Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Culinary Old San Juan

Two days in Old San Juan and we've already gotten into a routine.  It must be an age thing.  Both mornings we breakfast at a deli called Yurta, on Calle San Francisco. Walk in and there's nothing to see but a steamed up cooler, but keep going and you'll find a walled garden with a couple of tables, a caged parrot that shouts, "Hola," and  any number of tiny lizards scampering over the walls and floor.

For less than six dollars each we had granola, yogurt, and fresh papaya the first day and egg scrambles and home fries today.  The local bread is a wheaty baguette flattened Cubano Style and drenched with butter. San Juan coffee is always made with local beans-- rich, dark, and a definite necessity considering that we're ignoring jet lag altogether.

After spending another morning glass-hunting on the beach we inhale a frozen yogurt and then hop on one of the free trolleys for what we think will be a leisurely ride around the town.

Instead we're stopped in traffic for at least an hour--stalled by noisy and expansive student protests in front of the capitol building. The driver won't let us off: it's not a designated bus stop. We finally escape to walk in our sandy beach shoes up and down the hills of the Old Town, cooling off in pricey gift shops where buying is out of the question.




The women of San Juan love their stilettos, and every other shop is filled with platforms, strappy sandals, and trendy gladiators.  I try on a pair I like and immediately realize that--for me at least-- walking will not happen in these shoes.

Late lunch is at a vegetarian restaurant called Cafe Berlin. Barb and I share hummus and a salad;  I get an eggplant/tofu sandwich that's marinated in something smoky and wonderful.  The waiter insists on bringing us a second glass of iced tea and then bills us an additional $3.50 for it-- a temporary downer.
 

Many side streets in Old San Juan are as narrow as walkways. Near the sea these streets yawn open into the broad and grassy grounds of the 16th century fort. It's here that you see just how imposing the brick abutments are, and get a sense of what life might have been like when security came in one grand and sprawling package: a massive city wall. The most charming part of Old San Juan?  Curving, hilly streets, brilliant pastel colors everywhere.  And of course the sunshine. 

Late this afternoon we reclaim our baggage from its storage place in our hotel and nab a taxi to get to our overpriced but lovely beachfront hotel.  It's going to be more difficult to find local bargains here in the area called Isla Verde...lots of restaurants along the main road but they're Americanized chains that are best avoided.  We're confirming what we've known all along: there are some days when eating in clearly trumps eating out.



Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Drying the Mermaid's Tears






They call them "mermaid's tears," those softly rounded beads of sea glass that wash up with the surf.   Today I discovered that searching for them at water's edge is as meditative as walking a labyrinth:   the rhythmic stepping, bending, and sorting completely rocks my mind to sleep.

We're at a stretch of isolated beach that's just below the blue cobblestones and hilly, winding streets of Old San Juan.  Indigenous grape vines forge a thick barrier between avenue and ocean, but this morning we find a path through the foliage and make our way down to the shore to look for sea glass.



To the west, the walls of the city.  To the east, nothing but sand and sea.  We're just a stone's throw from the capitol building but we're lost in the moment.  There's no one here but us.

When my mind wanders, it takes a peaceful turn: this is why Minda loves her berry-picking; this is something I must do with Silas and Sylvie; this is something my mom would have loved.
 
The ocean softens every shard. It takes plates and broken windows, mirrors, chandeliers, and champagne bottles.  It files away serrations of a frantic industrial world and revises those parts, sanding and buffing until all the angles are muted. On this day the Caribbean smooths my rough edges as well.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Flying the Red Eye: What NOT to Wear

Tonight I begin the first leg of my thrifty getaway to San Juan, engineered by my friend Barb and made possible by the free airline "Buddy Pass" she gave me.

It's 10:55 pm, and as I wait in the stand-by line at San Francisco International, I can see that my black yoga pants and t-shirt are way too tame for this experience.  What's right?  Looks like it's Sherpa Boots, long vests made of llama hide, some platform heels to die for, a fair-aisle patterned toboggan complete with top pompom and ear-flaps.  Best of all?  A walking firecracker red sweatshirt that extends from chin to knee.  It's emblazoned with a life-size, full body white skeleton--fibula, tibia, clavicle, everything is there.

During the four-hour flight to Atlanta I sleep briefly in an upright fetal twist, made possible only by years of yoga practice and a state of extreme exhaustion.  It's six am in Atlanta when we arrive;  The Skeleton follows me off the plane.  Neither of us seems bothered by the fact that it's really 3 am in San Francisco. 

Barb is waiting at the gate with a cup of coffee.  We can't get to San Juan on the flight from Atlanta as we planned.  Instead, armed with bags of Hershey's Kisses, she visits her colleagues at the gate and finds a route to San Juan through Orlando.  We manage to get the last couple of standby seats on the plane.  As an added bonus, we've shaken "The Skeleton" completely off our track.

At the arrivals gate of the San Juan Airport I'm making plans to hand-wash my black yoga pants and t-shirt as soon as we get to the hotel.  No one is wearing sherpa boots or flap-hats at baggage claim.  As we calculate the options for ground transportation, it looks like last night's scramble for flights, the  contorted sleeping positions, and parade of costumes was just a nightmare, something brought on by wine and pretzels.  But wait.  Can it be?  What's that over by the taxi stand??

Monday, January 17, 2011

Pathways

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I take issue with the popular interpretation of "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost. But for the moment let's put that aside, and just say that a clearly marked pathway is something every man or woman should quietly celebrate.

When I am in Kentucky I often shun Clinton's aging and precarious sidewalks and head straight for the deer paths around Threeponds.  As I leave the cornfield and step high into the woods there is a moment of getting my bearings.  Like my whippet, I zigzag here and there trying to catch sight of a trail.  Then it happens: an opening in the brambles and before me a narrow but well-trampled path. Follow the way of the deer and you'll edge easily along the precipice, skirt the side of the hill, descend along the jagged  sandstone outcroppings, step over fallen trees, and finally, effortlessly, arrive at the ancient track of the river.

Returning to San Francisco I can, with equal pleasure, chose my route among a dozen or more worn paths.  Tracks snake through the forested medians along Park Presidio and into the hillsides of Golden Gate Park.  At the far edge of the neighborhood is Land's End, a winding scar of a trail that seams the hillside to banks that plummet toward the surf.  When I walk these paths my eyes are drawn to the ocean, but my heart celebrates the predictable trail beneath my feet. On a good path the choices are easy, and there's an abiding knowledge that the solitary walker is never really alone.

All of my favorite trails have forks here and there, and as I select my route I sometimes think about Frost's poem. Instead of being a hymn to individualism, I believe his lines are really about the all-too-human condition of making a decision: standing at a crossroads and then striding forth, confidently, in one direction or another.

Life's traveled pathways offer linear perspective. They're a way to know--without a doubt--what road you've taken. These trails also chart the forks where, sometimes with so little thought at all, we've made a life-defining choice.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Catching Rays

In the 1100s, Abbot Suger watched as his craftsmen hoisted plates of stained glass into the towering walls of the first Gothic cathedral. The way he saw it, the laser-like rays of red, blue, and green that streamed from windows and settled in the apse of St. Denis embodied the very presence of God.

As I begin the drudgery of de-decorating this year's Christmas tree, I'm adjusting my attitude by meditating on what the Abbot knew:  there is power and mystery in the jewel-like ornaments, and if the spiritual is meant to be studied and held in reverence, then a burst of liquid color is the perfect delivery system.

During a way-too-short summer studying the churches of France, one purpose that united our class (if you exempt the celebration of wine and cheese) was to properly photograph this magic of sun streaming through stained glass.  We set up our small tripods in the naves and transepts of St. Denis, Amiens, Chartres, and Notre Dame. We steadied our bulky Nikons against piers, crouched under rose windows, and lay flat on chilly limestone floors--all in the hopes of capturing that instant when sleeping space is awakened by streams of color and light.

Sometimes we were rewarded by the perfect ray, and at that moment we frantically focused, snapped, and--without the instant gratification of digital cameras--waited faithfully to see what fish was in the net.

Trying to capture these jewel-tones is an obsession that transcends time and place. Indonesian craftsmen must have been speechless as they first held fiery, crackled batiks against a wall of sun. Equally dazzling are Morris Louis' fields of color and Dale Chihuly's prismic works of glass. They take my breath away.

When I was younger I planned to obtain my bliss:  finish a degree, get the kids through college, burn the mortgage. Now I've learned that joy resides in things I can't contain--there's darkness, pure cadmium crimson, and then a burst of fire.

My friend's companion piece:
http://btalan.blogspot.com/2011/01/catching-rays.html