The cobblestones were blue in colour.
We were walking down a slender street in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. We had just paused to examine the cobblestones. You don’t visit Europe without acknowledging cobblestones. But to find them in the Caribbean, in this languorous capital city, was novel, as was their colour.
We had flown in over the Memorial Day weekend to San Juan from New York, US, where we lived at the time. In classic Puerto Rican style, the plan was to take our earnest derrières to a beach and sink into deckchairs, a racy Stieg Larsson in one hand, a magically refilling mojito in the other, and dark shades on our eyes to conceal the manic glint of joy in them.
Crossing Fort San Cristóbal, the gateway to Old San Juan, and entering the city had been like stepping on to the sets of a period film. The streets were like rows from a pastel shade card, lined with beautiful Spanish townhouses in lilacs, peaches and pistachio greens. Our driver informed us that there were at least 400 carefully restored 16th and 17th century Spanish colonial buildings in the area, which is a Unesco World Heritage Site. We left our luggage at the hotel reception and set out for an exploratory stroll.
Across the street from El Convento was the Cathedral of San Juan Bautista, the second oldest cathedral in the Americas. Located near the San Juan Gate, it used to be the first stop for sailors, who would visit it as soon as they alighted to thank God for their safe voyage. Originally built in 1521, with a plain, cream-coloured façade and two saints perched atop each shoulder, it housed a marble tomb containing the remains of Juan Ponce De León, the island’s first governor.
An investigation involving Google and an iPhone revealed that the cobblestones were made of slag from the smelting of iron, and had been brought to San Juan from Spain as ballast on ships. The iron was responsible for the colour.
After walking for about 10 minutes, we reached the Parque de las Palomas (Pigeon Park), and beside it, a police barricade. The park was aflutter with lunching grey pigeons fed by delighted children with fists full of bird feed.
“What’s going on?” I asked a policeman.
“Student demonstration,” he said, “see.”
We got ourselves two Piña coladas at a nearby café, and a table with a view.
After the demonstration had moved forward, we headed back to our hotel. It was already late evening and we were tired. As night fell on San Juan, a street singer’s voice filled the air with a song about amor, and the hearts of all those who heard, with a sweet, melancholic ache.
The next morning, we walked to El Morro, a famous 16th century citadel, thinking we’d head to the beach from there.
El Morro was designated a National Historic Site in 1949. We spent the morning exploring its windswept ramparts, barracks, dungeons and the small, domed sentry boxes called garitas, taking in bits of the island’s immense military history with big gulps of the bay view.
Our next stop should’ve been the beach. But earlier, I’d spied some handicraft shops and outlet stores for luxury brands. I knew San Juan offered good shopping, but it was startling to see Burberry checks, Coach monograms and Polo jockeys peering out of the windows of 16th century Spanish houses. We were tempted to pop in.
That weekend, we never did make it to the beach. But we’d immersed ourselves, however briefly, in a different world—coming back with riveting stories instead of a tan. It seemed like a fair trade-off.
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