Confusion in Condado

It was Joan Didion who said that hotels are social constructs, and I read the sentence in my teens and nodded sagely and wondered…what did it mean?

Well, I’m still not sure. I could call up Pablo, a social anthropologist, and he could tell me—but would I understand? His last explanation, about the meaning of the Passion and Lent, left me completely confused. Then again, they weren’t my best days.

Anyway, Pablo’s busy, so here’s my guess. Hotels present a vision of themselves and of their guests that people buy into—or not—depending on the degree of the match. You feel safe in one hotel because it’s clean and people call you Sir and the ashtrays have perfectly raked white sand and the marble floors are spotless and it’s real silver, not stainless steel.

Oh, and you’re paying 350$ a night so it better be clean and click your heels when you call me Sir!

And you know, of course, that the guest next to you is paying roughly the same. So, of course, you’ll watch his kids while he gets a drink from the bar. He’s one of us (or whom we’re pretending to be….)

Which is all to say that I went to Condado—one of the two tourist areas of San Juan. And confession—no, not by público. There are no públicos in such places, though there are buses that go there. But we chose, Raf and I, to take a cab, since traffic into and out of the small isleta of San Juan was murderous.

First cab driver—very obviously from Santa Domingo. Not lacking in testosterone, or unwilling to engage in zestful and creative driving practices. And completely disdainful of the police, who were actually causing the traffic jam, and the bicyclists racing on the avenue below, who were the ostensible cause. 

Many of our taxi drivers, by the way, are Dominican, and many are probably undocumented. Certainly, most of our construction workers are Dominican. And they arrive here after having saved enormous sums (thousands of dollars at least) to purchase a seat on a leaky wooden boat to travel the Mona Passage from Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico.

Two facts about the Mona Passage:

It’s the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean

It’s filled with sharks

Right. A guy once told me of the experience, which has to take place in the dead of night, and which depends on an ancient outboard motor, and the skill of the guy working it.

Am I imagining it, or did he tell me—a guy you’re not allowed to see? Turn your head and you’ll be shot.

If you’re lucky, you’ll get to a little beach in some rural area and face your next problem. What to do now?

Well, this I do remember. The guy knew that his sister lived in Santurce—a barrio in the metro San Juan area. And then the word spread through the group on the beach. There was a público waiting to take them. Yup, at 5 in the morning, a público that would take them to safety at the price of…

…100 dollars each.

What are you gonna do?

So the cab driver probably had a similar story. Or not. But the chances are better than even that he did.

Well, well—the traffic continued terrible. We got out of the cab a block away from the hotel, giving the driver a break: the last block was the worst of all.

And then strolled into the Marriot Hotel—yup, the same Marriot whose sacred undergarments had saved him from a terrible burn.

OK, in a post about classism, I’ll come clean with my own.

This is a hotel for people who have money, and perhaps shouldn’t. Lots of mirrors, marble everywhere, chrome. Loud Latin music. Rattan furniture. What won’t you find?  A quiet, unrefrigerated corner. Mahogany or gleaming, polished brass.

We were there to meet an old classmate—whom I’ll call Isabel—of Raf’s, a lady who had just finished a cruise, and was staying a day or two extra at the hotel. She was with her husband, a Texan who speaks no Spanish, and who was in the military for many years. He greeted us with his bourbon in hand, and we sat to chat.

There is, in fact, a lot to commend this guy. He treats Isabel very well, unlike her first husband, a Puerto Rican who had all of the worst habits—skirt-chasing being number one—of Puerto Rican men. But Isabel learned—Jim, her gringo husband, treats her like a queen, comes home and stays home at 5, and hands the paycheck over every two weeks. Oh, and Isabel works as well, and reasonably decreed that she wouldn’t cook or iron. So Jim does that. Or they go out to eat, and Jim pays.

Well, Jim’s drink was done, and he “danced” his way to the bar. Those quotes because, look, it was only a crude imitation of some Latin dance step. But no problem, because the barmaid imitated him exactly, and put on her best smile. They held both hands, smiling and swaying, as he placed his order.

Looking at her, I could see the tension in her jaw, she was smiling so hard.

Well, several bourbons later, Jim went to another bar. He courteously asked all around if anyone wanted anything. His wife wanted a Riesling. 

Well, it’s not a common drink on the island. And the kid at the bar didn’t have any.

Jim disputed that—there was Riesling in the house. His pal at the first bar had come up with some twenty minutes ago. What gives? Go find some.

“It’s the last time we’re staying in this hotel,” said Jim, when he returned in disgust.

And so we went on to talk about the younger generation, and their complete lack of a service mentality. Meaning perhaps that they don’t dance over and hold hands when Jim approaches?

But it gets more complicated.

“I felt ashamed of the Puerto Ricans we saw on the cruise,” says Isabel. “They were loud and vulgar, and you know what? They were justifying the worst stereotype of Puerto Ricans. And you know, there IS an educated, professional class in Puerto Rico. I’m part of it.”

In this, she is completely correct.

“Vergüenza ajena,” I say. Shame for my brethren.

Right, so I’m hungry, and I go to see if we can get some sorullos—fried corn sticks, and mighty tasty. I approach a woman and ask her, in Spanish, if there might be some. 

She replies in English.

OK look. My Spanish is neither great nor bad. It is absolutely adequate for this task. Her reply indicated that she had understood me fully. But she resolutely spoke English to me, just as I spoke Spanish to her.

Hunh?

Was it that I was trying to cross a border that I shouldn’t cross? You are a guest, and a gringo. No Spanish for you!

OK, we’re now joined by another classmate, also now living in Texas, and also, it develops, a gun collector.

Like Jim. 

“Are you packing,” I ask.

“No way, I don’t have the permits that Jim has,” returns the other guy, named (falsely) Oscar.

But Oscar shares more than a love of guns with Jim. They have ideology in common.

“I really think we’re gonna have to figure out where we’re living if Obama wins,” says Oscar, “I’m planning on Costa Rica.”

“I’m thinking Norway,” says Jim.

Who tells the story of talking to an old woman from Ohio, and how brainwashed she was by the Democrats demagoguery about oversea investments and tax breaks.

“She was a lost cause,” he said.

“You know, I really fear for this country if that guy wins…” he added.

I wanted to walk away. At the same time, I felt sad. My parents, ardent Republicans, walked to the polls with their friends, ardent Democrats. Why were they doing it, they asked. Our votes are gonna cancel each others’ out. Then they realized. They were checking up on each other. If they stayed home, well, the other couple might sneak out and vote!

They laughed.

No one was laughing last night. And I, in particular, wanted to get away from gun-lovers and Republicans. It was getting late as well. So I took another cab home.

OK, act 3. I bid farewell to my hosts and go to get a cab. I know how to do this now, though it took me a while to learn. I address the guy wearing the silly white imitation-sahib-from-India as “caballero” and he produces a driver. We walk to his car.

“I speak perfect English,” said the taxista.

“I come close,” I said, “pero tengo que practicar mi español.” I gotta practice my Spanish.

So we spoke Spanish, and I asked him about business. 

Not so easy. His van is rented, and costs him 1200 bucks a month. Gasoline is over 4 dollars, and he can’t afford to fill his tank, which would help his mileage. Bottom line—he has to clear 80 bucks a day just to cover his costs.

Right—so how many trips is that?

About four or five. And there are always five or ten cabs waiting at the hotel.

So how many hours a day?

10 hours, seven days a week.

Wait—what about buying, not leasing.

Well, Christian—I’ve learned his name—knows the numbers. He’s got an MBA.

What!  And you’re driving a cab! Look, with your degree and your English, go to Orlando, go to the States.

And leave his three-year old son on the island with his divorced wife?

OK—so what about somebody in your family who can help you get the 9,000$ for the down-payment of the 45,000$ that you need to buy, not lease, your taxi?

Whole family is poor. Welfare, subsidized housing, food stamps.

That 47% that leeches off the government.

Except that Christian is also part of that 47%. And he’s out there 10 / 7 / 365. That’s ten hours every day of the year.

I’ve checked none of this, of course. For all I know, Christian never completed high school, has a criminal record as tall as the Empire State Building, and daily shoots 200 bucks of white powder up his nose. Didn’t see any of that, though.

What did I see? A guy on his umpteenth bourbon. A barmaid doing a perfect imitation of a bad imitation of a dance step. A lady who addressed me in excellent English in return for my average Spanish and called me Sir. A cabdriver who broke the numbers down as well as the financial guys at Wal-Mart ever did.

Did I go to Condado, or Confusion?