58. A Tour of the Historic Bathrooms of Old San Juan

                      

               The next morning as I sat on my hotels’ rooftop terrace and ate breakfast, I realized my sadness at leaving Thad was passing. Looking out at the blue-white-blue curling ocean, I realized the amazing recuperative powers of waffles and sausage amid an open air tropical terrace view, while being waited on by handsome mocha skinned fellows who all kinda looked like Prince, cat-eyes and all.    

              After another wistful glance out to sea, but not down, as my vertigo kept me far away from the terrace’s edge, I reviewed my itinerary: touring today, then six days of conference, interspersed with more touring and conference events, then one more day of touring and then back home. It was a simple 10 day/9 night trip, that’s it. It would be easy…but I was nervous, as it was just the beginning of my adventures.  I knew all I had to do was suck it up and head out this morning to get the feel of the neighborhood and that would start to calm me, but I had to fight the fear that just wanted me to go back and hide in my safe hotel room.

But, alas, I could not allow the fear to win. In preparation for this trip, and accompanying paranoia,  I had devised a number of mental rules: (1) use a little Spanish before demanding they speak English to you; (2) Try not to be too grotesquely American; (3) Try not to piss off the natives; (4) Don’t get robbed; (5) Don’t get in the wrong cab and get kidnapped; (6) Don’t get your kidneys stolen, as you need them, or at least one, I think; (7) Be wary of parrots-they may look friendly but they carry disease (Mother said); (8), Don’t eat the local food as it might poison your sensitive stomach (also from Mother); and (9)Don’t drink the water (again from Mother, except I questioned this one, as it was America, so maybe the water was okay), and (10) Beware of hurricanes, as it was hurricane season and the weather was predicted to be stormy over the next few days.
Oh, and (11) Be cautious of Tsunamis. Thad had first warned me of this one: “If a Tsunami is coming run - one killed Oprah’s gay Nate’s boyfriend, and he was so sad, but then got a TV show out of it, but make sure to run first.”  Sage advice as always there from my Dear Thaddeus.

Yet as I went through this list, staying in hiding in my hotel room sounded better and better.   

              By 9 AM I had forced myself out to go wonder around Condado, the neighborhood where my hotel and the Conference Center were located. As I passed decorative stores and high-rise hotels, I realized the neighborhood wasn’t scary at all; there were no machete wielding banditos or parrots slavering at the mouth. In fact I was in a totally fabulous touurista part of town. And as I passed Gucci and Cartier, my undies unbunched and I began to saunter.

The weather was warm, as expected since it was summer on the equator and all, but not unbearable. Actually Oklahoma was hotter and had no pleasant ocean breeze or the cool recourse that came with rain. The foliage was weird, like a movie set of a tropical island-tall palms and small spiny palms, and huge trees covered in vines with lizards zipping up and down the stalks. The whole affair was very Gilligan’s Island. 

I wondered a few blocks over, mentally mapping my escape route back to the hotel in case there was a riot or cannibals with clubs, and came across even fancier hotels and restaurants and casinos and gift shops and then the ocean!  It was just right there, all big and flat and frothy as it is. So apparently my hotel was only 3 blocks from the ocean, with a Walgreen’s dropped right in the middle it: now that’s America! I could have a dip in the ocean and pick up a 12-pack of pampers all in one trip! And looking around and seeing a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Wendy’s, and a cab stand, I realized I really would be fine.  

              After lunch from a charming local establishment called Subway Sandwiches, I cabbed to Old San Juan, to start my day of real touring. This area of town was where all of the cool historic stuff was, so I had my camera (to preserve), a bottle of water (to preserve me, as the growing humidity was beginning to make me feel like I was wrapped in a fat man’s wet blanket), a snack (in case I got lost), tons of cash (to pay off the kidnappers), an umbrella (as it had already rained once this morning), a brief language book (to be able to speak to the kidnappers), and stomach pills (as I was sure to become violently ill at any second, even from looking too closely at the local, ethnic, cuisine). So like Christopher Columbus before me, I screwed down my courage and set off on a life-changing adventure.

              An hour later, as I sat in a Ben and Jerry’s and tried to cool off from an imminent heat stroke; I realized maybe I wasn’t a true adventurer after all, as all I had really sought among the interesting and beautiful ethnic sights was a clean bathroom. My journey had taken me to a cool 1500’s fort, through two crazy old churches, a scenic square or two, and many curiosity shops, but all I could really focus on the whole time was trying to find a clean, private bathroom.

See, to be a bit scatological: public bathrooms terrified me. I mean, horrified me in a crippling kind of way. I would say they scared the pee out of me, but actually the experience was exactly the opposite. And there’s no reason to go into the psychology behind it, yes, whatever you are thinking Dr. Freud is fine, but I hated public bathrooms. Enough said.

At home this wasn’t a problem, as I was comfortable with my local loos, but out and about, with new and adventurous toilets to experience, all I could do was shutter and run the other direction. I mean can you imagine a church from 1530 really having a good restroom? Well they don’t, and that is just a travesty for all Christians.  

              And having gotten older and my prostate apparently older and weaker along with it, I had to pee all the damn time now. But the OCD was at odds with my urinary track, as my body wanted to just pee, pee, pee, all over, all over everything now, but my mind would only allow it under very special circumstances. And being in a four-hundred year old fort with 9 other men at a trough urinal really just doesn’t cut it. So I ran. I just ran. I mean, what else could a civilized person do?              

              And this bathroom search pretty much colored most of the trip. I know. And I knew it was a product of my OCD more than anything, some sort of reaction to being out of pocket and scared of parrots and nervous about being kidnapped and not knowing the words for “Please, don’t cut off my finger and mail it to my Mother!”-but what was I do to? Crazy is as crazy does. At least I could travel, and wasn’t stuck at home next to Thad, curled into a ball rocking back and forth obsessively fighting over who got to pet Charlotte Bronte next.

So I just ran from one historical site’s incredibly terrifying bathroom to the next historical site’s even more terrifying bathroom.  We almost had a winner in the second oldest Church in the Western Hemisphere, but lost when there were no doors on the stalls, which faced out. So no dice. I mean, Jesus, people, get with the program. And so I left, my bladder beating against me, my heart racing from the fear, and the heat just about to kill me dead.

Trekking up an angry hill, wondering what on earth I was going to do, I saw my beacon, the star that led my way: a glowing sign for a Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlor. And I ran, ran to it, arms out, to find salvation in its cool air conditioning and a gloriously private, citron smelling bathroom with real paper towels and a lock on the door. And all is cost me was a $3 can of coke. And they called Ponce de Leon an adventurer!

         

After that, my OCD calmed and I was able to somewhat enjoy myself.

Old San Juan is cool, like New Orleans’ French Quarter, or old Boston, or anywhere in Europe: old buildings with fabulous iron work and interesting doors, tiny streets, and crumbling cobblestones. But the buildings here were painted bright Caribbean colors, and the foliage grew like the beanstalks from fairytales. So I wondered hither and yon, through interesting shops, charming parks, and stellar sights, all with a magnificent view of the blue rolling ocean off in the distance.  

Oh, and tidal waves. I needed to remember to be worried about tidal waves too.  (12) Tidal waves.     

  

              Much later that evening as I walked down the dank dark hall of my hotel toward my room, I felt good. I had spent the afternoon touring and conquering little fear after little fear. I was proud of myself for not crying and staying in my room all day. It might seem simple to some, but it was enough to make me feel proud.

As I neared my door I saw something I did not understand. Standing at the door past my room, backlit by a big window was a figure, hunched over, trying to get its door open. But the oddness was the way that the figure was hunched that confused me: I could not tell if it was man or woman, and its one outstretched arm appeared huge, almost malformed.

              I neared, warily, pulling out my own key card quietly. And as I came closer I realized it was an armless Middle Eastern man using his foot to manipulate the keycard into the door slot apparatus. He was hunched over to get his leg high enough and arched enough to lower the keycard down, held firmly in place by his toes. And I stopped and then immediately looked away, not wanting to get caught staring, and embarrass him.

              Fumbling with my own keycard, I hustled into my room, eyes down. Door open, me in, door shut.

For the remainder of the night I thought about how brave the armless man must be to travel, and how I just wished I had half of his courage.