After a week and a half in Florida, the author and the Magic Man discussed returning home to San Francisco. They talked about how they missed the fog and cold wind gusting off the bay. So the next day, they went to the airport and hopped on a plane to Puerto Rico.
Renting a car, they drove along the eastern coast in search of the perfect stretch of beach. In the end, what interested them more than the beaches were the pina coladas, which were plentiful and strong. Along the way, they made many new friends.
Their new friends gave them advice about where to go and what to see, and they invited the beloved author and the Magic Man back to feast on deep fried pork and fresh crab. However, the author’s feet were itching to move, and so they bid adieu to their new friends, hopped in their luxurious Hyundai, and headed for parts unknown.
“Beloved,” she said after a few miles, “did you know that Puerto Rico boasts the only rainforest in the United States?”
“Si, mi amor?” The Magic Man believed that when in Puerto Rico, one must speak as the natives do.
“Indeed. Perhaps we should visit it.”
“Vamanos!” he exclaimed, turning the car around and heading for El Yunque.
The rainforest was vast and lush. They bathed in a waterfall and trekked through trees, listening to the wild animals and tourists from the Bronx. The author ventured off the path, the way she often does, and pretended she was a tropical bird.
Happily tired from their rainforest adventure, our favorite author and her Magic Man drove down from El Yunque. As they contemplated where to stay the night, they noticed a roadside stand with a big sign that read “coco frio.” Next to the sign there stood a man with a coconut in one hand and a machete in the other.
“I want,” the author said. Then she clarified, “The coconut, but I wouldn’t mind a machete either.”
And so they stopped.
Later, they stopped again, this time at an inn in Old San Juan. Stepping through the iron gate was like entering another world—a magical world full of tropical plants and birds.
“Me gusta, mi amor,” the Magic Man said, as he explored their accommodations.
His author, however, wasn’t listening to anything beyond the voice of her imagination. The inn, with all its funky art and hidden away nooks, inspired her. She gasped as she realized Something Important. “Love! I’ve chosen the wrong career. I believe I should have been a pirate instead.”
And so she practiced being one. Being an author, she knew the importance of details, so she found herself a parrot companion, because a pirate without a parrot isn’t worth his weight in gold. She recruited Campeche.
The plundering and drinking of pirate life came naturally to her, but she found she didn’t have much of a stomach for pillaging. “Maybe I should just write about pirates instead of being one,” she said to her man.
“Buena idea,” he replied, apparently much relieved.
The days passed in a whirl of sightseeing, plotting, and drinking mojitos. During the day, they walked the blue cobblestoned streets and visited sites like El Morro, the large old fort. At night, they went swimming by moonlight.
“Are you happy, my little tropical bird?” the Magic Man asked his author one night.
“Incandescently so,” she replied. She kissed him once, twice, and then again and again.