(no subject)
A Day at the Beach (Images of San Juan, pt. 2)
*The beach at Ocean Park is very clean, though the warm Atlantic waves are murky with sand blinding my eyes and seaweed entangling my legs. My father says I should come during the summer months when the water is crystal clear. When my parents lived in the area, he would leave work at 3:00 pm and ride the waves until dinner. After swimming, we walk on the beach to dry off. All along the shore, old homes worn by salty wind are plastered with signs announcing their pending transformation into sleek condos. Those who have gone before them appear at random intervals, fresh paint and modern architecture ushering in a new era of unaffordable property taxes for many of the elderly residents.
Beyond a cluster of rocks we chat briefly with a grizzled man sitting on the shore. He is skinny and his teeth are half rotten. He exhibits no self-consciousness and smiles often at my strange accent. With a grin on his face his attention is suddenly diverted to the incoming tide slowly overtaking the shore behind us. As we turn to look, his friend shouts triumphantly, work-worn hands holding a net full of shrimp.
*Further down the beach, we come upon some teenagers laughing and drinking beer. As we pass, one of them yells, "¡Cantamos!" and they all stand, brushing the sand off of their jeans. As they form a loose circle, a small ensemble of percussion instruments appear--a guiro, a maraca, and two pleneras. They begin belting out renditions of traditional Puerto Rican Christmas plena music from the countryside, laughing as they sing.
This sight will be echoed several times throughout my trip, a clear indication that the traditional music is not dying with my generation's reguetón obsession.
*The beach at Ocean Park is very clean, though the warm Atlantic waves are murky with sand blinding my eyes and seaweed entangling my legs. My father says I should come during the summer months when the water is crystal clear. When my parents lived in the area, he would leave work at 3:00 pm and ride the waves until dinner. After swimming, we walk on the beach to dry off. All along the shore, old homes worn by salty wind are plastered with signs announcing their pending transformation into sleek condos. Those who have gone before them appear at random intervals, fresh paint and modern architecture ushering in a new era of unaffordable property taxes for many of the elderly residents.
Beyond a cluster of rocks we chat briefly with a grizzled man sitting on the shore. He is skinny and his teeth are half rotten. He exhibits no self-consciousness and smiles often at my strange accent. With a grin on his face his attention is suddenly diverted to the incoming tide slowly overtaking the shore behind us. As we turn to look, his friend shouts triumphantly, work-worn hands holding a net full of shrimp.
*Further down the beach, we come upon some teenagers laughing and drinking beer. As we pass, one of them yells, "¡Cantamos!" and they all stand, brushing the sand off of their jeans. As they form a loose circle, a small ensemble of percussion instruments appear--a guiro, a maraca, and two pleneras. They begin belting out renditions of traditional Puerto Rican Christmas plena music from the countryside, laughing as they sing.
This sight will be echoed several times throughout my trip, a clear indication that the traditional music is not dying with my generation's reguetón obsession.