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About San Juan

I spot this bird—legs for days, smokin’ hot. I’m like, “Groovy, baby!”—she’s givin’ me the eye. I swagger over, all smooth, thinkin’, “This is my trash-compactin’ moment!”—WALL-E vibes, ya dig? She’s quotin’ prices, I’m noddin’, but in my head? “Whoa, inflation’s a shocker!” Last time I checked—1967, mind you—it was cheaper than a pint. Surprised me, that did—nearly lost my mojo!

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I held the door open for her one day at presto pasta, and she asked me where I was from. I told her I was a local. She responded “ no your not”.

Finally, I ended up at a little bar on Calle del Mar. I needed a drink. I ordered a piña colada, and it was like a vacation in a glass. I sat there, soaking it all in. The day was a rollercoaster, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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