“So you’re off to Puerto Rico,” my friends say. “You mean Poo-errrto Rrrico,” I say, rolling my tongue with sensual languor.This is one of the many reasons why I do not have a lot of friends; but it’s true: I’m off to San Juan for a week-long holiday. Lately I’ve been spending so much time sitting at my desk that I fear I’ve become some kind of Greek mythological beast—half man, half office chair. I polled my friends and family for a suitable destination, but in the end, it was my parents who won me over. Puerto Rico it was—the place where they spent their honeymoon in 1966. Before leaving, I call them up to pick their brains for some indication of things I should see and do. My mother answers, and I tell her to have my father pick up the extension. He’s in the middle of watching Jeopardy, but he does so, begrudgingly. “What did you know about Puerto Rico before you went there?” I ask. “That it’s where Puerto Ricans come from,” my mother says uncertainly.
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