from eastern Puerto Rico: warning

We are under a high surf and flood warning. There is an ocean swell – the largest in decades, I read – producing unexpected high waves all along the northern coast of the island.

We are on the northern coast of the island.

The idea was to take the ferry to one of the Puerto Rican islands between here and St. Thomas. They’re laid back kind of places with great hiking opportunities.

We drive up to Fajardo, the town from which the ferries leave. Predictably, the ferries are not going anywhere. The islands are cut off. Waiting for calmer seas.




Most everyone knows this, of course. A few hopefuls come to the ferries anyway, peering out at the horizon, wanting the miracle of a settled ocean. The bay by the port is itself as still as ever. But the barrier islands and the reefs just off the coast are taking a hit (as is the entire northern shore of Puerto Rico).

We notice a tiny little put-put ferry idling a motor. We go up and ask where it’s going. The sole passenger (call him Andrew, if you wish) tells us that it’s leaving for the most proximate barrier island, in the protected waters of the bay. It’s a short ride without much at the end of it. Just a few condos, a marina and a bar.

That’s plenty for us. We hop on board for the free ride.

Andrew is spending a week there, fixing up an older boat, a Hunter 34. I’m from Britain, you know. I pick up boats cheaply here and sell them in Europe.

I have to ask: how do you get them from here to there? Cargo?
No, of course not. I sail them.
A tiny 34-foot sail boat?? Across the ocean??
Yea. I’m looking for a crew now.
And how long does that kind of a trip take?
Last time -- four weeks, but I went from up north.
That’s a long time on the water…
Yea? What else do I have to do in life?

That’s one of those unanswerable questions so I fall silent. Ed, however, wants to know the specifics:

How much did you pick her up for?
A steal at $50,000. I’m hoping to sell her for $100,000.

We get off and walk up to his little investment.
They named her “Control Alt Delete.”
Can you change the name?
No! That’s bad luck!





The world of boat people is a strange lot to me, but Ed, the long-time and long-term sailor, is in his element. As we walk over to Andrew’s sloop, I’m half thinking he’ll volunteer to be part of the crew. But he holds back. Probably doesn’t want to waste his return ticket to Madison.




We linger for a few minutes and watch the ocean waves beyond the reefs. White, rolling surf, crashing toward the shores.




We head back to Fajardo.





And now we’re on the road again and I’m trying not to mind the driving habits of everyone even as I notice that Ed, who never drives fast at home, is getting into different habits here. I tell him that if he stays in the fast lane, we’ll pass the road stands. He pulls over, spins in reverse and mira! A fruit stand before me. I pick up a mango.





Just up the coast, we get out to take a closer look at the surf. People have been warned to stay off the beaches. And they do, except for the occasional scavenger who wants to see what the ocean spit up.





A dad and son ride up on their bikes. The boy gets off and stares at the crashing turf. The dad points to the big wave. The boy watches in silence. Awed? Scared maybe?





We head back to El Yunque, driving past villages where more than once, someone will ride past you on a horse. Or a bike. Or both.






At the rainforest, we make our way to the “Disneyland” hub – the one with all the information postings and well-tended paths. There is a splendid educational center, a café, gift shop, etc. The necessities. I’m not scornful. I buy a good coffee and look out at the forest canopy from my elevated perch on the terrace, up there where tree flowers bloom.




Always wanting to find the quiet spot, even in “Disneyland,” we buck the suggested itinerary and head toward the peak (Mt. Britton). The hike from the road is a short 40 minutes each way, but it’s steep, and half way up we lose the carnival of tourists. The sounds of the birds and tree frogs take over.









Near the top, the rain comes down again, but this is a mere tinkle compared to yesterday’s deluge. And at the summit, we are beyond the rain. Around us – mist and clouds, rolling up the hill quickly, revealing in fleeting moments just fragments of the jungle.





We find a different route back, borrowing parts of the service road that rambles down in some vaguely helpful direction. And this may well be the highlight of today’s walk. It is quiet, but for the screech and twitter of the birds. Occasionally, the old road turns in such a way that we can catch the view all the way down to the sea. Or to the jungle summits.





And always, there is a canopy of palm and breadfruit, bamboo, banana and hibiscus and countless other vegetation – very old, very young, all forming a dense mass of beauty.





This part of the rainforest has rules and the rules are that it “closes” at 6. We’re nearly there now, timewise, but we want one last hike, this one to La Mina – an El Yunque waterfall.

It’s another half hour descent (and then, of course, assent) to La Mina. The light now is changing rapidly and it’s hard to pick out the details of a darkening forest. But the trail hugs the stream and here, the views are lovely.











At the base of the falls, three hearty souls are taking a swim. We watch, in the way older types watch something that has absolutely no appeal anymore as one weighs the pleasure of a swim against the reality of a hike back in wet clothes.

We turn around and head back up toward the car. It’s dark now. The road out of El Yunque is downhill all the way and Ed turns off the motor so that the car rolls down in neutral, in keeping with the quiet of the forest. We are the only ones here. Occasionally around the corner, we see the lights of the coastline.





But I’m not lingering. All I can think of is food.

Ed says we’ve somehow missed the boat on eating and I think he is right. Eastern Puerto Rico isn’t especially a tourist destination and so you have to really dig to find the good local places – no one is going to do the work for you. Our Inn hosts are not local people – their taste in food isn’t born out of any tradition that I would ascribe to the area.

Still, we follow their suggestion and go to Las Vegas (I am assured that it si NOT named after, well, you know, Las Vegas in Nevada).

And indeed, as the evening progresses, the place fills with families and couples, all animated in that terrific conversational style that I associate with a Latin or Mediterranean tradition.

We order seafood salads and creole sauced shrimp with local root vegetables and ginger ice cream for dessert. Wonderful foods. Las Vegas luck.

from El Yunque, P.R.: rain in a forest

Our hosts are extremely knowledgeable about matters of ecology and the environment. And so when I ask where to hike in El Yunque, even Ed listens.

You want the Disneyland hike? It has good information, it’s a well-built trail and you’ll meet lots of others. Or, do you want to climb up to El Torro?

El Torro?

It’s hard to find the trail head. It’s muddy. It’s steep – count on three hours up and three hours down. You’ll meet no one.

Ed hesitates. He likes information and he doesn’t usually follow advice, so the mocked “Disneyland” isn’t out of the running. Still, the man loves adventure.


We set out in search of the El Torre trail. The road dips and climbs through bamboo groves and dense palms. It’s a narrow, winding pot-holed thing and it’s hard to pay attention to anything but the possibility of being knocked off the uneven surface. Still, it’s pretty out here, at the edge of the El Yunque jungle. And every once in a while, we come accross something beyond "just" pretty.





Miraculously (or, rather, accidentally) we find the trail head. I note to Ed the clouds gathering around neighboring peaks.





We may get some rain, he acknowledges.

We start the climb. Once upon a time, the U.S.D.A. Forest Service put time and resources into park preservation (this rainforest is under their stewardship). Now, the politics and priorites have shifted. The US National Park Service may have treated El Yunque with more respect.

At the start of the trail:





And within minutes, the rain begins. At first, I dart from one canopy of palms to another, but this game becomes silly as the rain drops become more than just… drops.

Do you think this will get even worse? I ask (not really expecting reassurance; Ed thinks empty reassurance is pointless).
I remember one hike where it felt like I was submerged in a lake, the rain was so bad.

And yet, we continue. We came here to hike. We’re leaving in a few days. The weather cannot interfere. Besides, we’re in a rainforest. It’s fitting, in an uncomfortable sort of way. Rain, coming down like the ropes and vines, all streaming onto the path ahead.





I hide my camera underneath my shirt and stoop down so that my back catches most of the wetness. But rain has a way of finding its way down and driping over every conceivable surface.





And it gets worse. Ed is now periodically taking off his shirt to wring it out. I’m just reconciled to staying wet.


As we climb up, the trail conditions substantially deteriorate. The clay soil is slick and Ed is noting that a descent will be a slide down on your ass kind of thing. More fitting for a jungle reptile than us, I’m thinking.





And then there are the impassible pools of water and mud. Initially, I try to find side detours, but it’s no use. Again and again, we sink into mud that is ankle deep. And I mean Ed’s ankle.

Don’t lose your shoe in it! Ed warns.
I’m trying!
I’m laughing now, but it is a hysterical sort of laugh. More like a cackle.





The forest is beautiful though. And the rain doesn’t take even a smidgen away from that. The occasional flower astonishes again and again with its piercing color, but even without it, it is a breathtaking place.

















Near the top of the mountain, the rain turns into a misty drizzle. The clouds take the view away from us and still, there is a fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Us against the elements. On El Torro's nose.





But I am beginning to feel the cold of completely wet clothes. We need to keep moving.

My camera has developed ten degrees of moisture in every crevice, but gallantly, it keeps functioning, as I keep trying to find some half dry corner of shirt with which to wipe down the lens. The air is humid, misty and cool.





We make it back with only a few mud slides. And no twisted ankles. At the Rainforest Inn, I hose myself down outside and take a very hot shower.


In the late afternoon, we drive into the nearby town (on the coast). We walk past food stalls serving fried mystery foods. Ed buys a coconut and we share its milky juice.








But we’re hungry for more. A reader suggested we try shrimp mofongo and we find a place down the road that serves it and its huge.




It’s dark now. The fruits stand next door looks like it’s ready to close for the day.





We pick up a bar of chocolate at the grocer's and head back to the Inn.

From El Yunque, P.R.: arrival

Monday morning. I need to zip back up to Tampa. I have a series of flights.

Still, the Venice Island beach is just a few minutes down the road…

We head for the sea.

They fish for shells and fossiled sharks’ teeth here, I’m told. Wading in the shallow waters of the beach that meanders and dips and finally disappears into the blue nothingness of the horizon.





Time is irrelevant.

Ah, to be forever mellow…

My pals shake me into awareness. Time is not irrelevant. I pack my bag and throw it into the little blue Chevy and head north.

A flight to Atlanta, a layover, a flight to San Juan. Ed waits at the gate with his battered old duffle bag.

We head just a little toward San Juan. It’s after 9 and we need food. Endless chains: America gave Puerto Rico handfuls of fast food. We keep driving. Finally, in a strip mall we see something local. We sit at a table and sip a Puerto Rican beer and watch a mother feed her baby, held in the biggest baby seat I have ever seen. The waiter brings us a plate of shrimp, beans and rice. And fried plantains.





And then it’s back to the road. We follow my printed directions, but it’s dark and we miss the turns several times. The last stretch of road takes us right into the El Yunque rainforest. And there it is – the two unit Rainforest Inn (but really not an Inn at all), surrounded by thick greenery – at least I imagine it is green. Who can tell among the night shadows of the banana trees, the dense shrubs and hanging vines.

It’s dark. Our very Zen host shows us the small apartment. Ed cautions me not to step on the scorpion. Let’s put him back in the forest where he belongs. I’m used to this side of Ed. Even as I am less used to being greeted by scorpions.

The warm air comes in through all the open windows. The noise of the forest even now, at midnight, is intense. They say that people in tropical climates stay up late. So do birds. And crickets.

In the morning, I look outside. It is truly a “behold, the jungle!” moment.




A hearty breakfast of eggs & potato, papaya, with cinamon apples on peanut butter and bread. Rain comes on and off (how fitting). A coconut thumps down from a tree. The birds are screech and twitter. We're off to explore.

from Florida

Maybe because I never traveled south during the winter, now, getting into the rental car at Tampa airport seemed – otherworldly. The gods of central Florida, welcoming the weary traveler from the winter-battered Midwest: here, a warm moist towel, to saturate you with the steamy sauna-like air of our state.

Speeding down south on I 275, I couldn’t help roll down the window, because otherwise I may forget that feeling of being hot. I go over the Sunshine Skyway and then I pause to look under it. Birds. Florida birds. Pelicans maybe?





And fishers. No longer my huddled bulky ice fishers of Lake Mendota. A lithe young man gracefully works the line before throwing it back into the water.





I head even further south.

At a stand where a young girl tries to sell me many boxes of berries. I’m out with my camera, enchanted with the redness, the ripeness of the fruit.

You never seen a strawberry stand? – she asks smiling.
I’m from the north, from Wisconsin…
Wisconsin! I had a teacher from there! You guys call the stuff you drink “pop,” don’t you? Here we just say “coke.”
I buy the berries.





In the afternoon my pals and I head for Sarasota and the barrier islands. There is a San Francisco like fog pulling in and the white sugar sand of the beach creates seamless waves of land, water and mist. In the distance, I see the buildings of Sarasota, coming in, fading out...





It's all so beautiful.

And here, the weather is kind to me. The fog teases and pulls back a little. The water is warm. I wash the soles of my feet with the waters of the sea and watch others build dreamy castles, whose lives are shortlived.









A boy chases waves, a bird runs the other way...













In the evening we sit at the terrace of a restaurant facing the bay. Fishers, oblivious to the weather (imagine that!), standing still as the mist works its way around the shores.





I eat a Florida fish (tripletail?) and fill myself with key lime pie and I think how beguiling this all is – the air, my lifelong pals, the food, the waters around me.








But I only have until the next morning. The plan was to disperse on Monday and I have a flight to catch – another long day of travel, heading still further south to meet up with Ed.

I am so mellowed out by my twenty-four hours here. He may not recognize me.

from Florida: talk of the beach

Nice, isn't it? Far cry from the frozen stuff up north...
Ah yes. Sugar sand, they call it?
Yup, sugar sand. Wait around and watch the fog roll in.
No kidding?
Yes. But it'll roll right out. Anyway, warm right now, aren't you?
Yes...




I'm spent. I'll tell you tomorrow about what it's like to hit sand with your bare toes again. (hint: wonderful)

tomorrow

My old law school buddies (fn: they are not old; their buddyhood status is old) are reuniting in Florida. It was such a good idea! A week-end in March when the weather just drags you down. Florida.

I had forgotten about this conference, here in Madison.

So, pals, I hope you’re enjoying the beaches, the palm trees and citrus groves, the tropical drinks in outdoor spaces. At this very minute, my (Lake Mendota) view out the (conference) window is this:





Never fear, though. The week-end has another day in it – Sunday. Tomorrow, then, Florida!

life

I am, all day today and tomorrow, at a conference. I know… some way of starting spring break! But, there is an intellectual nostalgia in this exercise and so I am not likely to complain.

On my way to the meetings, I passed three weavers and shakers. I remember having once made snakes out of colorful woven plastic ribbons just such as these. I can’t remember if there was a notable final product, but it hardly mattered. The ribbons were vibrant and lovely to behold.

Perhaps there is an analogy there to the conference, but I’m not going to push it. I’ll just leave you with a photo of the weavers.

notes from a pigiste

Wednesday. I enter Monona Terrace Convention Center and look around (where are the banners? why no trumpets?). In front, a row of tables, with men and women (but really men) sitting in pairs, as if in a chess tournament. But maybe they’re medics – all in white robes, peering, dabbing with sharp knives, studying samples?

No, they’re judges and they are picking winning cheeses at the 2008 World Championship Cheese Contest. 1941 entries from around the world, 79 categories, 36 judges. Biggest cheese competition anywhere! We’re good at doing things in big ways.

I walk up to the tables and watch. They cut, they sniff, they taste and most often they spit it out. And eat an apple slice to cleanse the palate.





.....

Jean-Marie Humbert is here to judge from France. I am drawn to his table because he is…expressive. A gorgonzola is placed before him. He looks at it, takes one whiff and shudders. I ask him in French what’s wrong. I don’t want to eat this! He says emphatically. It may make me sick!

The judge from Australia is studying the runny Reblechon. I ask if Reblechons are supposed to run. No, it is unusual. Maybe there’s some excessive moisture… Maybe a drip from the ceiling? – his partner judge looks up. I’m thinking the judges like being watched.

There aren’t many onlookers and I am given plenty of opportunities to ask questions and sample cheeses. Me, I don’t spit. I am drunk with these jewels of the food world! Leave me on a mountainside with a baguette and a good cheese and I shall not complain! (A glass of wine added to this would truly send me over the top.)

.....

Thursday. After class, I rush back to Monona Terrace. The last part of the competition is underway. The 79 categories each produced a winner yesterday. Today, all judges are tasting the 79 cheeses that placed first in their class.




And when their votes are tallied, we will have a blue medal winner. The supreme cheese. The grand dame. The best of the best.



.....

We are waiting now for the results. Jean-Marie comes up to chat. I’m not so good with my English and only a couple of my friends here speak French. I don’t believe him. Foreigners are always understating their knowledge of English. No, really. It took me a while to figure out what they meant when they announced that we were judging cheese 5205. Who knew that the Americans call a “zero” by the letter ”o”?!

I meet Ernst Oettli, the judge from Switzerland. He tells me that big as this contest is here, in the States, it has yet to get huge billings in Europe. There’s room to expand there.





But what will the Swiss or French do when asked to submit a cheese in, say, category no. 78: “shredded, flavored cheese”? The winner in that class (indeed, in all shredded and grated classes) is from Wisconsin. The best shredded, flavored? --from Masters Gallery Team: "Finely Shredded Taco Cheese Blend".

Ah.

But the French judge defends the “shredded” category – they offer unique, interesting textures! -- he tells me. (Even as I know his heart is with the the cheeses from his own neck of the woods.) The French are so kind.





And now comes the announcement: Third place finish: An Emmental from Switzerland. Second place – a Gorgonzola from Italy. And first place? I’m as tense as a parent is on their kid’s big recital.




There you have it. A Gruyer from Switzerland. The Swiss judge smiles. Small wonder. He knows the cheese, the cheesemaker and his family. It’s a small operation. Only five wheels per day! He says.

And now Ernst is surrounded by cameras. He’s no longer a judge, but a spokesperson for his country’s cheeses. What’s so special about the Gruyer? – he’s asked. The fruitiness, the full flavor…

I move to the side. Jean-Marie is there again. He asks me – you’re a pigiste, aren’t you? It sounds sort of porcine, but I know it can’t be that… He’s smiling: it means a journalist that writes what he pleases and then looks for a place to publish his work. Much better than pig-lover. And yes, I am writing an article on the competition. With a small summary exclusively delivered here, on Ocean.

hang in there

I am brimming with thoughts of mold. I can say no more. I will write a lengthy expose tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m providing a photo of those who shared my concerns today.