and Words
[Instrumental]
I spent my early childhood on the sunny island of Puerto Rico. My dad ran a restaurant which he literally built with his own hands. It was both our home and our business. You could walk directly from the street into our dining room, where my mom would seat you in any one of a modest number of tables. A cigarette vending machine sat to one side, where you could buy packs of cigarettes unsupervised. Upon entering the coins, you would pull on these long handles as the mechanism loudly dropped the cigarettes onto a bin at the bottom.
A large ice cream machine occupied much of the storefront. It also served as a counter to greet customers. It housed large stainless steel cylindrical bins of prepared ice cream and kept them cold and firm. On the left sat the ice cream maker, with huge oddly shaped metal instruments that looked like medieval torture devices.
As each day wore on, my parents would shut down the dining room and limit business to take-out. They pull the gates close to the front door but had a door on the gate large enough to fit a bag of take-out. Our house didn’t have air conditioning, but neither did anyone we knew.
We spent afternoon siestas driving by the beaches of San Juan. Occasionally, we stopped by the beach to eat spit-roasted chickens and drink juice out of a coconut or guarapo. We baked in the sun as the warm ocean breeze embraced us. The wind whispered as it rustled palm trees. Grains of sand adhered to our wet feet as we walked on the beach, only to end up on the floor of our car. This was ‘normal’.
We moved from Puerto Rico to Florida, yet another tropical paradise. My high school and practically every place you may go is lined with plush grass and palm trees. I earned enough money to buy my own bicycle, a Stormer, from the local bike shop, Wheeler Dealer. It was my priced possession. Subsequently, I rode everywhere I could imagine.
Everyone bundled up when the temperature would drop to a frosty mid-60’s Fahrenheit, which was exceedingly rare. More often than not, we’d drive around with the windows down to enjoy the warm breeze. Driving up and down I-95 in the evening past rush hour was equally joyous and adventurous. The prevalent sentiment in South Florida driving is “death before yielding”.
Even on days which were technically cloudy, you may get sunburned. The sun shone through the clouds brightly enough to cast crisp shadows from everything outdoors.
Years later, I attended college in Miami to become an engineer. By then, I barely noticed the sun and lush palm trees. I subsequently took the sheer tropical beauty and blissfulness for granted, much like having the same meal every day. You simply didn’t notice until you went hungry.
There was a fountain in the middle of campus amid a grid of stories tall palm trees. It seemed like once a semester, a delinquent student would dump soap and food coloring into that fountain. This would cause it to foam over in some spectacular fashion, especially when the lights shone through it at night.
Once I graduated, I moved to Washington to work in technology. Everything was new. I skied for the first time. I saw snow for the first time. When you have a new life, a new set of friends, and new experiences… Understanding what you miss becomes very delicate to untangle.
In 1995, I was in a week-long business trip to Los Angeles, my first time in this city. For dinner, we went to a restaurant in Universal City. In that restaurant sat a huge pot, likely five feet in diameter. From that pot sprouted a palm tree, probably two stories tall. It was in that moment, in a foreign city, that I realized how homesick a simple palm tree made me.
It was months later, that I found myself driving down US-1 towards the University of Miami. As I drove, I found myself looking the majestic palm trees that sat plainly in the median that separated the traffic on both directions. I pondered how I took them for granted for the years when I attended school. How this I miss this?
I can’t deny it. I’m a child of the tropics.
Even when I lived in the tropics, I didn’t simply sit and relax in the sun; I always did something. Maybe it’s a side effect of being an engineer; my mind is always pondering something. Doing nothing seemed… well, pointless.
Years later, as I settle down, I found that sharing my life means that I need to make adjustments. We find tranquility in the simple task of baking in the sun for absolutely no other purpose. In those moments, I put on my headphones and put on this tune: ‘Night in That Land’. It brings me to those moments of my childhood with sand between my toes.
It is now inextricably tied to afternoons in the sun at the local pool. If we’re lucky, no one else stops by the pool, and we have it to ourselves. In most of these instances, we don’t even go into the pool. We simply sit poolside and enjoy the warmth of the sun. I may read while I listen to music, but there’s no ulterior motive except to just do nothing.
When we visit Michigan, we may sit in the shores of Lake Michigan and land on Silver Beach. We sit in the sun with the sand in our toes. In the distance, we’ll see the image of the lighthouse. Again, this song is my constant companion, a gentle companion that reminds me that doing nothing is precisely the point.
We visit the beaches of Palm Beach. As we sit poolside by the infinity pool, it continues to tell me that tranquility is the point. I reflect on all those moments in years past where I took the sun and the palm trees for granted. The warmth on my skin from the sunlight is familiar, but almost forgettable, if you allow it.
It is my opportunity to admire it all, and it fills me with gratitude. The warmth, the sun, and the palm trees are now an integral part of my being. Sometimes I just need a gentle reminder. This little tune helps me slow life down and gives me some perspective.