Photo by Dmitry K | CC BY 2.0
You came to Puerto Rico for the golden sands and sun (gold was also the basis of our first colonizers’ initial attraction); for the endless piña coladas and rum-spiked mysteries; for the “colonial charm” and “quaint, humble lifestyle” (poverty looks so alluring in the Caribbean, what with the bright colors, translucent waters and lush greens in the background—and it’s only for a week). Your friends say it’s the hottest Spring break spot, the newspapers say it’s a debt-ridden disaster, your parents say it’s dangerous and that the water is undrinkable, and the brochures say it’s a (tax) haven, absolute paradise. So here you are, in your bathing suit and sarong, mojito in hand, ready to focus on your one task for the week: tanning.
But it turns out that the sun isn’t nailed onto the sky, that it doesn’t run on unfailing one-million 100-watt light bulbs; that the tides rise and the swells are ferocious; that coconuts, palm trees and branches are potential projectiles; and that a hurricane is heading straight towards your worry-free fantasy. So you try to catch your flight out of this paradise-turned-inferno, because a hurricane was not in your sites to see itinerary, but instead, Jetblue takes you to one of the many refuge sites in San Juan, to a hot and humid coliseum, where your beach chair is replaced for a cot, your piña colada for a Walgreens water bottle, your dream for our reality.
The power was out in my…