Posted by permission of the Washington Post Company

Posted by permission of the Washington Post Company.

Puerto Rico Punch

By John Deiner, Steve Hendrix, Andrea Sachs and K.C. Summers
Washington Post Staff Writers
Sunday, February 26, 2006; P08

The tangle of on-ramps and the backed-up traffic around San Juan International Airport were just what the four passengers from Washington expected. They may have arrived with different ideas of what would constitute fun during an island weekend, but they came with the same preconception: that Puerto Rico is basically an American annex, a sort of South Bronx neighborhood with South Florida weather. Bad city traffic? Of course. Right along with McBurgers, wall-to-wall English and all the other hallmarks of garden-variety American culture. Right?

That was before one of them almost crumpled his rental car trying to decipher the Spanish signs at a toll plaza, another found a nearly whole chicken in her tureen of soup, one went island-hopping by cargo scow and one found himself floating at the base of a rain-forest waterfall that no one will ever mistake for New Jersey.

That's what they discovered, in four different ways, in the course of the weekend: Puerto Rico is, like, a foreign country.

It may be exotic, but it's not very big. Would an island of 3,427 square miles offer enough variety to simultaneously satisfy these four workmates?

Joe Beach , a sand-sifting rum-sipper happiest on a paperback-equipped chaise longue in the shade of a resort palm.

City Slicker , a latte-powered museum aficionada with art gallery radar and a nose for nudes.

Island Girl , a sun-bleached sport princess who be snorkelin' by day and jammin' by night.

Eco Guy, a bored-by-the-beach lover of highland jungles, mountain vistas and creaky old hotels.

They flew in together Friday morning, but went their separate ways to survey different parts of the country for the weekend. Then they reunited and compared notes Sunday night in San Juan.

Four people, three nights, one island. Here's how a quartet of Washingtonians with distinctly different interests spent their time in Puerto Rico.

Friday

2:20 p.m.

Joe Beach picks up his rental ride for the drive to Rincon, a west coast surfer's mecca two hours or so from San Juan. But after stoplights and congestion, a wrong turn and a stop for groceries, he pulls up at the Rincon Beach Resort four hours after setting off. The front desk clerk takes pity and tosses him an upgrade: top-floor oceanfront.

A few minutes later, Joe Beach is on his balcony watching the sun plunk into the Caribbean, his air-con set to deep-freeze and a six-pack chilling in his in-room fridge. Worth a day of flying and driving? Absolutely.

2:30 p.m.

City Slicker, meanwhile, has no plans to wander out of taxi range of Old San Juan, the capital's historic port district of cobblestone street and facades dating to the spice trade. By the time Joe Beach hits his first traffic jam, she is happily settled on a leather stool, sipping a fruity sangria with rum under slowly twirling ceiling fans. She's in the bar of El Convento, a 350-year-old former Carmelite convent in the heart of the old quarter that is now doing business as a high-style inn. Slick has splurged on a room for one night in the old and lovely space of marble floors, massive carved wooden doors and long open-air hallways.

3:10 p.m.

In the meantime, Island Girl has a ferry to catch . . . if only she can figure out when and where. She hitches an eastbound ride in Eco Guy's rental car and frantically sifts through contradictory guidebooks and brochures to find out when the next boat leaves for the outer island of Culebra. One says 3:30 p.m., another says 4, another says Wednesday.

Eco Guy pulls up to the ferry terminal at Fajardo and Island Girl dashes to the ticket counter. From what she can tell, the passenger boat to Culebra has already sailed, but at this point she will hop on anything that floats. A sunbaked man points her, ticket in hand, to a red and yellow boat filled with Tonka-like trucks piled high with concrete blocks and building material scraps. They pull away, chugging out to sea toward Culebra. Or possibly Cuba.

Eco Guy drives back to the highway and heads farther down the east coast. The sea flashes on his left. On the right, the inland mountains begin to rise, the massive Cordillera Central that bisects the island from end to end. Somewhere in there is the Caribbean National Forest, a huge virgin jungle better known as El Yunque, 28,000 acres of the New World that still deserves the name. Eco Guy takes a sharp inland turn.

The shade of a forest is a relief after the white tropical sun. The canopy closes over the road like a wedding bower. The lane narrows, crosses an erector-set bridge over a rain-swollen river and begins to climb. Several ear-popping miles later at the very top of the corkscrew road, Eco Guy finds his base, the Casa Cubruy Ecolodge. The hotel is an open-air assemblage of balconies and patios overlooking a spectacular valley within El Yunque, a fold in the rain forest sliced in two by the white and frothy Cubruy River.

Several guests are settled in chairs near the honor bar, writing postcards and visually massaging a view that now includes an early evening moon. But Eco Guy's first order of business is that tumbling river. At the bottom of a steep path, the river dives down a sheer rocky face and crashes to a halt in a cool and delicious pool. Nature's Jacuzzi and Eco Guy's home until dinnertime.

5:40 p.m.

Slick loves everything about Old San Juan, from the pretty blue stone streets to the alfresco cafes to the centuries-old tropical-colored buildings housing galleries, shops and restaurants. This is not the tawdry cruise layover spot she expected but an inviting warren of vibrant streets and interesting storefronts.

She wanders into a crumbling building with ancient archways, a worn brick floor and wooden doors with metal grilles. The Picassoesque paintings on display at the Galeria Botello are striking and original, and the antique santos -- carved wooden statues of saints -- are exquisite. Too bad she can't afford any of this stuff.

At the end of Cristo Street, the Park de la Palomas is a mini St. Mark's Square, with a gorgeous view of the water and buildings across the bay. Three sunburned tourists put down their Bacardi Rum carrier boxes and head for the quaint sea wall. "Oh my God," shrieks one, "we are so getting our picture taken here!"

Slick makes her own squeal of delight at La Calle, a narrow series of shops whose walls are covered with caretas -- grotesque papier-mache masks worn at island carnivals. She splurges on a toothy polka-dotted number and goes back to the convent in time for cocktails under the moonlight.

For dinner, it's Baru, much loved by locals for its nouveau Caribbean cooking. It's a casually elegant, white-tablecloth place with hip couples drinking blue martinis beneath oddly European-style paintings. Slick tucks into her fresh spinach salad and salmon with capers to a backdrop of samba music.

6:12 p.m .

Island Girl's boat heads straight for a megawatt rainbow that's like a portal to paradise, which turns out to be Culebra after all. Once on land, she finds Culebra's main square quiet and deserted, and she enters a tour operator's office to find out where to rent a bike. She gets a phone number but is advised: "Best to call in the morning. They're probably already drunk now. It's slow season."

It's definitely slow at Mamacita's, a raffish guesthouse and restaurant with a screaming pink facade. An employee tells Island Girl that the bar is closed while it renews its liquor license. Ouch. That's like hearing there is no potable water. Without Mamacita's, she learns, only one bar is pouring that night.

After exploring "town" -- a grocery store selling chickenfeed and plantains, a Chinese takeout place, a fork in the road -- Island Girl grabs a stool at the low-key Dinghy Dock. That's just what it is: a dinghy dock with kitchen furniture and a good paint job. While watching the tarpon beg for scraps of food, she glances across the bar to see a group of expats waving at her. She waves back.

Soon Island Girl finds herself exclaiming "bon voyage" to a female couple she's never met before. She can't even remember which Midwest state they are returning to. Of course, this did not stop her from attending their goodbye party with her new bar mates. "Have a good trip!" she shouts on her way out.

By midnight, Island Girl and much of Culebra's population are squeezed into the very sweaty El Batey, where the pounding Carib-rap shakes the palm trees. A wizened local, somewhere between 73 and 90 years of age, mimes a Chippendales move and gives her a charming three-toothed smile. As the beat shifts to salsa, Island Girl does her best to match Senor Wizen's bowlegged steps.

Saturday

9 a.m .

Island Girl sleeps in.

10:15 a.m.

Joe Beach's west coast crib turns out to be a travel rarity: a place that's actually nicer in person than its Web site lets on. With a breezy lobby connecting two low-slung hotel towers, a palm-lined infinity pool and an inviting beach bar, the Rincon Beach Resort is more luxe than its price ($124 a night) would suggest.

After a patio breakfast, Jose Playa heads south along the coast. His goal: La Playuela, a beach on the island's southwest tip. It's at the end of a rutted dirt road and recent rains have flooded the parking area. So Joe follows several couples who know the work-around: a 20-minute hike up a hill around the Cabo Rojo lighthouse and along rugged cliffs. A heavyset guy named Hector tells Joe that he and the wife have driven in from San Juan to spend the day here. "I just moved back from Brooklyn," he says, gesturing toward the beach below, "and this is one of the reasons."

La Playuela is a crescent-shaped miracle of white sand and gentle waves flanked by rocky outcroppings. Joe figures his new friend drove at least four hours to get here, but after an afternoon of picnicking and napping and reading, he understands why.

11:35 a.m.

Eco Guy, still damp from the morning breaststroke in the waterfall pool, is working his way deeper into the rain forest. At one time, the road past the hotel skirted the mountain ridge and led to the Yunque park visitors center. But long-ago landslides cut it off, leaving this stretch a pleasant hiking lane into the jungle. He walks hard, trying to shed last night's dinner, a starchy glut of Puerto Rican comfort food at a roadside cafe near the eco-lodge.

The forest is thick along the ruined road. In places, almost no sky is visible, and the breezes are moist and warm. It's like hiking in a lung. Skinny rivulets of runoff race down the hill, seeking the bigger river for a ride to the Caribbean that's just visible to the east.

Eco Guy is wet and happily tired when he gets back to the hotel. He has just time enough for a shower before he gets back on the road for a long drive along a network of inland mountain roads called La Ruta Panoramica. His last view of the sea comes at the Bella Vista, a cliffside restaurant where he eats admirable mofongo (a rich paste of green plaintains fried until soft and mashed with garlic, bacon or conch meat) with a Delta Air Lines fork.

11:50 a.m.

Slick is within the massive white walls of El Morro, the 400-year-old fort (and now World Heritage Site) that sits on its rocky promontory as the icon of Old San Juan. Guide Loriane Serrano gestures to the field where soldiers fought and died as the Spanish empire slowly crumbled. "My family comes here every year at Christmastime to picnic and fly kites. I've got so many aunts and uncles from the States -- this is a place where we can fit them all."

Slick's morning walkabout, after a garden breakfast, started at the much-loved San Juan Cathedral. Its simple beauty was profoundly affecting, but what's this? Electric votive candles? Well, she never. But she inserted four quarters and a faux flame flickered on.

Now, after electric rites and historic forts, Slick happily wanders Old San Juan, exploring shops and galleries. She finds an oasis of calm in the two-story Pablo Casals Museum, a sweet ocher-colored townhouse in San Jose Plaza. It's a trove of original manuscripts, concert posters, prints and other musical memorabilia of Casals, the Spanish-born cellist who lived on the island for the last 17 years of his life. Administrator Anibal Ramirez still gets excited when he talks about an unexpected visit by cellist Yo Yo Ma a couple of years ago.

12:11 p.m.

Island Girl lives.

"Wheeee!" she screams, as her newly rented bike flies down a steep hill and over muddy potholes. The bike had been delivered by a battered VW bus driven by Dick, a throwback from the days when everyone was dropping out. Except Dick never dropped back in. He moved to Culebra and turned his hippie-mobile into a mobile rental bike shop.

Island Girl is coasting toward Flamenco Beach, where the parking area is abuzz with vendors, campers and beachgoers. At the end of the half-moon beach, a graffiti-covered army tank sits half sunken in the sand, a remnant of the U.S. military presence on Culebra.

Miss Isla swims and suns at Flamenco for an hour or two before pedaling over to Malena Beach. There she's alone, with only a few surrounding islands to keep her company. Soon she'll turn in her bike and head to the tiny airport for the short hop over to the island of Vieques. But for now, she indulges in the solitude, feeling very tiny in the largesse of nature.

3:35 p.m.

After a road-rally drive through endless mountains and countless tiny towns, Eco Guy arrives at a tidy green-and-white frame farmhouse just off the road. It's a former coffee plantation doing business as Hacienda Gripinas, one of several traditional Puerto Rican country inns known as paradores .

The veranda, wrapping around the main house, provides an overseer's-eye view of the lush gardens and tile pool and the town of Jayuya down the road. The mofongo here smells rich and garlicky, but Eco Guy opts this time for the grilled fish.

4:15 p.m .

Joe Beach rolls up his towel at La Playuela and makes it back to his home turf with daylight to spare. A popular whale-watching destination, Rincon is famous for its giant waves, as evidenced by the ubiquitous surfer-dude shops and bars. Joe's a loafer, not a surfer, so he heads to the park surrounding the town's lighthouse. From there, he watches as Neoprened specks hundreds of feet below ride the afternoon waves.

Dusk finds Joe on the terrace at Kaplash, a bluff-side bar where both the margaritas and sunsets seem to last forever -- and not long enough at the same time.

4:45 p.m.

Island Girl is soaring over the ocean in a toy plane destined for Vieques. The flight is only about 15 minutes long, and soon Thomas, the manager of Bravo! hotel, is greeting her at the property's iron gates. He shows her to her room -- a minimalist lair with white and light wood and hipster cred -- then invites her to an outdoor bash in Esperanza, the hub of night life. He'll pick her up at 7, leaving her enough time to veg by the swishy pool.

Twenty minutes after seven, Thomas, Island Girl and his pack of friends -- many young, some dreadlocked, most American -- slosh around in the mud in Esperanza, holding cans of cheap beer and listening to a reggae band. When the music switches to ear-blasting tropic-pop, they venture down the mucky road lined with boisterous restaurants and bars in search of food. Specifically, shark on a stick.

9:20 p.m.

Slick has changed hotels. Out in the Isla Verde neighborhood, a 20-minute cab ride from Old San Juan, it's all concrete and high-rises, but she can't fault the Isla Verde Beach Resort's beach, a pleasant strand lined with palm trees. Having escaped the air-conditioned hell of the hotel dining room for the pleasant outdoor grill, she's chowing down on grilled mahi-mahi and fried plantains.

Slick stops by the slots in the hotel casino and immediately wins a double jackpot -- $42 on a $5 bet. Emboldened, she tries again, loses and opts instead for a drink at Picante, the lobby bar. A live band is playing salsa music and the dance floor is packed with locals, most of them middle-aged couples out for a night on the town. The star of the night is a bald, bespectacled gent in a gray suit tearing up the dance floor with his wife. His shiny head gleams in the footlights and he sports an ear-to-ear grin as he hops around, twirling and dipping. He kisses his wife repeatedly and with each kiss, people applaud.

At least, Slick thinks it was his wife.

Sunday

11:30 a.m.

Eco Guy is soaking wet and nearly blind. He's deep in the gloom of a massive cave, a soaring underground chamber that is part of the world's second-largest network of river caverns, the Rio Camuy Cave Park. There is a steady plop from the perma-drippy stalactites 20 stories above. But Eco Guy's soaking came from the torrential downpour that hit just as he walked from the tourist tram to the cave entrance. Still, a clinging shirt can't lessen the wonder of this truly spectacular setting: a subterranean hollow the size of an NBA arena, lined with underground streams and otherworldly stone filigree. Talk about your island interior.

12:10 p.m.

On Vieques, the cockfighting ring is dark, so Island Girl and Thomas instead opt for El Fortin Conde de Mirasol, the last Spanish fort built in the Americas. Island Girl circles the stunning white ramparts for a 360-degree view of Vieques in all its glory. Which is far from faded.

In May 2003, the U.S. Navy left the island. Now, parts of the old bombing range are a national wildlife refuge, and Vieques is growing popular for lovers of pristine beaches and jungly terrain. After poking around deserted military storage units, Island Girl and Thomas roll on to Nevia Beach, where they outwit the mosquitoes by plunging deep into the sea. Safe inside the giant hug of cliffs, they float lazily on their backs in the silent cove. Soon she will be airborne, flying toward San Juan -- but for now, she's content just drifting.

12: 35 p.m.

Slick is walking, all agog, through the striking sculpture garden of the Museum of Art of Puerto Rico. It's like the Hirshhorn but better -- no crowds. The $55 million museum and cultural center, which opened in 2000, is an ambitious showcase of Puerto Rican art from the 17th century to the present. And for the next two hours, Puerto Rican art history comes alive as guide Glenn Patron points out his favorites, starting with Jose Campeche, Puerto Rico's first artist of international renown and the son of a freed slave. They pass through social realism, Spanish surrealists and 1960s feminists.

After multiple recommendations, Slick heads to a little cafe called Casita Blanca, packed with local families for Sunday lunch. When she enters, she's handed a welcoming aperitif of anise-flavored rum. The first course, hunks of garlic toast and an incredible chicken soup with everything but the claws, would have been plenty, but that's just the appetizer -- she then goes through a buffet line and emerges with her plate heaped with beans, rice, fish, fried plaintains and salad.

2 p.m.

En route to San Juan and ensnared in traffic again (on a Sunday?), Joe Beach makes a pit stop in Aguadilla. It's another surfing hot spot, but Crashboat Beach gets particularly high marks even from those who aren't board silly.

On one side of a long pier, surfers hotdog for a rapt crowd. On the other, the beach is wide and tidy, with volleyball nets, brightly painted fishing boats and a ferocious undertow. Joe fears he'll end up a safety statistic if he strays too far from the edge, but he stands at the ready, watching kids wade perilously into the froth. Everyone makes it out alive.

3:40 p.m.

Eco Guy has one more stop before he leaves the hilly interior and heads back to San Juan to meet his friends. He's standing on the ridge of a mountain basin, looking over the world's largest radio telescope, Cornell University's Arecibo Observatory. The valley is covered by a kind of satellite dish the size of a Disney World parking lot. The receiver suspended over the center is the size of a construction crane. It's surrounded by an excellent interactive visitors center and a building where, one imagines, the best minds of Cornell are trying to unscramble the Playboy Channel.

9 p.m.

City Slicker, Island Girl, Joe Beach and Eco Guy reunite at the Parrot Club, a jubilant bistro in Old San Juan. The crowd is a mix of locals and tourists, the space all bright Caribbean colors. The house band, Son del Pueblo, is pumping an irresistible salsa beat when suddenly the crowd erupts with cheers and clapping. It's Eyeri Yrady, the 2-year-old son of one of the waitresses, going nuts on the bongos and bringing the house down. "For Christmas they gave him drums," the manager explains.

Monday

6:15 a.m.

Before the ride to the airport, Joe Beach sneaks down for one last stroll on the sand. The beach is empty, the early sun already hot. And hours later, his favorite souvenir from Puerto Rico pours out of his sneaker and onto his living room floor.

Eco Guy and City Slicker will be online to discuss this story Monday at 2 p.m. during the Travel section's regular weekly chat on www.washingtonpost.com.