Hey internet. I know, I know, it’s Yoga Tuesday. But I’m just really not in a yoga mood. So I’m continuing the Puerto Rico party.
Let me tell you about Puerto Rico.
Puerto Rico is a place that defies convention or explanation. It has cities built into the sides of craggy mountains and citadels perch on the edge of the sea. You can explore a lush rainforest by day and be back in time to change for dinner at an exclusive club. There are mangroves you can kayak into at night where the water lights up underneath your vessel like you’re Peter frakin’ Pan. All of this and you can still drive from one end of the place to the other in an easy afternoon.
If you told me about this place and I hadn’t already been here three times, I’d have said it was the fictional setting from a C.S. Lewis novel.
If the U.S. is a Norman Rockwell painting, Puerto Rico saw the painting, thought ‘Fuck it’, stripped off the canvas, blended it up with rum, and made a daiquiri with it.
I’m staying at this crazy hotel called La Concha where it’s far easier to just assume that everyone you see is famous or rich or fabulous in some way. Seriously. Three years ago, I ran into J.Lo and Marc Anthony and Jennifer Hudson (not all at the same time, but still). Last year Johnny Depp was there. This year, knowing my luck, Marc Summers is probably my next door neighbour. Mi familia and I went up the elevator last night with a model and a photographer who were definitely about to breech a clause of their contracts.
So I’m surrounded with all this poshness and wealth and exclusivity, and I can walk down the street and see homeless people next to a run down pub next to the Ritz next to a condemned building. We walked down a boardwalk to a meager little group of kioskos the other day, followed by stray dogs, and passed by a photoshoot with a car that Barney Stinson identified as a Lamborghini Murcielago.
So there I was, wandering drunkenly around a beautiful food festival in Puerto Rico trying to find Marc Summers. Every once in a while we sat and watched people make food. Those people were not Marc Summers.
Every once in a while we stumbled upon a stray fashion model who had apparently gotten lost and in the wild and, bewildered, was playing possum the only way it knows how – by posing.
I tried out being a fashion model, but it didn’t turn out as well.
I resigned myself to eating without finding my third favorite Food Network television host and ate vast quantities of delicious, delicious food. There was a zesty tilapia ceviche, several varieties of steak, chips and dips and energy drinks, a malanga root soup, chicken on a stick, and the enormous, spicy, and wildly seasoned paella. I had a cheesecake made from avocados and a delicate quesadilla filled with pork. There were a lot of things that I ate without the slightest clue what they were (I do not speak a lick of Spanish, unfortunately). Mostly everything was delicious.
Still, internet, I was secretly searching for Marc Summers, with a plastic fork in my hand like a sonic screwdriver and an ever-growing bag full of cheap goodies, and with every new cocktail, I was growing more and more despondent. He was nowhere to be seen, neither high nor low, drunk nor sober. I kept getting annoyed at everyone I saw who was not Marc Summers, which turned out to be 100 percent of the people (minus the bubbly lady serving sausages. She was a rockstar).
Was I wrong in wanting so badly to meet Marc Summers, the voice of my childhood, the smiling face from Nickelodeon and Food Network, the kindly man who answered all the questions about Twinkies and Jellybeans I had not thought to ask? The frequent visitor of that mysterious diner with the all-encompassing menu? The ultimate darer of dares? In retrospect, even if I had met the guy, I have no idea what the hell I would have said to him, beyond “Hey man. What’s cracka-lackin’?”.
I was dispirited. Yet my salvation was nigh, people, because it turns out there was totally a dessert section. And while I did not find Marc Summers, I did find chocolate, which is essentially the same thing.
I did not meet Marc Summers today, internet. Which, in retrospect, makes this day somewhat indistinguishable from all of the other days that I did not meet Marc Summers, which is all of them. All of the days. I’ve never met Marc Summers, is what I’m saying.
Let me back up a bit.
The thing is is that today I was actually fairly certain I would meet Marc Summers, because I’m in Puerto Rico and we went to this crazy food festival thing today where Marc Summers was supposed to be and where Marc Summers was, conspicuously, not.
We first learned about this food festival on the beach yesterday where we where just sort of lazing around getting sunburnt and Madre happened upon some article in some magazine about this crazy food extravaganza and she was all like, we should go to this and I was just like, mhmmmm, because let’s be honest I was already a cocktail or four deep at this point and I probably would have said yes to dying my hair pink and dancing la bomba with a kangaroo (full disclosure – I am currently a cocktail or four deep and that absolutely sounds like both a plausible and fun situation).
Anyways, we went to this food festival. It was called the Saborea, and it was wild and exotic and very, very different from all of the other food festivals I’ve ever been to.
The trouble, however, was that we looked it up before hand and discovered Marc Summers was going to be there and this deep, aching longing I never knew I had welled up inside me, and that longing was screaming I HAVE to meet Marc Summers. I Had to.
It was a set-up for failure.
There were many things that made the Saborea different from other food festivals I’ve been to, the first and most notable of which was the alcohol. The copious, copious amounts of alcohol. I’d been to other fairs and whatnot where you could buy a beer or two for a separate fee. Not at Saborea. No. Not only did they have an entire tent devoted to alcohol of various types, every other food vendor was hawking their own type of shot or cocktail or wine or beer or whatever. They were pouring beer into their freaking food, for frak’s sake.
In our little swag bags, they even gave us our own wine glasses to pour liquid ambrosia into.
Oh, on that note, yeah, we got swag bags, and it seemed like every four feet people were giving us freebies. Little sunscreens and fans and bottle openers and coupons and individual servings of salad dressings. I spent at least three minutes trying to track down someone handing out the most pimpingest orange sunglasses, but then there was someone handing out sangria and I got distracted.
Oh, also this was happening.
It is criminally early in the morning and I’m sitting in the Charlotte airport. There’s a kid running around with his brother- one of them’s like 5, the other is maybe 2 and a half. The younger one is just starting to get the hang of legs. He’s stumbling around like a college student on spring break and he keeps going back and forth from “I’m fine” to “I’M NOT FINE EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE” to “oh wait actually I’m pretty okay”. Kids.
I just spent the night in Charlotte with mes parents and we are finally off to Puerto Rico. Although, incidentally, by the time you read this, it’ll be 5 or 6 pm on Wednesday night and I’ll be halfway through my trip and probably getting ready for dinner or something. I know it’s a complicated situation, but that’s how the internet works, and guess who has two thumbs and isn’t about to spend her time on the beach writing blogs for y’all? This gal (sidenote- does this expression still work if you can’t see me pointing obnoxiously at myself? No? Deal with it.).
Our stay in Charlotte was largely uneventful save a stop at Yoga One, which I posted about yesterday (haha I totally haven’t yet! I haven’t even written that post yet! I’m totally screwing with your mind! THIS BLOG IS A IS WIBBLY WOBBLEY BALL OF TIMEY WIMEY STUFF!!). It was cold and raining and I got pretty sick last night with the plague. We did go bowling, which only re-enforced my suspicions that I am a terrible bowler (reasons why I’m single #19 – I’m a terrible bowler). Final scores? Padre – 91. Madre – 58. Me – 55. I even drank a White Russian so I could try to channel The Dude. No such luck.
We’re now on the plane stuck on the runway waiting for a half hour for the plane to take off because something something air flow planes Atlanta yadda ya. We are sitting in business class surrounded by Frowny Scowls McBusinessmen who spent the entire pre-flight grimacing at their smart phones, turned them off for takeoff, and sat there with their index fingers hovering over the on buttons during the taxi out. Cheer up, Mr. Pinstripe suit guy. That bag of mini pretzels can’t be that bad.
Tata for now.
Oh my god, internet. Everyone on this plane right now is a hot mess. Seriously. There are 19 people on this plane. Two of them were crying before we even got on the plane. There’s somebody up front who was chewing on a pillow as I walked by – I think he’s having a nervous breakdown. And of course, the woman right in front of me informed our charming Southern flight attendant a mere minute before takeoff that she’s prone to flight sickness, so she’s currently sitting with a plastic bag wrapped around her head and I’m currently sitting here thinking DON’T SPEW LADY. DON’T YOU DARE SPEW.
Our flight attendant, I should mention, has some hair situation happening that I cannot even begin to talk about. Madre and I spent the first 5 minutes on the plane playing a dedicated game of Is That a Wig? I’m currently of the opinion that it’s a hair piece that has been teased and prodded so far to the edge of extinction that it looks like someone my dear cat Marmaduke could have produced it by gnawing on it for several hours with his singular tooth. There could be a (Oh god. Oh god I think Airsickness Lady’s gonna spew. DON’T YOU DARE LADY.) bump-it in there too. Whatever’s happening in there, it’s lopsided and a sickly blonde-orange color and really not working for her.
She’s pretty cute otherwise, though. And super Southern. Like, speaks-so-slow-I-forgot-the-word-she-just-said-before-she-gets-the-next-word-out Southern. Like, we literally sat on the runaway and waited for her to finish her safety speech Southern.
(Okay, Airsickness Lady just ordered herself a glass of wine. This is gonna be good.)
All the sudden the turbulence in this plane got serious. Everyone’s holding on for dear life, although as Mamma Mia rightfully pointed out, if we fall, holding on ain’t gonna make a goddamn lick of difference. Oh my goodness, we’re all gonna die.
(]Shit, I think I’m gonna spew)
Airsickness has slugged her wine and has an icepack firmly pressed against her head. She seems… better?
You know what, I think that might be the flight attendant’s real hair after all. The boobs, however, are definitely fake.
Oh god. This is the worst flight ever.
I’m going on vacation, internet! When? Where? With whom? For how long, y’all may ask?
RIGHT NOW WITH MADRE AND PADRE FOR EVER.
Just kidding, not forever. For 12 days. TO PUERTO RICOOOO.
Mi Madre and I are currently sitting in our rinky-dink little local airport waiting for them to let us into the terminal. It smells like greasy breakfast sandwiches and sleep deprivation in here. There are six other people in here and there’s a mall-style metal grate pulled down pver the security checkpoint. How quaint.
Anyways, Maman and I are off to Philly and then to Charlotte, where we are meeting Daddy-o. We are spending tomorrow in Charlotte, and them mi familia is off to San Juan to spend ten days doing literally nothing more rigorous than motion for a drink refill. Seriously. If I have to do anything more strenuous than raise my hand to my mouth, I will throw a temper tantrum to rival anything The Rugrats ever aired.
Anywho, I’m off. Buh-bye for now!
Hey internet. I’m taking a trip to Boston starting today through Monday, so my posts are probably going to be on the short, sweet, unedited side until I get back. Although, let’s be honest, y’all don’t read my blog for beautifully composed prose. Y’all read my blog because I say funny things about my cat and I use weird pictures and occasionally names of famous celebrities. Or, you know, because you’re my Gran. Love you Granny.
Cue running around like a crazy person packing.
To satisfy your craving for hnw cassandra, read (or reread) one of these most popular posts from the last few months!
I leave you with this.