22. Rico
Somebody glue my hands to this steering wheel—and my eyes to the road while they’re at it.
I’ve handled years of grueling work hours and toxic, demanding work environments all while keeping it surface-level together. Stoic and restrained is the name of the game. But you really don’t know how much forbearance you lack until it’s so truly tested.
After that goodbye at Abuela’s, the whole drive I’ve battled with this lump in my throat. I have spent a good deal of effort tamping down a relentless question. If theirs was such a heartbreaking farewell, what will my heart look like when she leaves? They’ve only hung out with her and endured a tropical cyclone with her. They haven’t seen all the Lenas I’ve seen. All the Lenas I want.
And the Lena currently in the passenger seat is the most devastating yet. If buttoned-up collars and severe hair buns had been her armor, she is now effectively disarmed. Her open button-down shirt drapes over her cami and linen shorts, hair down in loose, thick waves that she puts up in a messy bun at whim.
And yet, most fatal of all, is her latest reflective, open demeanor, gazing out in awe at my island’s breath-stealing views.
Once again, my hand went rogue and, yet again, she did not flinch away. Vulnerable, hand-in-my-hand Lena is not good for the ol’ blood pressure or focused driving.
Another persistent question has entered the chat. Would she? Would she be willing to even consider whatever this is between us? Even beyond the obvious obstacles from her living on the other side of the world, would she try to let down all her hard-fought walls?
And while we’re at it. Would I? Would I risk it? Put myself out there for someone who claims to resent the very fact of needing someone else? Someone who seems to not want to be tied down as much as I want to be rooted.
An answer wordlessly vibrates inside my chest every time I look at her.
Qué bien. Looks like my heart’s self-preservation instincts have left the chat.
We finally make it to the old town center of San Germán.
Located so far out west and not right on the coast, it’s a less frequented heritage jewel compared to its contemporary San Juan. Its structures are not as tall and generally more rustic, but it still represents a rich legacy. We drive past Spanish colonial architecture along the red brick-paved plaza where Porta Coeli convent overlooks the plaza from the crest of a hill.
“It’s not Salamanca. But 1609 is as old as it gets in these parts,” I comment to break up the silence that has weighed on us since I finished catching her up on the museum we’ll visit tomorrow.
“Hmm. It has its charm,” Lena says with a small smile.
Well.
“I’m glad you find it charming since I prioritized location, and the boardinghouse-turned-inn might have charm and nothing else.”
She gives a short chuckle and shrugs. “I’m sure it can’t be worse than Mari’s daybed—as much as I am grateful.”
I laugh because she’s not wrong. But still. “You’d be surprised. Just managing expectations.”
After a moment, Lena comments, “I wonder if Alonso had managed expectations traveling from his bustling European city to a burgeoning colony port to a barely existent village.”
“Bah, it seems to me like he was a young nobleman ready for the call of fortune and adventure.”
Finding a parking spot on a side street near the inn, I shift the car to park. Lena just sits there with a far-off look. So I wait.
“Do you think we’ll find him?” she asks shakily.
I sigh and rub my new beard scruff. This seems to get Lena’s attention. Huh.
Even when we know promises can’t be made, there’s hope in possibility, so I answer, “If we’re going to find him, it will be here.”
Lena nods and looks down at her hands, unsure but attempting to bolster up.
I nudge her. “It’s early for conventional check-in hours. Let’s find somewhere to eat, and then I’ll see if our rooms are ready.”
I may be bracing for impact when all of this is over, but it’s hard to not feel hopeful once you’ve eaten a good mofongo .
“Say what you will—and you have—about all the Spanish heritage here, but it’s our African roots we have to thank for this ,“ I say as I gesture to our already half-eaten plates of decadent mofongo .
Lena nods readily. “Mashed fried plantains with butter and garlic. Genius,” she agrees as she makes a balanced bite by catching some tender chicken on her fork too. Evidently, it’s close-your-eyes good.
I absolutely do not look at her mouth while her eyes are closed. Or not for too long.
We found a nearby cafe that serves all the Puerto Rican staples, and, judging by Lena’s current shoveling rate and renewed enthusiasm, I was right on with this dish’s magical effects on outlook. Even the plating, served in its own little caldero pot, adds to the life-is-good, delicious homeyness.
Sitting across from each other on a small table by the window, we have a view of the plaza where a market or festival event is being set up. Tents, tables, and even a small stage are going up.
Between generous mouthfuls, Lena asks, “Do they do a lot of town festivals?”
“Yeah, our fiestas patronales , celebrating the patron saints—as you well know.” Lena nods with satisfaction, foodie bliss still clouding her eyes. “But we also have festivals centered around local agriculture, endemic organisms, or the most random niche industry you could think of. Hammock Festival, Pina Colada Festival, even our little San Pedrito bird gets one.”
“Is there a Mofongo Festival?”
“You know it.”
“Sign me up.”
I chuckle and shake my head to see if that also shakes off any smitten staring.
“Noted. This one they’re setting up is probably a smaller weekend one to promote local artisans.”
We finish eating, and looking at the time, I suggest, “Let’s head over to the inn and see about those rooms.”
“When you said charm might be all it had, I thought there would at least be a room ,“ Lena comments, but there’s no annoyance behind it.
”Ay , you heard the very apologetic manager. They thought some issues caused by the storm would have been resolved, but they’re still working to fix them. Couple of hours?” She tilts her head skeptically. “Okay, maybe we’ll go light a candle in the chapel or something. Help our chances.”
Lena chuckles and shrugs, gesturing at the plaza across the street. “Might as well walk around and see what they have set up.”
I widen my eyes and raise my eyebrows at her. “Look at you, handling waiting like a champ. Mofongo really is magical.”
Barely stifling a smile, she nudges me with her shoulder before walking ahead to the first row of tents. I catch up to her, hands behind my back like a weirdo with no impulse control.
Because I am a weirdo with no impulse control when it comes to wanting to hold her hand.
If she notices, she doesn’t say anything as we walk alongside tent stations with all kinds of artisan work. Wood carvings, coconut husk carvings, paintings, the legendary mundillo lacework of the West, all proudly displayed. Lena stops at each, chatting up every craftsperson, many with their families, sitting behind their vendor tables. We ask questions about the creation process and how materials are sourced, but also about their family story and traditions related to their particular art. Some have an artisan family legacy that goes back decades; others are the first generation continuing cultural traditions with sustainable art. Each one sits a little straighter when they hear Lena’s accent and, of course, are completely charmed by her genuine interest.
At the end of the first row, we find some shade under a blooming yellow flamboyán tree. Nodding at the tents, I comment, “Now that’s concrete history right there.”
She grins, a glint in her dark eyes. “A coquí frog painted on a grain of rice is history to you?” she asks.
“Don’t forget the jibarito clothespin magnets. And yes.”
Lena laughs and looks back at the tables with the seventeenth-century convent as their backdrop. “It really is a case for how heritage and history are inextricable.”
“Oof, ‘inextricable.’ Great word, profesora .”
She looks toward the heavens, but then gazes into my eyes and tilts her head as she asks, “What words would you use, Mr. Morales?”
I lower my head and steeple my hands to my mouth as if about to impart profound wisdom she is unprepared for. Clearing my throat meaningfully, I declare, “There is no ‘history’ without ‘story.’” Lena snorts, and I chuckle. “But seriously, hear me out. Without the stories of the people who lived, people who belonged somewhere, without the tangible and intangible that they’ve passed on, history is just a timeline of dates and events.”
She sighs and nods. “You feel so strongly about this. I—I get it now. I might have been too into the data and forgotten about people and the stories within them.” Lena looks down but continues, “Maybe because I do not have many of my own to tell?”
Before we can explore that further, Lena turns toward the second row of handicraft tables and goes back to admiring the creations and interacting with the creators. After a couple of tents that sell tile mosaics and pottery, we’re both fascinated to find a silversmith and her unique, rustic pieces. She has trays and trays of handmade charms.
We look through the island-shaped ones, the Puerto Rican flags, even silver machetes when Lena gasps. She holds one charm up and exclaims, “Rico, look!” She holds up her hand to show me a tiny silver torch. “A little Rogativa beacon.”
I swallow. She remembers my oversharing about that tarnished statue when we first started all of this. As a flimsy excuse for some contact, I gently grab her hand to inspect those little flames that mean so much. “Yep. We—we hold it high and stand our ground.”
As I stare at it, Lena switches from admiring the miniature torch to studying my face. I lock eyes with her, and the way her conflicted yearning matches mine becomes too much for standing in an afternoon market holding a tiny piece of handmade jewelry.
I slowly let go of her hand. She gingerly places the charm back with the rest and continues praising the silversmith’s other work.
After walking by all the tents, we’ve done our duty to support local industry. I got screen-printed t-shirts for my sisters, a mundillo doily for Abuela, and some shredded coconut homemade candy for myself. Lena took her sweet time but eventually bought a small art print of the Guajataca tunnel seascape we saw on the way here and a hand-carved wooden tostonera for making her own fried plantains.
As the sunlight fades, live salsa music blares from the small stage, and couples gather in the center of the plaza to dance. We people-watch from a bench near a lamppost that didn’t turn on with the rest.
Lena stares at the dancing couples, very focused on their movements and steps. I ask, “Is there salsa dancing in Salamanca?”
She turns to me with a defiance I’ve seen before in her eyes. “You recall what happened the last time you underestimated my dancing, no?”
Oh, she’s asking for it. I place the packages on the bench and stand to face her. With a challenging grin, I offer her my hand.
From where she sits, she stares at it, defiance replaced with wariness. I clear my throat to reclaim her attention. “Come on. I’m not sure that seis chorreao on the boat counts as a first dance.”
Lena relents, standing as she puts her hand in mine. But instead of letting me position us to dance, she tugs me a little toward her. Rigid and stern, she warns, “I did say I have not danced in ten years.”
“You certainly fooled me.”
“And I did very little dance partnering. Or salsa.”
Gently squeezing her hand, I try to reassure her. “If you let me lead, I won’t let you down.”
Her eyes search mine, and she finally relaxes to let me place her hand on my shoulder. I lift her other hand in my own. When I grip her waist, she tenses again.
Lena’s only a few inches shorter than me. Our faces are so close as I wait for her eyes to give me permission to proceed. I’m a little taken aback when, in a moment, she squeezes my hand back, letting me know with a quick nod that she’s ready.
Also a little taken aback by how perfect she feels in my arms. Hopefully, I can make my limbs work while my heart drums its own rhythm of, “This. This right here is what we want.”
The drawn-out notes in the chorus of this mid-tempo salsa sing Tu amor me hace bien. Your love does me good.
I lead—one foot forward, as hers retreats, then back to center, then my other foot steps back as hers comes forward. At first Lena only looks down at our feet, but once she figures out the pattern, her gaze is back on me, growing more confident.
Once she’s holding her own with the steps, I let her know, “About to try a spin. Yeah?”
“At your own risk,” she shrugs.
I chuckle and, a couple of beats later, raise our joined hands to turn her. Lena is careful but completes the spin perfectly, sending her foot back as mine comes forward. In the waning light, she smiles up at me so brightly that I stumble and barely recover.
“See? All you had to do was let me lead.”
Clearly pretending not to hear me, Lena continues dancing the salsa, throwing in some fancy moves she saw fellow dancers do.
I sigh dramatically. “Fine. You can lead the next bachata .”
Lena scoffs. She doesn’t tense up when I laugh and pull her a little closer.
After a couple of songs, night settles in, and the live band switches to a bolero.
That is our cue to head back to the guest house.
Slow dancing—too much of a risk. And that bolero is known as a “one-tile” slow dance. The couple dances on one floor tile for the whole song.
Having Lena in my arms for a few salsas felt perfect and tempting enough. I don’t need to completely lose it while swaying together on a single floor tile.
Packages in hand, we walk to the inn. Floodlights illuminate the white facade and front steps of the Porta Coeli chapel, but besides that, spotty street lamps are all that light our way.
The Las Golondrinas Inn is a rare late Victorian structure, with its turret and gables amongst all the Spanish colonial aesthetic of the city. Lit from the inside, the inn looks a little ominous.
We walk across the wrap-around porch into what must have originally been the home’s receiving room, and there is a tiny front desk by which a night attendant sits.
I greet him. “Buenas. We’ve been waiting for our reserved rooms to be ready.”
“Very well. What were the names?” As if they had so many guests coming into this ten-room-tops establishment.
“Federico Morales and Magdalena Martín.” I force a smile. Beside me, Lena slouches a little from all the luggage and understandable exhaustion.
The attendant pushes his glasses back up his nose and must be pretending it’s a lengthy roster he has to look through. “Ah, yes, some notes were left here. Some unexpected repairs had to be done, but . . . I think we have only one room at the moment.”
He shuffles through the notes as I close my eyes at the disbelief of impending torture. Lena stiffens. I don’t have to look at her to know her eyes have widened comically. Not that there’s anything funny about either sharing a room or going elsewhere at this point.
This can’t be. I start to state my hopeless case. “But I res—”
“Ah mira sí. I see here they were able to have the second room ready.” He grabs two room keys and hands them over. Each key links to little swallow keychains. Las golondrinas —the City of the Swallows. Nice.
Still stunned at the seconds’ worth of close-call emotional upheaval, I thank the attendant and silently hand Lena her key. I grab some of her stuff, and we both creak up the stairs to a narrow hallway.
Our rooms are across from each other’s. I wait for her to open her door so I can bring her things inside. Other than a four-poster bed, it’s pretty sparse, but at least it seems clean. Most important of all, there’s an air conditioning unit on the wall chugging along.
Lena walks in, takes a big breath in and lets out a long sigh, letting everything she was carrying drop to the floor. I chuckle and, because there’s no other surface, place everything at the foot of the bed.
Why should there be awkwardness? There shouldn’t. Merely a colleague helping another carry her belongings and definitely not thinking about how this room could have been the one they shared. And how he would have been looking around to see which spot on the floor was farther away from the sounds of her slumber. Nope, never crossed my mind. So it’s not awkward at all when I turn to head out the door and try to not make eye contact.
“Well, hope you get some rest.” That came out a little too loud.
Lena sorts through her bag on the bed, but looks up at me with a small smile. “You too.”
“We’ll meet with Don Bienvenido at ten at the museum. He’s sort of a local legend.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
Earlier, I wanted my hands glued to the steering wheel, but somebody did glue something—my feet to this floor. Why can’t I leave? Okay, I’m more self-aware than this. The fact is, I don’t want to. Almost twelve hours in forced proximity, worn out in so many ways, and I could stay here a couple more, telling her all about Don Bienvenido and his unconventional museum practices and listening to whatever she has to say about it.
Lena tilts her head in question because I’m still standing here. I blurt out, “I feel good about our chances.”
And now I’m struck dumb with word regret.
I choke out, “I mean—I mean, the chances of finding something conclusive about Alonso. You know, feeling good about our chances with the research.” Someone in my brain’s command center is yelling out, “Abort! Abort! Mouth is malfunctioning. Get out now!”
I have decades of experience ignoring that voice, but do manage to walk backwards toward the doorway.
From where she stands, Lena’s gaze is steady as she says softly, “I’m starting to feel that way too.”
I freeze on the threshold. Huh? What are we talking about?
But, before I can further seal my fate, she turns back to her task, adding, “Thank you, Rico. Buenas noches .”
My brain command center isstill scrambling for an override, but I must also take this cue. I nod and manage a smile. “ Buenas noches , Lena.”