and Words
Esta tarde escuché una música
Y he sentido nostalgia pensando el lugar
Donde yo nací, Puerto Rico.
Qué será de mi tierra y mis árboles
Qué será de mi casa cubierta de sol
Mi querido sol, viejo amigo.
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
The sun toasts the pavement on a Puerto Rico afternoon. The heat and humidity turn the island into a sauna. On a typical afternoon, my dad closes the doors to our restaurant for siesta. A siesta is a tradition among Spanish folk where, they shut things down, often to take a nap.
Today, we’d pile into our blue Chevy Nova and go on a drive. It’s the entire family: both my parents, my sisters, and I. As the car builds up speed, I roll down the window and plant my face out the opening to enjoy the wind. I must’ve looked like a dog with their head out the window.
It was precisely in this way that we spent many afternoons. The routine had such alarming regularity, but it also brought comfort in like an old pair of shoes or favorite shirt.
The wind blowing against my face cooled the heat from the sun. My dad typically drove by the beach, where we’d watch the waves crash against the sand as we drove by. Each wave crashed in a subtle, bubbly foam into the sand, and turned crystal clear as the water retreated back into the Atlantic.
The unmistakable smell of salt and sea filled the air and to this day, still brings me to back to those moments. The palm trees danced with the wind; the rustle of the leaves would whisper in a distinctive way that welcome you to approach. Meanwhile, you may almost forget about it until you hear it again, only then do you realize it became the soundtrack to the island. Similarly, the warm wind did not chill, but instead embraced you.
On occasion, we would stop at the beach for some food. Different vendors will roast chickens over an open fire right on the beach. There were three of us kids, and we all preferred dark meat, so my dad would only grin while he bought two chickens. It was way too much food; one would’ve been plenty. I still remember the sand between my toes as we sat and pulled pieces off a roasted chicken with my bare hands. My mom would bring home the remainder of our meal sandwiched carefully between paper plates.
Sometimes we may get a local drink, called guarapo; it is sugar-cane juice. Sugar cane is one of Puerto Rico’s biggest crops and it is readily available. Guarapo is a greenish brown drink and as you might expect, incredibly sweet. First, we approached these vans filled with long stalks of sugar cane, fresh off the field. Next, they fed these long stalks into a truly frightening machine that would noisily grind these stalks. Finally, this process produced two things: A pile of fibrous mush, but more importantly this nectar. This drink was much too sweet for me, but my sisters enjoyed it. Though truthfully, I think the biggest reason why we got it is because we were fascinated by watching the machine grind the sugar cane stalks.
Instead, I preferred coconut juice, though it wasn’t out of a squarish foil-lined collapsible box. We approached another vendor on the beach; we gazed at their stack of coconuts. These green bowling ball-sized globes sat in the back of a van or pick-up truck, ready for the picking. Upon requesting one, the man would pick up the coconut on one hand and a machete on the other. Next, he swung the blade as he chipped away at the top of the sphere, as we watched, transfixed on the swinging of said blade. Finally, he cuts just into the white fleshy part of the coconut and pierces a whole for a straw. The amount of coconut juice never seemed to be enough coming out of a vessel of that size, but it was still a treat.
Occasionally, we’d bring those coconuts home and try to pry them open. We may use a hammer to try to crack them open or try to scoop the coconut flesh out with a spoon. I don’t remember this ever working to our satisfaction, but it didn’t prevent us from trying the next time.
Our car only had a radio, and it might’ve been only an AM radio. If we wanted to listen to music, we had these brightly colored Panasonic cassette players that we could carry on our lap, and it needed to run with batteries. And we often did. One of the popular artists we played was a group called La Pandilla. Their popularity in Puerto Rico was almost fanatical, reminiscent of Beatlemania. This particular song, ‘Puerto Rico’ was one that stuck to memory, from the album by the same name.
La Pandilla (literally, ‘The gang’) was composed of a group of teens (one girl and four boys), each distinctive in their voices. However, they sang in unison in this particular song. It spoke of all the nuanced details. It mentions the house baked in the sun, the trees in the tropical setting, and singing by the shores of the beach. Finally, it even refers to the island as an old friend. Each verse is reminiscent of my experience while I lived there.
The chorus later asserts that, “Pronto volveré a Puerto Rico”. This translates to “Soon I’ll return to Puerto Rico”. While I echo the sentiment of this tune, I have yet to return to my humble island beginnings. I’ll occasionally look at pictures of my childhood home, which doubled as my dad’s restaurant, on mapping websites. Inexplicably, I have the address committed to memory even decades later. The exterior looks unspeakably small, and I can’t imagine how I spent my childhood years there.
Though as the song beacons, I hope to return to that home, though I don’t imagine when I may do that. Until then, this song will serve as a fond reminder of those childhood moments in the tropical sun.