It’s been a while. I’m sure all 10 of you Awyee readers were dying for the latest rant–and for that I’m sorry. I’ve been on holiday in Puerto Rico, aka PR, aka mofongo central for the past week and hardly had a minute to update.
I’m going to give you a brief summary of my thoughts on Puerto Rico, tailored only from the past week’s events.
First things first. When entering an airport there are only two things required. A ticket (or money) and any form of identification. Obviously a Ricky Martin in front of us forgot his ID, or didn’t know what one was. When customs is asking for an ID and you respond in a quiet “I don’ got an ID, yo” please remove yourself from society. The girthy customs agent isn’t sitting there and getting fatter for purposes of annoying you. I would imagine pulling up your pants every 5 minutes distracts you from remembering such requirements, but it would be helpful in the future.
Obviously this guy boarded our flight and sat the row in front of us–next to Mr. Spring Break. Paired with the latina baby crying and the sweaty jean shorts, my flight was long past stereotyped.
The first leg of the trip was in Rincon. The area is known for its surf during the winter months, but of course it was as flat as a 4th grader during our stay. On the other hand, every man, woman, and child were rounder than the sun. I don’t want to sound crass, but I didn’t see one woman I would put my penis in. Nada one. It’s too much Coca-Cola or rice and beans–something has to give. Do yourself a favor and look up what a calorie is.
Besides the fatties, Rincon was beautiful. We traveled to Lajas in southwest Puerto Rico to see one of the region’s many bioluminescent bays. Basically some lagoons have these little pussy microorganisms that “overreact” when touched, releasing a greenish glow. Unfortunately Lajas had the shittiest bay in the world. Had I been Aziz Ansari in a mafia transaction I too would have shot up Johnnys Boat’s (or is it Johnny’s Boats [please consult a native english speaker]). Avoid Lajas like the plague. You’ll be consumed by mosquitos and wish you’d JOKO’d your night away instead.
After Rincon we were supposed to stay in Isabela, but our Airbnb host Jose decided that wasn’t going to happen. We wanted to modify our stay and asked Jose if he could accommodate, to which he approved. Three days later with 20 unanswered calls/emails, Jose decided to skip out and f*ck us over. On top of that Airbnb thought it would stay coy and get back to after I returned to New York, trying to keep it’s service fee. They can kiss my shapely white and hairy ass crack.
At this point we decided to move on to San Juan. Not only does it seem people here excercise, but they are not folding over their muffin tops. We dropped some bills on an “authentic-but-not-actually-authentic-just-a-tourist-trap” dinner in Old San Juan.
Our waitress dressed up in a similar outfit
We had some mofongo and steaks, watched some parrots nearly sh*t all over a mother and daughter, and locked our car doors passing a meth-head. That’s what I call authentic. The next day we went to Castillo San Filipe de Morro and Fort San Cristobal. My 8 year old self would think this is retarded and a waste of time, but Old San Juan was stunning. If I was an architect or historian I would have gotten a chub. Not only did the fort have a stale cat roaming it’s confines, but the views were as breathtaking as the farts in it’s bathrooms. We found some Iguanas and heard typical Caribbean ass shaking music on the walk–we weren’t even mugged once.
The next day we drove to central Puerto for ziplining at Toro Verde. If you’re in Puerto Rico and you want to have your nuts viced and shit in your pants while you scream down thin metal wire over a 500 foot valley don’t look any further. The park is definitely worth the money. You could die because the guy strapping you in doesn’t know english and you don’t know spanish, but that’s alright. When you have 4 gay guys from San Francisco obsessively talking about Gucci and Pitch Perfect the trip couldn’t be more fabulous.
Later that night we drove to Fajardo for the other famous bio bay in Puerto Rico. This one was actually worth the money. I’m not sure if they just dumped a sh*t-ton of highlighters in the lagoon or what, but the water lit up pretty well. Our tour guide kept saying “overreact” and asking “Are you having fun?” Honestly I just wanted him kayak to float away and let the lagoon swallow his body.
The next day we drove to Isabela and stayed a shitty little studio.–obviously they didn’t advertise the mosquito swarm amenities provided by the shitty garden right next door, but Isabela is beautiful. Again, west side–fat people make the place look a little sh*tty, but down the road was a local restaurant serving octopus and papaya salad.
We went to the beach at the end of the road with a nice cove for people to calmy swim. Whilst enjoying the scenery I heard some twig bich yell “Ayuda! Ayuada”. My 68 on the Spanish Regents taught me that word. What was that word? Looking behind her I saw two dickheads caught in the riptide. It must’ve meant help. I pushed the twig bich away and swam after the assholes floating away–one girl on a bodyboard and one douchy guy. The guy grabbed onto my shoulders as we swam towards the coast, but his flopping was pushing me under. I had to ditch the asshole 5 feet from the sand barrier. Sorry bro, I’m not going to drown for some Hennifer Lopez trapped in the current. Eventually we flagged down some surfers to help them out, to which they shouted “Gracias” like they had tourettes. I felt like a hero, even though I very well could have watched both them die.
We flew out the next day and that was that. We didn’t get to see the rainforest or Culebra, two very popular, very beautiful spots, but I’ll leave that for the next visit. I had my fill for now. No Hep C or herpes. Couldn’t have done better.
Puerto Rico was over. Done. Finito.