in Texas recently.  She said, “So it’s a good thing electricity is cheaper, because I guess you just leave the air conditioning on all the time, right?”  Uh, yeah.  On full time and it blows 24/7 and still doesn’t get to the temp you have it set at until about four in the morning.   I’ve learned that even among the educated, well-to-do of Puerto Rico, air conditioning isn’t an expectation.  It’s something you turn on for special occasions or when the weather is particularly extreme.  Not even my apartment, that rents for $4000 a month, has central air; I have five window units throughout the place and it really only requires having one on to take the humidity out of the air.  That said, would I live here without it?  Hell no.

I’m off to Vegas next week.  A trip with my sister and some other friends for my cousin Katie’s 21^st birthday.  This will be my first venture making the eight-plus hour flight and dealing with that three hour time change.  When I lived in Texas, Megan was no stranger to chewing my ass the first day or so I was back in Washington for wanting to go to bed early, we’ll see if the Vegas magic can overcome yet another hour!  (I stayed out of the casino last weekend so that maybe gambling and free drinks will seem like a novelty again when I get there!) 

Settling In....

After nine more nights in a hotel, Charlie and I officially moved into our place this past Tuesday.  It feels good to be home, even if home is pretty much empty and we are sleeping on an air mattress.  I could have stayed in a hotel until they deliver my things on Monday, but I just couldn't stand Charlie being so close and not being able to see him everyday.

Our first night, Tropical Storm Emily was on her way.  The governor called a meeting and let all the federal employees go home early, encouraging the private sector to do the same.  We got dismissed at three.  (Which was handy, since I had to leave then anyhow to be home for the kennel to drop off Charlie.)  I stood on my patio for an hour and a half that night watching the sunset.  We got a lot of rain the next day, but the whole event felt slightly familiar.  Ahhh….it's like listening to the news in DFW when they are forecasting snow.  However, with snow you can stay home and avoid it.  If it's the one in ten times the hurricane is for real, Katie bar the door.

I've seen a bit more of the greater San Juan area in the last couple of weeks.  And I'll steal a quote from a 1995 classic, Clueless.  "Don't you think she's pretty? No, she's a full on Monet.  What's a Monet?  It's like a painting, see?  From far away, it's OK, but up close, it's a big ole mess." 

On Saturday, I drove about 15 miles south to the town of Caguas because I was told it was the nicest Wal-Mart around.  And it was a nice Wal-Mart, but the drive was beautiful.  Good thing, since it took me two hours to find the Wal-Mart, but I digress.  I really wish I could afford a chauffer so that I could stare at the scenery more instead of having to drive.  Because I get to gawking at the lush, tropical, greenery and the pretty little houses tucked in the hillside…..and then BAM!!!!  I'm jolted out of my reverie when I hit an 18 inch deep pothole and worry that the entire front tire is going to come off. 

You think I exaggerate, but I swear, the potholes are out of control.  You've got to watch the sidewalks, too.  Walking out of my hotel to most of the restaurants, there's an area of sidewalk with four or five 12 by 6 inch mini-manhole covers to the water system.  One of the covers has been missing since my very first trip two months ago.  It leaves a gapping hole full of water just prime for someone to stick a foot in and break a leg.  I've found a similar situation just outside my condo, and I'm worried about Charlie because he doesn't pay attention like I do.  If a street in Anywhere, USA (and by USA I mean the 50 states) had as many road and sidewalk hazards as San Juan, you'd be walking or driving through an obstacle course of orange construction cones and yellow caution tape.  But here, you are left to fend for yourself.  Guess the Puerto Ricans aren't quite as litigious as we Americans. 

Another issue is the homeless.  I'll admit it, I'm a suburban girl.  I lived in Puyallup, WA, and left well before it had grown into what it is today.  And Flower Mound, TX, is possibly the height of middle class suburbia.  It's new, it's clean, and doesn't stand for any homeless people lurking about.  Other than my three years living close to downtown Houston, it's not something I'm used to, and even it Houston, certainly not on a daily basis.

But here, everyone has their corners, and there's one on just about every corner.  My Texas republican friends will call me a bleeding heart democrat; others will say I’m just a good person.  But I feel like if I start, I won't stop.  It's so hard to drive by them every day, knowing what that fiver in my wallet means to me and what it might mean to that guy. I see three on a regular basis before I get to the highway on my way to work. (The one in the wheelchair with the little dog of course gets to me the most.)  Quick math says even a dollar each a day is $21 a week (no weekends off), $84 a month, $1008 a year, and $3024 during my tenure in Puerto Rico.  Hmmm…..

I might start but for the fact that the woman who owns one of the distributors I work with (who's reputation is one of the kindest, most generous people you will meet) told me it's all for drugs.  There's no good system to rehabilitate anyone and the money goes straight to their fix.  So the guy with the pitiful look on his face, rubbing his stomach as I pulled out of the Burger King drive thru this morning is really just a good actor.  Half of me still wants to give him the buck if his fix lets him escape for awhile. 

The Feeling Update: still no real signs.  I've been waiting for it.  I know it can come out of nowhere and just knock the life out of you.  But the other night, I realized something.  Sure, I'm older, I'm wiser, more worldly and experienced since I last had The Feeling.  But I've also been through something since then that makes all other challenging experiences pale in comparison.  When I compare starting over in a foreign land with no family or friends to losing my mother, I'd start over every day if I could have one more with her. 

It's Official!

Just over two months since I learned of my new position, I’ve made my final trip from Texas.  Granted, I still own property there, but with no immediate plans to return, Puerto Rico is now home.

So I'm waiting for The Feeling to set in.  Some of you may be familiar with it, but for those who aren't, allow me some background.

When I was 22, I packed bags and headed to Australia, no return date in mind.  Oh, the first two weeks were great; reunited with my boyfriend, we explored Sydney, and then traveled to his college town where I finally got to meet and party with all his friends.  But the time came for me to board a train and head to Rockhampton, where I would be doing an internship at the university there.  The thinking was sound; if I was going to marry this guy (definitely the plan at the time,) I'd better be damn sure I like the country, with or without him around.

The next two weeks were a disaster.  The Feeling of utter isolation set in.  I was a 12 hour drive from my boyfriend, and a 14 hour flight from everyone and everything I'd ever known.  Every morning, I woke up in tears.  I cried through the shower, and tried to get it together by the time I got to the office.  Occasionally I wasn't successful, and had to close my office door to pull myself together.  I was living in a dorm, and there were plenty of other Americans around, but they'd been there for months and already formed their cliques. 

Finally, I went to see the university counselor.  She had me take a quiz with about 100 different life events listed on it.  Each event had a certain number of points associated with it.  I scored off the charts.  Once she told me it was perfectly normal to feel the way I did with all the changes I'd been through, the tears dried up and for the most part the next eight months went off without a hitch.

I had a small twinge of The Feeling as I stood on the porch of my apartment in College Station and waved my family good-bye after our Clark Griswald style road trip to move me to Texas A&M.  But the next day I met the rest of my fellow classmates, and then ensued the best two years of my life.

My next experience with The Feeling happened after graduation from Texas A&M.  Again I packed my bags, headed for Europe this time.  While others were planning to join me on and off throughout my six week stay, the first part I was flying solo.  I landed in Paris, found the hotel, walked around a bit for some dinner, and headed in for the night.

I was suffering from the kind of jetlag that only traveling west to east can evoke.  You can make yourself stay up if you're tired, but you can't make yourself go to sleep if you're not.  I lay there for hours and again the tears set in like they hadn't since Australia six years earlier.  The Feeling was back.  Finally around four in the morning, I gave myself a stern talking to.  I told myself if I didn't want to be there I could get on a plane and go back to Texas in the morning.  Well, that sobered me up – I'd always wanted to backpack Europe – and once again the tears were gone and I was fine the rest of the trip.

So I'm waiting for The Feeling now.  This is it.  This is a permanent arrangement.  Well, at least a three year arrangement, not a few weeks or months.  Backing out would mean giving up a 10 year career, and I'm certainly not about to do that; if The Feeling comes, I'll just have to deal with it. 

I am the first of three people relocating from the States to Puerto Rico with my company this summer.  So there's some hope with two other 'newbies' I'll have some insta-friends to hang out with.  My calendar is also filling up quickly, either with trips back to the States or with friends planning to visit.  Perhaps something to look forward to each month will keep The Feeling away.

It's also entirely possible that technology has rendered The Feeling irrelevant.  When I was in Australia, it was nearly two bucks a minute to call home.  It was 1995 and email was just coming onto the scene.  But now, between cell phones, text messages, email and Facebook, it's much easier (and cheaper) to "reach out and touch someone" if you're feeling a bit lonely.

Or perhaps it won't be until I'm sitting in my condo, surrounded by my things, that reality sets in and The Feeling takes over.  Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

In other news, I have tomorrow off for Puerto Rico Constitution Day.  Yes, all my usual holidays and some other randoms.  Hopefully the weather will be nice and I can finally get in some quality beach time!

Second Impressions.....

I am just wrapping up the first week of my second trip to Puerto Rico, the second of three visits living in a hotel.  I can move into my condo on August 1, and it can't come soon enough.  I'm tired of eating out, and my poor dog is a vagabond.

Thing I love: The weather.  Yes, it's a bit humid, but a nice ocean breeze keeps it from being anywhere near as miserable as I remember Houston and College Station to be.  And it's about 20 degrees cooler than Dallas, without North Texas's hairdryer-like wind blowing in your face. 

Thing I hate:  The language barrier is REALLY driving me crazy this time around.  At work, entire conversations go on around me, and all I can do is stand there like an idiot and patiently wait for someone to bring me up to speed.  I'm starting completely over when it comes to making friends, and the inability to casually chime into a conversation, both in the office and out, makes the isolation just that much worse.  Ford has approved 200 hours of one on one language lessons. They can't start soon enough!

Thing I'm not sure what to make of:  I need to learn how to kiss.  Not "so my boyfriend doesn't make fun of me in the locker room" kind of kiss, but  "breezy, Latin, casual kiss on the cheek" kind of kiss.  I wouldn't say I'm an overly affectionate person.  I've only recently taken to hugging, and that's sporadic at best.  But this casual cheek-kissing goes on everywhere.  After a meeting in the office last week, the vendor went in for the good-bye peck and I'm like a sloppy 16-year-old again.  Stumbling, jerky; one wrong move and you're accidentally making out with someone - not exactly the reputation you want to have in the office. Yes, definitely must learn to pull this off without turning all stiff and awkward.

Thing I miss:  CrossFit.  Since I learned earlier this year I was most likely relocating, just not sure where to, I figured wherever I landed I would join a CrossFit and meet people there.  Wouldn't you know, of all the places I could have ended up, this is one of the few that is still waiting for that enterprising young entrepreneur to make a go of it.  The treadmill at the hotel gym just isn't the same.  I see plenty of people out for a run down Ashford Ave, the main drag in Condado that runs parallel to the beach.  But it's like a full on obstacle course.  Between the crowds of people, the crazy traffic, uneven sidewalks, curbs of varying heights, sporadic potholes - well, I don't like running that much.  Too many distractions and I throw in the towel.  I am seriously considering the purchase of a few kettle bells and something to use for box jumps and making a home gym in the office.  Never mind that damn half marathon......

Thing that worries me:  I'm way too damn close to the casino.  And so far, the blackjack table has been nothing but good to me.  It's courting me, showing me all its best sides, sucking me in for what it knows is three years of steady donations.  I did manage to walk away with double my money the other night, but at one point it had worked its way up to triple.  Finally after four straight losers I had the good sense to walk away.  I've never denied my gambling "issue."  This could get interesting.  

 

Thing I'm scare of:  The food.  Not the crime.  Not the crazy traffic.  Not the travel to third world places like Haiti and Honduras, but the food. Yes, I realize the reason food is my main concern could make up a separate blog with an entirely different theme.  I REALLY don't want to gain the 30 or so pounds back I've lost over the last year or so, but the food is SO GOOD.  The other night, I gave mofongo a try.  Fried mashed plantains with oil, garlic, etc.  The mofongo I had at Ropa Vieja was of the garlic shrimp variety.  Sounds strange, I realize.  Garlic shrimp stuffed into mashed seasoned plantains, but it was THE BEST meal I've had here.  Pinky's is my favorite breakfast spot, with possibly the best coffee I've ever had.  Just too much new stuff to try!

This weekend I got out of the five mile radius that has become my comfort zone.  I drove about 25 miles east to the edge of the rainforest to check out the kennel that will be Charlie's home for a week.  I need a chauffer.  It's such a pretty place I'd rather be looking at the scenery than paying attention to the driving.  Lush, green, palm tree covered hill sides with brightly colored stucco houses built into them; it all just looks so foreign and tropical.  This Sunday the weather was absolutely beautiful.  I walked out to the beach and just started.  The water was so gorgeous; I couldn't believe this is going to be home for three years!

First Impressions

I’ve always had a desire to see other places of the world.  Even while in high school, I had an inkling that there was more to the world than the metropolis of Puyallup, WA.  Granted, that inkling may have led me to exciting places like the Tacoma waterfront and

Pioneer Square,

but at the time it was experiencing a larger world than the one I grew up in.

Then I went off to college, and much to my mother’s dismay, at the start of my senior year fell desperately in love with an Australian exchange student.  This love affair took me to the other side of the world in the quest for a ring that never panned out; however I gained an appreciation for other cultures and a passion for learning about them.

Nearly 30 countries later, I find myself relocating to Puerto Rico for a three year tour with the company for which I have worked the last 10 years.  Since starting my corporate life, I haven’t done much traveling and honestly thought any possibility of an “international assignment” had long passed me by.  But sometimes doors we think are closed to us come swinging wide open....

And so here I sit, a week into my first visit to Puerto Rico.  Other than the first 10 minutes after arrival at my hotel room last Sunday, when I opened my curtains and gazed out over the barrio wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into, things have so far gone pretty smoothly.  I will say, if you're planning a visit to PR, don't let the whole "US Territory" thing fool you.  It is decidedly foreign.  As a coworker said, the only thing US about it is the mail. 

Some first impressions that I will no doubt expand upon sometime soon:

• "Right Away" so far means at least 90 minutes.  I am sure that this will come to drive me completely, utterly mad in the not too far off future.  As someone who is never late, I hate waiting on those who are.  It will test my tolerance of the cultural nuances, I'm certain.
• My travel book said something along the lines of, "Puerto Ricans have inherited the American love for large SUV's but drive them like they are in Mexico City."  It's a minor concern that I will quickly learn to drive like a Puerto Rican, and that this might not go over so well back in the States.  I was told, "The only thing you have to remember is when you go home, there are traffic laws."
• It's illegal in some places to park by pulling straight into the spot.  Last week at lunch I'd pulled into a parking garage, and the security guard chased me down and made me turn the car around so it was backed in. Apparently, it's some sort of fire hazard to pull straight in.  WTF? 
• I am already oblivious to the honking of the car horn.
• Given that all but a handful of work related emails I'd received before arrival were in English, I convinced myself a lack of fluent Spanish wasn't a big deal.  Then I realized that only two of us in the office aren't bilingual, and most casual conversations are in Spanish.  I've lost the ability to eavesdrop!  Stay tuned for comments on my pending language lessons...

All in all, I have a good feeling about the next three years.  So far what I've seen is very pretty; I'm looking forward to living on or near the beach and playing a good tour guide for what I hope to be constant a stream of visitors.  The first friends are already booked for mid-November and a half marathon....God help me as I train for a 13.1 mile run among the jagged curbs and uneven cobbles of the San Juan streets!