A Traveler’s Book

HOTEL MILANO: pulsing club music beneath one’s hotel room, being locked out of the glass door leading one’s room, an oil painting of blushing carnations, staring at one's paper with a slight idea of what to write. EL YUNQUE NATIONAL PARK: serpentine roads leading to cloud clustered mountains, squawks of the Puerto Rican parrot, tangerine red tree blossoms, armies of bamboo, plum needles baring fruit, flickering raindrops, mud puddles awaiting flapping sandals, a moss infested tower. OLD SAN JUAN: vanilla ice cream on the harbor under streetlights, fireworks across the bay, summer dresses billowing in the wind, a perspiring glass of pina colada, shops with tropical snow globes, ancient flute melodies played for Spanish soldiers, fortresses of old. COMMON LANGUAGE: Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips, breakfast at Starbucks, crimson glow of a Sheraton sign. ROUTE PR-2: a rented Ford Taurus, thin sliver of a moon, Father taking wrong turns even with a GPS, gathering flocks of pigeons with cookie crumbs, atrocious Spanish rap emitted from an open car door. PONCE BEACH: an infant trailing after his father with round eyes, a mound of sand instead of a lovely imagined castle, brackish breeze running through matted hair, streaks of white residue from sun block, waving golden tips of palm trees, unplucked coconuts.