I concealed some shame for a very long time for not having left America in my first twenty-two years. (Champagne problems, I know.) When my friends began to study abroad sophomore and junior years, I was envious. Not just because of the missed late nights at a tapas bar in Barcelona, but for the missed opportunity of enlightenment. Knowledge seems to come with the experience of other cultures, and I felt stunted in my little corner of the Gulf Coast.
On my twenty-third birthday, I left the U.S. to travel to the British Virgin Islands. The journey home from the island—and I do not use that term lightly—was a journey. Though the distance from Tortola to New Orleans is less than two thousand miles, the travel day equated to just under twenty hours.
The first leg of the trip was a puddle jumper to San Juan. Only one flight a day at 7 a.m. My flight from San Juan to Miami did not leave until 5 p.m. I took advantage of the time to see the Old Town. The colonial buildings of this historic neighborhood transported me to the French Quarter, which was really Spanish colonized. I was pleasantly surprised not to notice many tourists out. Being from New Orleans, I understand the importance of tourism but am also not a stranger to their annoyance. I was fully aware I was not blending in, but at least I was not sporting a Hawaiian shirt like the cruisegoers and had the ability to speak Spanish with a working proficiency.
After having the best empanadas of my life washed down with a perfectly refreshing Red Stripe, I walked back into a completely different atmosphere than the serene streets I had left just thirty minutes earlier. An officer in riot gear quickly pushed me out of the street, and masses of protesters made their way down the cobblestone road. Between the ringing of cowbells and drums, all I could make out of the muffled megaphone was, “Clima!” It began to register. This was a climate change protest.
I realized though Puerto Rico was a territory of the U.S., I truly knew very little about this island. I wondered if perhaps I had not noticed other tourists because they were aware of this event and were avoiding the area altogether. Where did I fit into this space? I felt like an intruder but also helpless.In a cowardly fashion, I found a backstreet and hailed a cab back to the airport. A space where one can go unnoticed and take no real stand or responsibility—just exist.
I still had about five hours to kill in the San Juan Airport and had walked the route through three times already. I loved the abundance of full-liter liquor bottles and fifty packs of cigarettes for purchase at the newsstands. My gate would be boarding five flights prior to mine, but I found a seat facing the terminal (not the window, my preferred people-watching viewing) and found residence.
A man sat down directly beside me, though there were many empty seats. This seemed to go against the unspoken airport etiquette we all have accepted, but he did not make an attempt to converse. Rather, we both stared out into the crowds of people silently observing. Until an elderly woman to my left asked in Spanish if I would watch her bags while she went to the bathroom (also I had presumed a big flying no-no). I replied fluently that I would make sure they were safe. How can anyone ever really ensure something like this? I do not have an answer, but all people really crave is affirmation.
My fair skin and light hair must have signaled to the man not to engage, but we now had the connection of language, which opened a whole new arena. His name was Pablo. He first told me he now lives in the States: New Jersey. I quietly thought about his semantics and his need first to ensure I knew him as what, an American? Not that this would make any difference but were Puerto Ricans not Americans?
Some things got lost in translation. Pablo was trying to tell me that he worked at a casino, which sounds starkly similar to the Spanish word for kitchen. I asked him what his favorite thing to cook was and he told me he could not boil pasta. How could a chef not cook?
He told me how he comes back home to San Juan twice a year to visit his mother-in the summer (for her birthday) and over Christmas. She is his only family still here. Opportunity moved elsewhere and they are dispersed and things get lonely. Devastation, politics, poverty. It all gets in the way. I thought about how hard it is seeing my own family after Katrina forced so many out of their homes and into whatever crevice they could seek refuge in and try to rebuild.
I made a note to Pablo about how I noticed the long lines at the Popeyes in our terminal which also evoked such distinct imagery of my life back in Louisiana. I listened to people order pollo frito that smelled just like the wafting scents that make my stomach growl when I am stopped at the red light outside the Popeyes on Carrollton in New Orleans. He laughed and told me it is far better than waiting in line with all the fat asses going to the Bahamas at the dogshit Margaritaville next door. I was overwhelmed by the interconnectedness of humanity found right here in this microcosm of the Luis Munoz Marin International Airport.
Pablo began rummaging through his backpack. I sat with my thoughts as someone with a Loyola University New Orleans sweatshirt hustled by. There is a large Puerto Rican student population at the college I attend. But still. How poignant. He turned to hand me a small woven coin purse with the words “Puerto Rico” painted on it. “So you will always remember me. And where I come from.”
I wanted so desperately to have something to say to him. I had nothing in return to give him and no words with enough power in the language we were speaking. His flight to Boston was beginning to board and Pablo rose to get in line. He looked back at me and said, “Safe travels, Mae. Try some authentic San Juan fried chicken while you’re here.” In English. With a perfect Jersey accent.
While unpacking in New Orleans I opened the coin purse to find a single penny. I keep the coin purse in my center console now. Whenever I get change, I add the pennies in. I can no longer identify Pablo’s penny; it's just another token of my travels, some to faraway destinations and some just to the gas station around the block. Each one an odyssey nonetheless.
