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….
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