|Calle del Sol in Old San Juan|
|When I was a college student in the '50s I visited San Juan for a few weeks, and last week I was back, attending the "resident" part of a Vermont College of Fine Arts low-residency MFA—Writing program, of which I am an alum. Even sixty years can't change the narrow, cobblestone streets of Old San Juan or the Spanish colonial architecture, the 16th century citadel of El Morro or the closely packed crypts and statues of the Cementario Santa Maria Magdalena. But traffic now chokes the streets. Signs indicate ongoing projects to improve La Perla, the infamous slum, but brilliantly colored houses still conceal poverty and drug trade, all washed by ocean surf.|
|Cemetary Maria Magdalen|
U.S. fast food and clothing chains have invaded Old San Juan, and diamond merchants have proliferated, shop after shop catering to the flood of tourists that pour from giant cruise ships each day. To feed these travelers, San Juan's restaurants serve "Latin fusion," as the guidebooks call it, but really it's placeless, homeless food that shoves aside the native comida criolla. In Old San Juan I yearned for remembered beans and rice flavored with sofrito, a mix of ham, root vegetables and native achiote; soupy asapao; green plantains fried crisp and ripe ones stewed to a sweet caramel.
|Casa del Libro|
|El Libro y su Encuadernacion|
|Artist's Book: Creacion del Mundo/Creation of the World|
|Artist's Book: "I sought him, but I found him not."|
My middle name is Helen, hides
My grandma, also Helen, who conceals
In turn the girl who shamed her by
Her girlish birth, while
Wedging her name between my first and last.
These lines turned out to encapsulate my novel, I Never Knew You Had a Girl, in which the protagonist, based on my mother, suffers the self-loathing that comes from having a mother who doesn't think much of girls.
|Morning Sun on Bamboo|
Americanization ends at the edge of El Yunque, the rainforest, where we spent the second four days. Though a U.S.National Forest, El Yunque is also a world unto itself, a place where bamboo whispers, life-giving water flows day and night, and plants win. Excellent local guides, Robin and his son Daniel, have befriended the plants and know the names and habits of each. They break off bits of edibles for us to crunch and offer pods of bromeliads for us to nurture back home. Waterfalls tumble down the steep mountains and pool in cool basins, one just below the Casa Cabuy, the Ecolodge where we stay. There cook Carmen prepares marvelous comida criolla: papaya and mango for breakfast as well as eggs and avena, oatmeal cooked with milk and sugar, served soupy. For lunch and dinner we eat beans, rice and fish or chicken, once pork, always plantain, green and crisp or ripe and mellow.
Who would have thought a writing residency would require rock scrambling skills? I didn't, and didn't believe it until I stripped to my bathing suit (No phone? No photos?), noticed my glasses ("I'll take them," said Mary, and stuffed multiple pairs into a plastic bag, the bag into her swimsuit), and edged bleary-eyed down a mud path to slippery rocks and water. If the current was mentioned I didn't hear it over the rumble of cascading water. Nearly across I saw the bank retreat and called for help. A stranger dragged me and two others over the wet and moss-covered rocks to the shore.
|Carolyn, Richard and Jude, waterfall at Casa Cabuy|
|Mary at the pool below Casa Cabuy|
|Waterfall in the Rainforest|
A day on the beach capped our week, romping and swimming and eating at the beach's famed sixty kiosks with our fellow students, Richard, Mary, and our organizational guru, poet Pam Taylor. The camaraderie of all was just as infectious and lively as the workshops and lectures had been perceptive and challenging.
|VCFA Encampment on Luquillo Beach: Sophfronia, Mary, Shanalee, Carolyn, Partridge, Lillian, Richard|
|Evidence: I was there|