On the 23rd day of March of this year, I found myself hovered over a table at the Hartford airport, sharing a measly bag of McDonald’s fries with two of my best friends. We watched the New England rain, as we craved the week we had just spent in the blazing San Juan sun—collectively attempting to will it right back into existence.
One week prior, I had embarked on a long-anticipated vacation with my freshman year suitemates, who also happen to be my very best friends: Diana and Sasha. We had decided to take on the quintessential spring break location of Puerto Rico—and who better to do it with than people who have spent the year separated from you by paper thin walls, seeing you at your best, worst, and everything in between?
By sheer dumb luck, Diana and I were seated next to each other on our ungodly 5 a.m. flight from Miami to San Juan (would we really be college students on a spring break trip if we hadn’t chosen the cheapest and thus most inconvenient flight possible?). We caught up on sleep in preparation for the impending lack thereof, and two-and-a-half hours later, we landed in what was to be our home for the coming days.
San Juan was a muddle of contradictions—exactly what I thought it would be, but also the wildest surprise. Was I perhaps misguided in my expectation that I would be surrounded by the sound of soft waves and distant salsa music from our shoebox-like Airbnb? In fact, mere silence was an unrealistic expectation, given that our days started (at 5:30 a.m., might I add), ended, and were infuriatingly interrupted by the rooster that lived right outside our front door. Had I been there with any other combination of people, the rooster would have been chalked up to an incredible annoyance, perhaps an indictment of the person who booked the Airbnb for not looking at the reviews long and hard enough. But it was Diana, Sasha and me—the same trio that had insulated our suite in every way possible for fear of rats, unclogged the drain in our shared dorm bathroom, and scrubbed the floors clean after hosting a suite party. The rooster was yet another ridiculous story we would get to giggle about together.
The trip had been replete with moments just like this one, and as we sat nestled in the depressing yet familiar comfort of the Hartford airport, we found ourselves clutching at our sides, uncontrollably laughing at the ludicrousness of it all. We riffed off each other, almost as if we were competing to see who could present the strongest contender for our most bizarre experience in San Juan. My choice, which I stand firm on, was our experience in the El Yunque National Rainforest. Having returned from the touristy, nightclub-ridden district of La Placita mere hours before we were meant to be hiking up excessively slippery mountains, it’s safe to say the experience was one that I will never forget. I watched Sasha slide, with questionable skill, down a waterfall; I myself swung off a rope to jump into a lake and ended up slamming my knees into the rock I was meant to launch myself off of; all while, Diana sat perched on a patch of grass, waiting for us to finish off our antics so we could get the hell out of the rainforest and to any mildly respectable establishment that served food.
Our eternal struggle—both Diana and Sasha’s choice for our most absurd San Juan story—was one for food. We stayed down the street from a Walgreens, so one of our meals every day was fulfilled by an overpriced bag of chips or microwavable popcorn—our feeble attempt to save money. One day, on a mission to find what Diana designates as ‘hearty’ food, we made our way to a bakery, lazily ordering the menu item that Diana found the most exciting, momentarily forgetting that we all have wildly different tastes. We sat down with a mallorca in front of each of us—a sandwich with special Puerto Rican bread, egg, cheese, and powdered sugar drizzled all over it—perfect for Diana’s sweet and salty preference, passable for Sasha, and a nightmare for me.
But as much as there was bizarre, there was serene, as we spent our days sunbathing on the beach. There was adventure in our escapades in Old San Juan, as we trod the wall bordering the city at sunset, and sipped on piña coladas at the place they were first conceived. There was joy in watching Diana get pummeled by waves and Sasha telling her to “think like a buoy!” And there was immeasurable love, in knowing that I wouldn’t want to do it all with anybody else in the world.
