2. Lena
I have learned two things about Puerto Ricans so far. First, they are extremely chatty, and second, noise-cancelling headphones are no deterrent to that intrinsic chattiness.
And I submit, a nine-hour flight from Madrid to San Juan next to two golden-age natives of the island allows me to make this blanket cultural characterization. In turn, they are welcome to say all women from Salamanca are aloof, monosyllabic workaholics.
Bueno , a third thing I have learned about Puerto Ricans is that it takes them exactly 4.5 flight hours to wear you down, have you give up on the headphones barrier, and give in to conversation. And this includes some intense avoidance provided by the work on my laptop.
Gloria, Irma, and I have now discussed the climate differences of our respective home countries, how the Spanish language is so varied geographically, and the many uses of baking soda.
Now, Gloria feels ready to get personal and asks why I’m traveling to Puerto Rico.
I am not surprised that “work” is not a satisfactory answer.
Appalled, she exclaims, “Ay, pero how can this trip be only about your job? Such a young mamasita as yourself on a vibrant tropical island. So many possibilities.”
Irma shakes her head and tsks in disapproval beside her travel buddy.
I can’t help but chuckle and try to shake them off. “The only possibilities I am interested in are to find what I’m looking for”—they both raise their penciled-in eyebrows suggestively—“to finally complete this research project.”
A simultaneous and disappointed “Booo” and “Bah!” ring out from my inescapable flight companions. And I know I am about to hear some unsolicited, even if well-meant, advice.
Irma pounces. “Listen well, mijita. If there is one thing these years and wrinkles have taught us, it’s to always be open to possibilities. Don’t close yourself off from new experiences, new people. Your ambitions are great.” She gestures at my laptop with a weathered hand. “But who wants missed opportunities because of being too focused on ambition? We can have it all. Just remember that: possibilities .”
All I can do is smile and claim, “I’ll try to remember.”
Gloria lovingly adds with a soft pat on my hand, “You do that. Take your pretty eyes off that laptop once in a while and look around.”
I nod, hopeful the subject will end there.
In one synchronized move, they lean their elbows on their armrests, cheeks in hands, and turn unrelenting gazes at me.
“Now, tell us about this all-important work,” Irma presses.
“Yes, please tell us such focused ambition is going to something important, like fixing that hot dog and bun package ratio.” Gloria tsks.
“Ay sí , or inventing glasses that don’t fog up.”
Their lips press together as their heads shake with annoyance, and I wait to see if they’ll keep listing worthy causes and not actually expect a reply.
When they blink at me, I add my own head shake. “I am sorry to disappoint. What I do is important work, but nothing like inventing a lost sock locator.”
They both gasp. “That would be amazing,” Irma marvels.
For a moment, we stop to imagine what life would look like if such advancement existed and then I continue, “I’m a historian and a genealogist. Mostly, I teach history courses, give lectures, and people hire me to research family trees.”
Gloria asks, “And someone’s family tree led to Puerto Rico?”
“Yes. I rarely travel this far for research. But the aristocrats who hired me are not just any clients. Hence, my face stuck on my laptop.”
Their eyes widen, impressed, and Irma asks, “Tú perdona. Sorry to pry, mija . But that work sounds like something for someone twice your age.”
Clearly, they’re not sorry to pry, but I smile and shrug. “I’m twenty-seven years old. But, like my mamá would say, bien aprovechados.”
Well-spent, well-invested. I have put in the studies, the work, the hours, the records room menial tasks, and the mountains of research for others’ credit to finally garner some respect and recognition in the field.
“Yes, you must have used your time well.” Gloria smiles with motherly pride.
Irma tsks. “But don’t forget to make some time for fun.”
“And love,” Gloria adds as their eyebrows wiggle again.
“Possibilities. Remember that. Add it like a little affirmation or something.”
After that, talk randomly and thankfully transitions to a very heated discussion on the distinctive properties of cilantro and culantro. And then Gloria and Irma nod off, dead to the world for the last thirty minutes of the flight.
Their similarly bobbed silver heads lean toward the other as if seeking warmth, so I take my emotional-support chal and drape it over them like a blanket. (Yes, I travel with a chal. I’m Spanish; we all fulfill our stereotypes in some way.)
Their gentle snoring is a welcome respite, but now I’m left to my own thoughts.
As lovely as this possibilities sentiment is, I have not achieved success in my ancestry research career by looking around to see what life will bring my way.
And successfully completing this genealogical project will be the next step. It’s not every day one gets hired by powerful aristocrats to solve a centuries-old family mystery. Trying to make this happen successfully, I have hit new heights—or lows, depending on how one looks at it—of making work my life. All just to hit a wall and completely lose the research trail.
When the final approval of the funds to travel to Puerto Rico came in, I could not wait another second. This could mean so much for professional prestige and future research grants and opportunities.
Those are the only possibilities I’ll be chasing.
What’s worse than no sleep on a nine-hour flight? Dozing asleep the last ten minutes and suddenly waking up with the plane’s jarring descent.
Fourth thing I have learned about Puerto Ricans: everybody claps when the plane lands. I’m serious. As soon as the airplane wheels bump on the runway, a round of applause celebrates our arrival.
The significant clapping across the whole plane must not be enough since the flight attendant at the loudspeaker riles them up. “Oh no. You call that applause?”
Hundreds of hands clap vigorously, joined by loud whoops and whistling, and the flight attendant approves. “?Eso eh! That’s more like it. Welcome to Puerto Rico!”
I might find all of it charming if my head wasn’t about to split in two from the lack of sleep—not only on this flight, but from weeks of work-induced insomnia. The tension from making this trip happen and all that rides on its success adds a very particular pounding on my right side. I try closing one eye to see if it helps as they announce our baggage carousel number. Everyone starts crowding in the aisle—as if that will make the plane door open any faster.
Still blinking and trying to conjure to mind where I am and what century we are in, I notice my chal lays neatly folded and that Gloria and Irma are ready to go. Magically refreshed and fluffed, they clutch their handbags and duty-frees in anticipation of disembarking.
Right . I’m in San Juan to find answers to a career-defining genealogical question.
The line down the aisle slowly moves. As they head out and turn to wave at me, Gloria calls out, “Dios te bendiga, mijita . May you find everything you need.”
I smile at the farewell blessing and wave back. “Gracias, mis amores . Enjoy being back home.”
In the relative quiet of exiting the aisle, my stomach grumbles, and I’m reminded of another reason for my pounding headache. The meager airplane meal is long gone. My rumbling stomach will have to wait, because I still have immigration to go through, my bag to recover, and my ride to find.
Uneasiness seeps down my limbs as I think about this last situation in particular. My ride. I hardly had a chance to work out the details before jumping on the plane.
In the airport bathroom, I sort myself into a semblance of my usual self, making my effortlessly elegant foremothers proud. I may be exhausted, starving, and feel like I have an ax-throwing contest going on in the back of my eyes, but, as I look in the mirror, none of that is visible in my reflection. This research trip might have happened last minute, but there’s nothing uncalculated about my unfrumpable travel style and post-travel refreshing techniques.
I exit the ladies room, smoothed-out and ready to get this job done.
I now know two things about the San Juan airport. First, bathroom stall handbag hooks are precariously undependable. Second, if you value your time, go carry-on and don’t leave checked bags to the timetable of whatever sloth-like meandering is going on behind the luggage carousel.
I would not say patience was generously included in my innate virtues bag—an extra dose of tenacity must have taken its place. But I seem to have developed it less than I thought, as my stylishly dignified suitcase took a few millennia to arrive.
Frowning, I check my watch before perching on the edge of my suitcase. Despite the lack of communication before the flight, whoever was supposed to pick me up is clearly very late.
Just as I know I should have left behind my heavy stack of research binders to keep my bag within carry-on limits and avoid all this patience testing, I know this awkward waiting outside in the tropical heat is probably my fault.
When I walked outside of the airport sliding doors (what feels like another millennia ago), after not seeing my name on a single driver’s sign inside, I slammed right into a wall of swampy humidity that even my sleek low bun and tailored breezy linen are no match for.
Blinding sunlight, unnecessarily aggressive car exhausts, and the magnified tumult of an airport terminal further assault my senses, compounding my headache, exhaustion, and hunger.
These fellow travelers that did coordinate their arrival transportation don’t know how perilously close they are to seeing a buttoned-up European snap on a scorching sidewalk.
I officially, deeply regret this one time I let overeagerness override my usual over-planning.
And then I see him.
Jogging to the arrivals with urgent ease, backwards baseball cap, open-necked floral button-down shirt, cargo shorts—all of it in a general state of sweaty dishevelment. He looks almost as crumpled as the paper he holds out as a passenger name sign. He glances around for someone to identify themselves from whatever is scribbled on there.
He walks over, searching closer to where I stand, and I’m able to further catalogue. Tan. Fit. Early thirties. Shaved head. Dirt smudges on scruffy face and strong hands.
The paper he holds also becomes clearer. In barely legible scrawl, I read Lena Martín . I read it again. What are the odds there is someone else here waiting who so closely shares my name?
Stalking among the terminal crowd, he scans around and huffs in frustration.
I just want to get out of this heat, so when he strides past me again, I call out, “Disculpe!”
He turns at the sound of my voice, and his brow furrows further as his narrowing eyes land on me. Brown. Deep. Smile lines.
I point at his paper. “I think that is me.”
Following my finger to what he has in his hands as if he forgot he was holding it, realization dawns in his eyes. When he glances back at me, he looks me over with an assessing gaze. “You’re Lena Martín?” His disbelief is hard to miss.
Why is it hard to believe? Years of being discounted for my youth, appearance, and gender make my hackles rise up. “Profesora Magdalena Martín. I am guessing that is who your . . . sign refers to.”
Now it’s my disdain that is hard to miss. Navarro must have sent a random driver to pick me up until the historian colleague contact he mentioned—a Federico Morales—is available.
Grimy Driver’s jaw recovers from surprise as he more blatantly sizes me up and down. “ You are Magdalena Martín from Salamanca?” He still feels compelled to confirm.
Annoyance joins my hackles. “Sí, sí, do you need me to pull out my passport or can we get out of here? I have been waiting long enough,” I state as I wheel my suitcase over for him to grab. The least he can do.
One would expect some apology for the delay. But all I get as he grips my large bag’s handle and gestures for me to walk ahead is an, “Of course, profesora. ”
I’m surprised his words made it out with the way he grits his teeth.
There is nothing to do but huff, grab my carry-on, and traipse toward the parking lot. All my exhaustion fades, and my indignation demands information for bad review satisfaction. Navarro must be told not to count on this man again.
Grimy Driver marches past me, and I struggle to keep up with his stomping pace as I ask, “Disculpe otra vez. What was your name?”
He doesn’t look back when he replies, “Rico Morales, your humble servant, profesora.” I can hear how clenched his jaw is.
My carry-on’s wheels grind to a halt as I stop. What is it today with the eerily similar names?
“‘Rico’? As in Federico Morales?” He still walks ahead of me. What look like small feathers dot his mildly sweat-stained, broad back.
Rico keeps going but answers back, “Yep—who did you think I was?”
This is supposed to be the prolific genealogist who will assist me in such a crucial project? I flew all the way here for field research help from him ?
At my shocked pause, he turns around and looks right at me, more realization dawning. He huffs, shaking his head. “Vaya, you thought I was a driver.”
We continue weaving through the full parking lot as I chime in my defense, “Well, that might have been cleared up if you had simply introduced yourself.”
He walks ahead, looking around. “My apologies , profesora , I was too busy getting luggage shoved at me.”
Oh, so that’s how it is?
Following him to a tour van with the windows rolled down a little, I aim for a nerve with my most flippant tone. “No apologies needed. I was not sure what to expect in the way of civilization on the island—but I thought you would at least be punctual.”
“Ah, but, please, do excuse us native savages. We function so much better when the sophisticated colonizers actually plan and communicate their travel itineraries.”
So we are escalating quickly to a United Nations dispute.
Rico holds onto the side door handle but doesn’t open as he continues, “It’s actually good to confirm you have these ignorant preconceptions. I’m not surprised to have to educate you on how we’re not all illiterate bumpkins. It’s not all loincloths and chicken farms over here.”
I scoff, but before I can reply, he forcefully pulls the van door open. I blink to confirm what my eyes are telling my mind I am looking at.
Chickens . His van is full of chickens.