I
FYOU’VEEVERWANTEDTOFEELLIKE
awell-to-
do conquistador, you could do worse than booking
into the Hotel El Convento. The property is set
in a mid-17th-century Carmelite nunnery, its rooms
decked out inColonial style, its courtyard shaded by a
300-year-oldSpanish
nispero
tree, itswindows opening
onto thewaterfront and themulticolored jumbleofOld
San Juan. Just beyond the bay is theArtDecoBacardi
distillery.I can’t helpbut feel that this trifecta—history,
sea, rum—may come to definemy trip.
It doesn’t seem prudent to start on the rum so early,
so I beginmy day by exploringhistory instead.Tohelp
me unpack the secrets ofOld San Juan—set on a jam-
packed, three-square-mile island—I’ve recruitedLady
Lee Andrews, a 43-year-old local poet with cascading
braids and curls.“I’m aborn and raised
sanjuanera
,”she
says, aswe hughello on the steps of the hotel.“I’m like
a tree. I’m rooted here.”
Before we even begin our stroll, we encounter local
legend Saúl Dávila, who famously wanders the streets
selling armfuls of
azucenas
(white lilies).“Thismanhere
walksmiles everyday selling flowers,andhe’sbeenwalk-
ing since Iwas a little girl,”Andrews says as she buys a
bunch. “We’ll give these away as we go.”
Wecross the street andhead into theCathedral ofSan
JuanBautista, the second-oldest church in theAmeri-
cas (after the basilica in SantoDomingo,Dominican
Republic).The original structurewas built in the 16th
century, thoughAndrews is quick topoint out that,due
to centuries of beingpummeledbyhurricanes,only the
front steps are original.
These vicious storms,Andrews continues, have left
a mark on the city’s people as well. “With hurricanes,
there’s a sense of kinship,” she says, laying a flower at
the feet of Our Lady of Divine Providence, Puerto
Rico’s principal patroness. “When I was a little girl, I
longed for September hurricane season,because all the
neighborswould comeout andhelpeachother.It breaks
that pattern of everyone being in their ownworlds.”
Outside, the narrow colonial streets of the
casco
, or
Old Quarter, are a riot of color,
down to the bluish cobblestones,
made with iron furnace slag and
once used as ballast on Spanish
ships. Lining the roads are stucco
houses,many with wrought-iron
balconies, painted lime green and
banana yellow, guava pink, and papaya orange (think
NewOrleans’FrenchQuarter with the volume turned
up). Interestingly, these bright hues are a relatively
new addition to San Juan; the city government used to
dictate permissible paint colors, and the palette was
surprisinglymuted.
Wepass amural of the
azucena
manandhis trademark
bouquet of lilies and duck into Restaurant Siglo XX,
a small traditional diner that’s been around since the
mid-1950s.At this time of day, the obvious choice is a
mallorca
,a sweet bread roll stuffedwithham and cheese
and crowned with enough powdered sugar tomake a
beignet blush.
I’ve noticed that Andrews can barely walk a block
without stopping to hug someone, though she insists
that this saysmore about the neighborhood’s character
than her own. “The first time I went to France to visit
my husband’s family,” she tells me as she stirs brown
sugar intoher café con leche,“Iwas shocked that hehad
lived in the same house his whole life and didn’t know
his neighbors. So, being the Puerto Rican that I am, I
went over, banged on the door, and said hi.And now,
18 years later, they’re best friends.”
Our
casco
walk takes us past chattering wild parrots
fighting over a pizza crust near the port and the baby-
blue facadeofLaFortaleza,a16th-century fortification
that serves as thegovernor’s residence.At the endof the
cliffsideCalledelCristo sits a tiny,age-mottled chapel,
“SAN JUAN ISAVILLAGE.WE’RECALLEDTHE
ISLANDOFENCHANTMENT,ANDYOUWON’T
LEAVEWITHOUTGETTINGBITTEN.”
LADYLEEANDREWS
Poet,artist,andowner
of thePoet’sPassage
DAYONE
InwhichNicholas takes apoetic tour ofOldSan Juanand
explores art (bothvisual and culinary) at themuseum
ElYunqueNational
Forest’sMountBritton
observation tower
Azucena
manSaúlDávila
THREE
PERFECT
DAYS
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