Puerto Rico & A Lie I Almost Told

You usually can’t tell if you had a good vacation until the night before your flight back home. Your enthusiasm for the flight is inversely proportional to your stay at Place X. Last Saturday night, I was contemplating ways to stay in Puerto Rico another three months/years.

There’s always the “I was late for my flight” excuse, but that would only buy me 24 hours - if I was lucky. A personal injury requiring extensive medical treatment was another option. But it’s hard enjoying your stay in paradise from a hospital. And I’m not able to really hurt myself. There was only one legit option.

Love. Who would argue with me for staying if I went to a chapel instead of the airport on Sunday morning, my new bride in tow? Tan skin, flip flops and a suit made out of a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. Sure, I’d be a madman. But divorce papers can be filed shortly after. First, I’d make a legit attempt at actually getting to know the woman and seeing if she’s my type. That would buy me at least a month or two. But shit, once the pictures are sent out, no one would have to know we split up three months after the wedding. By then, I’ll be ingrained into the social fabric of San Juan and Fajardo, with my finger in every glass. I’d be insane to leave.

The thought did dash through my mind, and I laughed half-heartedly at the idea. Then I took it seriously. I looked out over the wall of our villa’s yard, periscoping for some sign of single female life. I debated leaving, finding a bar and charming my way into a quick marriage. Then I realized my charm equals a grizzly bear’s.

I was at a disadvantage. The good Catholic girls of Puerto Rico demand significant wooing and romancing. This is not a job that can be done overnight. Of course there’s got to be a middle-aged widow drinking through the rest of her life who’d love to have a 22-year-old dweeb husband on hand for her journey to A.A. But my father always said, “If you’re going to do something, don’t fuck around.” Which is to say, do it right.

So what I needed was a quick marriage to a 20-something drop dead gorgeous Puerto Rican girl. I say gorgeous not to sound shallow, but because it legitimizes my reason to stay much more. If I sent a wedding photo of me and a human reptile, people would question my sanity. “He skipped his flight and married that?”

I realized my dreams were just that. So I resigned myself to the couch, drank rum and watched Sportscenter all night. I had a beautiful time with some amazing people that week. Take what your given and don’t carelessly demand more. Sometimes you’ll miss how lucky you are.

Puerto Rico is beautiful. Don’t ever go. It’s mine.