Distractions of the Caribbean

In general, this column is a mirror of local color and adventure – a place for me to remind us all about what great stuff there is to do right here at home. And, while there is seemingly no end to the parks, restaurants, bars, festivals and outdoor fun in the St. Petersburg area, it serves, on occasion, to get the heck out of town. So today I bring you a distraction of a different sort.
Being a full-time student, I have very little opportunity to remove myself from the area. Having just finished my spring semester, however, I had two weeks before the whole grueling thing started all over again. But what, you ask, did I do with all that time?
Puerto Rico, baby!
Without going into too much detail about the archaic colonialism of this situation, I will tell you something that surprisingly few people know: Puerto Rico is not an independent country. While it is home to millions of proud Latinos, the island itself is actually a part of the United States. That means that, without having to deal with the hassle of customs, passports, or terrifyingly small airplanes – and, I might add, in far less time than you could drive to the Keys - you could be in a beautiful, tropical paradise, sipping daiquiris made with the finest rum in the world. Why, oh why, would you even think of going to Hawaii?
I am in love with this island. In approximately 4000 square miles, there are mountains, beaches of unparalleled brilliance, 400-year-old architecture, amazing food at every stop, and an exotic, yet unfailingly friendly Latin culture to welcome you.
Of course, to them – the Boricuas - we are all “gringos,” but that’s part of the adventure. They laugh at our pitiful attempts at Spanish, our pasty white bodies, and our dance moves, while we wonder how they survive the daily assault of psychotic drivers on the confluence of swiss-cheese that they call “roads.” Isn’t culture fun?
This was actually my third trip to Puerto Rico. Because my partner, Maria, is a native, La Isla del Encanto has become a sort of second home to me. In the last few visits, I have meandered down the blue-cobbled streets of Old San Juan – the oldest city in the New World – filling my camera with “casitas” and the imposing fortress of El Morro. I have spent long, blissfully lazy hours in a hammock by the crystalline waters of Isabela. I have stood on the rocky and desolate cliffs of Cabo Rojo, imagining Blackbeard, or perhaps Johnny Depp, sailing somewhere on the horizon.
But it’s easy to be romantic about trips past. This year, however, there was none of that. This year, I almost died.
If you have lived most of your life in the near-level flatness that is Florida, and are guilty, as I am, of taking a somewhat “casual” approach to your cardiovascular fitness, then you may understand the harrowing tale I shall now recall.
Puerto Rico is home to the only rainforest in the US parks system – part of the Caribbean National Forest. El Yunque, as it is called, is also the name of its highest peak, some 3,500 feet above sea level. I am certain that in the Taino Indian language, it means “Acute myocardial infarction.”
Now, I know 3,500 feet is hardly Mt. Everest, but, likewise, I am no mountaineer. I was set for a “day-hike” to observe native flora and perhaps even some fauna. I did not bring my grappling hooks.
It was 95 degrees in Puerto Rico when we set out on the El Yunque trail. At first, though, it was charming, with giant forests of bamboo and banana trees shielding us from the sun. The temperature dropped considerably as we ascended, which was good, because I was by then sweating like a poor fat man in a high-stakes poker tournament.
At some point, I paused to take a picture of the tiny speck that was a Spanish-style guard house atop an impossibly high summit. “Wow,” I thought. “Who would ever climb that thing?”
Who, indeed.
After nearly two hours spent clamoring over mud and boulders in my woefully inadequate sneakers - and with frequent moments of alarm at my unprecedented heart-rate - I reached the point of no return. That is to say, the point at which one’s animal instinct to “conquer this godforsaken mountain” overtakes the more human element of reason and that little voice in your head that says, “Hey, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
The last mile or so was an approximate 65 degree incline. Never mind, I said to my legs. I was a woman on the edge of greatness. I envisioned only brilliant pictures from the top, swimming in a succession of screen-savers, to immortalize my moment – the day I conquered El Yunque.
I can not tell you how disappointed I was, then, to finally reach the summit: a small clearing with a Spanish-style guard house, completely surrounded by the same lush foliage I had just emerged from. There was no view!
In a mildly embarrassing moment of hysteria, I ran around the guard house, trying in vain to push my camera through the bushes. This could not possibly be what I had risked life and limb for! Yet, nearly rabid in my determination at this point, I crawled through a mess of banana trees, ignoring the enormous hairy spiders poised to jump – I was sure – onto my shirt collar. Holding a clump of grass, I dangled my body as far out over the 3,000 foot drop as was possible, furiously snapping pictures of a prize I could not see.
It was just then that I felt a tapping on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Maria asked, looking at me as one looks at a small child. “There’s a much better view from the top of the guard house.”
Oh. Yes of course. I was just checking out these spiders here…
Well, in all it took us three hours to reach the top, which, I learned later, was not even the highest peak. That would have been another back-breaking mile above our little guard house.
But, I was satisfied. I was as pleased with myself as any who have scaled Mt. Everest. How could I not be? I conquered El Yunque. I have the pictures to prove it.
And our next stop was the Bacardi rum factory.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 5/24/07

The St. Pete Sampras Tennis Fan Club

Being a bit of a homebody, I don’t often get across the bridge. Tampa is a dirty word in my house. But, every once in a while, a friend or relative will acquire tickets to something really cool, and I am obliged to leave my little corner of St. Petersburg. Just such an occasion presented itself the other weekend when I was invited to watch Pete Sampras play in the Mercedes-Benz Classic at the St. Pete Times Forum.
Now, before I tell you how incredible it was to watch Pete Sampras play, I realize I need to explain to half of you just who the heck he is.
The thought that there might be somebody out there who has not heard of Pete Sampras would have been incredible to me a week ago. I mean, I never watch basketball, but I know who Michael Jordan is. However, when I pitched this column idea to my colleagues – with a huge “you-are-going-to-be-so-jealous” smile on my face - they simply stared blankly. The clock ticked awkwardly for what seemed like an entire minute before one finally asked, “Who?”
Who?! “Pistol” Pete Sampras – the “King of Swing” – is arguably the greatest men’s tennis player to ever pick up a racquet. He retired from tennis in 2002 after winning his fifth US Open. But, I guess winning 14 Grand Slam titles – including a record seven at Wimbledon - doesn’t mean much to some people. I suppose 286 weeks (that’s six years) as the number one men’s tennis player in the world is no big deal.
Well, fine. I probably wouldn’t be interested in a column about Wayne Gretzky. But for you tennis fans – this one is for you.
Pete Sampras retired from competition with nearly every title tennis could afford, and an insane $43 million in career prize money. But he couldn’t stay away. The Mercedes-Benz Classic – an exhibition charity event for Courier’s Kids – was his first foray back into the world of tennis. Judging by the rock-star-worthy screams he inspired - in what I have now dubbed the St. Pete Sampras Times Forum - fans couldn’t be happier.
At the age of 35 – nearly ancient by tennis standards – Pete will be competing at “seniors” events. No, he won’t be smashing it out with Roger Federer (though wouldn’t we love to see it), but he will be back – a little greyer, a little balder – and, judging by his play the other night, no less a champion.
Pete won his best-of-three match against Tampa's own Mardy Fish (7-6, 6-4), ending on an ace, and I would like to believe that maybe it was yours-truly who got him through the tight spots. Just before his monstrous serve on match-point, I shouted “C’mon Pete!” And Pete Sampras – Mr. Wimbledon, that living legend – definitely heard me.
I am a huge tennis fan, if I haven’t made that clear. I am actually something of a geek about it. When the Grand Slams are on, I have been known to sit up until 4 am just to watch live coverage from the Australian Open. Being a June baby, I spent more than one happy birthday morning having “Breakfast at Wimbledon.” I have longed to go to Paris – not to gaze upon the Eiffel Tower or to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa – but to cheer in the red-clay-romp that is Roland Garros – the French Open.
But, why do I love tennis? Because unlike so many sports, tennis is a one-on-one drama. It is personality, guts and pure desire that drive players on a grueling year-round tour of tournaments. There is no “season” or draft. There are no team politics. For a tennis player, it’s you against the world and, more poignantly, you against yourself.
Of course, I’m not talking about me against myself. As anyone who has ever seen me can easily tell, I am no athlete. My idea of competition is to see how many M&Ms I can pick up with a pair of chopsticks. I did “make” the tennis team in high school, but that’s really just because they took anyone who tried out. I think I played one match – a doubles match – and lost because I couldn’t get a single serve over the net.
That fact, however, only makes me love tennis all the more. How do they do it? Andy Roddick is on record with a 155mph serve. Some cars won’t even go that fast, people.
Polo may be the sport of kings, and baseball might be America’s past-time, but tennis is the truest test of will, a spectacle of spirit. Just when you think that a player can’t give any more, he digs deep and comes up with the grit to pull through. And, maybe that’s why I admire it so much: it’s a little bit like life. Only, without the big fat prize money.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper 5/10/07

Landlubbers Take Note

Ah, Florida. It’s no secret why I live here. I had no choice. My parents forced me to move here from my beloved California when I was only eight.
Twenty-two years later, though, I have forgiven them. I now consider Florida – if not my native home – my chosen home. I actually love everything about it, with the exception of one tiny detail: the paralyzing and insufferable sauna that is summer.
But hey, who’s thinking about that this time of year? I’m thinking about street fairs and festivals, about backyard barbeques on my new, water-sucking sod and, well, just about anything that gets me outdoors. It is, as Mayor Baker says, another great day in St. Petersburg.
Know what else is great about St. Petersburg and, oh, I guess most everywhere in Florida? The coast, the water, the beach!
Everyone who knows me is now laughing hysterically. I am absolutely famous – infamous really - for my intense dislike of the beach. This is largely due to my skin’s propensity to fry like a conch fritter in the sun and my absurdly irrational fear of marine life in general – sharks in particular.
I know, I know. I just need to put on some sunscreen and suck it up. There’s 1200 miles of coastline to explore, some of it not even obscured by mangroves! Well, that’s fine, but I have better idea.
My buddy Dan – a guy so strapping and handy, he makes all of his friends feel like amoebas – has a boat. And, it’s not just any boat – it’s a 28 foot sailboat with all kinds of thingies and doodads and other impressive nautical business on board. He keeps it at the St. Petersburg Municipal Marina downtown, where I recently had a chance to come aboard. At night.
Despite the fact that my head was reeling with visions of Jaws IV, The Revenge (you know, that scene in the beginning? In a marina? At night?...of course you don’t, because I’m the only person who would ever see that movie), I was actually delighted to accept Dan’s invitation.
The Marina is a pretty happenin’ place. There is a secure boat house with showers, laundry and a communal space – complete with a TV and dart board. Fresco’s, the marina-side restaurant, even provides the distant wail of karaoke tunes for the lonely live-aboards.
Apparently, and according to Dan, who knows everything, there is a two-year waiting list to get a slip. Most folks circumvent that by simply buying a boat already in one of those sweet spots. That’s what his “neighbor” Matthew did with his new boat “Free Willy” (I’m sure Matthew would like me to note, for the record, that he did not come up with that designation).
It’s a lot less hassle to have a friend with a boat, though, than to go get one of your own. If you don’t have a boat-buddy, they’re not hard to find. The live-aboards are friendly folk, and they’re always ready to tell you about some impressive nautical doodad they’ve hooked up. Just hang around down by the marina and one is sure to ask you to check out it out. There is nothing like sitting on a boat, on a cool night, kicking back a couple of beers and pretending to understand mariner-speak.
Mariner-speak, I now know, is similar to car-fixing-speak and lawn-gadgetry-speak. It’s a kind of boat lingo that only official “mariners” use involving bizarre and, clearly, made-up words like “bilge” and “keel.” Its sole purpose, I’m convinced, is to instill awe and humility in “landlubbers” like myself.
I daresay that trick would have worked on me the other night, had I not been listening intently for the slightest rumbling of tubas and large fins in the water.
For the future, though, I am looking to shed these silly fears of skin blisters and feeding frenzies. As part of my recovery, Dan has promised to take me “out” in the boat. Apparently these things are designed for actual “sailing.” He says that if the wind is right, we might even get to “bury the rail.” Whatever that means.

Published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 4/26/07