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About San Juan

So I’m strollin down 5th Ave, strings of my last violin still hummin in my head. The city stinks—piss, hot dogs, desperation. Perfect vibe to find a prostitue. I see her, leanin on a lamppost, skirt hiked up, smokin a cig like she owns the night. “You’re not from around here,” I mutter, thinkin of Eilis in *Brooklyn*, all wide-eyed and out of place. She smirks, “Wanna bet, strings?” Strings! Ha! She clocked me—violin guy. Made me grin, rare for me.

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Then, I hit up the beach. Playa Santa-Barbara is my jam. The waves were crashing, and I thought, “This is it. This is paradise.” But then, I see a seagull swoop down and steal someone’s sandwich. Like, what a savage! I laughed so hard, I almost dropped my phone.

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