Day 6 was business time. We woke up early to settle land disputes, hotwire a few chandeliers, drive around town trolling for cheap sofas. But first, a sip of my first café con leche. Which is Spanish for “Evaporated milk with a tiny bit of coffee and a bunch of raw sugar in it, so shut your pie hole, it’s goin’ down smooth.”
I selected my glass from the cupboard. And I served mine over ice because remember: we’re in Puerto Rico. It’s 80 humid degrees by 7am, according to my hair-ometer. There’s also no A/C. Just like in prairie times. Once, my Mom was telling me how she enjoyed life before A/C… how you could feel the elements. I was listening to this as I sat, steaming my innards in my Brooklyn railroad apartment, not a stitch of a breeze, my cat boiling beside me and a tiny oscillating fan squeaking in the window, sweeping over us with trashy hot street air.
But back to PR – where there was shade to be basked in, on the farm. We hopped in the truck and met a friend with some aerial shots of the land.There’s a “neighbor” who’s secretly moving their fences into Ervin’s family’s property. I was hoping we’d settle this the old fashioned way: gun fight. But we opted for modern technology, strategizing, and bitching about them. I warmed up my pistol finger just in case. Trigger finger? Ugh, who am I kidding – I don’t even own a gun.
Oh hey! Check out how close I got to the horses this time! So…… close kinda! As soon as I rounded the fence, even the one with the broken leg was high-tailing it out of there. Injured race horses shouldn’t be put down. They just need me to inspire them to win.
After toiling away on the farm and at the house, it was nearly sunset. I wanted to see something out in the world. So, Ervin took me to this fabulous little hut by the docks. A little bar, famous for these pink drinks called The Machete.
It’s top secret as to what goes in here, but I think we all know it has a cherry in it. They actually go behind a wall to perform their mixology.
SO. Ervin and I each take one and walk over to a bench overlooking boats and peaceful waters and the sunset.
We make intelligent conversation about how I could never be a Navy Seal and what kind of boats are docked here and could you sail a boat in The Perfect Storm and not crap your pants.
We sip our last sips and actually consider going home. Maybe a movie. Something for dinner? But we’re enjoying this moment, so we order another Machete. It’s only like $2 afterall. Coming from LA, that’s peanuts. You could only bum a drink like that from a hobo — who was already passed out.
I’m not sure what all happened after this, but there was a lot of my own special language (which Ervin’s brother referred to as “Drunklish”) coming out of my mouth. Suddenly, I was super brave and I knew lots of Spanish vocabulary. I ate about 30 conch fritters (yeah, I didn’t know I liked what comes out of that spirally seashell either), I was dancing all hips-y, I was singing along to people’s crappy karaoke (I hate karaoke), and then there was a video I made for my friend Piper, in which I showcased how weird my teeth looked in the black light at the bar, by chomping them.
We ordered ourselves some huge “tripleta” sandwiches. Which means 3 meats. And which does help with the Drunklish (stuffing a talking mouth is a solution). But not my pants size. But who cared!? Not me. Judging by the last photo of my evening…
Nowhere on Earth does this qualify as a mirror. It’s like a serving tray bolted to the wall!
And I looked so beautiful in it! If only there were a black light in the ladies’ room…