Beginings . . .
I remember sitting on a rock behind the old house, being handed a plate full of the most wonderful food by my grandmother through the back kitchen door and feeling completely safe, happy and invincible. I did not have to worry about anything back then. Now, when I visit my family, we always end up at some place up in the mountains where you can sit outside, feel the breeze and enjoy some of the most delicious food you can imagine. It’s cheap and absolutely fantastic. The best part of it all, I don’t get sick driving up those mountains anymore. So I can actually enjoy the food and keep it down. The worst part is the service.
I have gotten used to restaurant service in the states and after working in the food industry for Disney back when the service was amazing, tend to expect a lot when I go out. Every single time I tell myself no to get upset. I have to remember where I am. I have to focus on enjoying the experience for what it is; fresh air, great food, great family, and a time to reminisce. I try to relax and maybe spend time talking to my nieces and nephews. I try getting up from the table and go outside to smoke a cigarette. I try going up to the bar and ask politely if someone could come help us. I try not to get upset when my sister tells me to calm down. I try not to act like a wise ass when they do finally come take our order. I try not to imagine the waitress in all kind of horrible situations where she would have to wait for very long periods of time before she could experience the sweet release of death.
Last year we drove for almost two hours through the mountains. Stopped at the "Maravilla" overlook. Then decided to drive down to the new lake in Ponce. On the way down there was this most inviting little restaurant with a full parking lot. Always a great sign. So we stopped and went inside. The whole family sat on a table and started talking. There were 10 of us. The place seemed very popular and that usually means great food so I was very excited at the prospects. We sat on that table for over one hour before anyone came to take the order. Mind you, I had gone to the bar and offered to place the order there a few times already but was sent back to the table to wait for the server. My mother seemed to be enjoying herself having us all there together again. My sister would give me "the look" every once in a while to keep me quiet. The one time I was allowed to bitch and moan I was reminded "this is just the way it is, stop acting like a gringo!" I looked around and there were other people not getting any service either, so in a strange way, that made me feel better. The manager in me kept thinking, "I would fire every single one of these idiots and hire a whole new staff". After 2 and half hours, we finally got our food. Huge disappointment. Even my mother said it sucked and she never complains.
The Old Plaza
The picture you see here is of my grandmother sitting on a fountain at the center of the old plaza. I have very vague memories of that plaza. It was half the size of the one you find there today. You can see the church behind my grandmother that still stands there today. It used to be just a cement rectangle with a "tarima" on one end and the statue of Walter Mck Jones on the other. I remember getting into a lot of trouble trying to steal the "caimitos" from that big tree you see behind my grandma. I also remember watching a big pole "palo ensebao" buried on the side of the plaza slathered in grease with prizes nailed on a board at the top of the pole.
During the "fiestas patronales" they would have different teams from each "barrio" composed of different men who would climb on top of each other to claim those prizes. It would never happen today because it is too dangerous. They would get almost to the top and come crashing down on top of each other. I do not remember any broken bones but I am sure there were a few. The funniest part was looking at a couple of big "salchichones" hanging from that pole and how much went into getting to them. They would also grab kids from the audience and put boxing gloves on them and let them go at it until one gave up. No parent permission slips, no body armor, no mouth pieces. Raw... not fun... trust me... I spit up a couple of teeth one time. (which I used to collect money from my parents to go on the rides that night).
Below is a little slide show from pictures taken when I visit my family. You will also see some from the past. Those are always fun to look at.