Jill Will Go...

We need to find a good market. The guidebook is nearly useless. Who wants to travel and end up at a mall that has all the stores you have back home? Maybe the authors and editors feel obligated to tell those people who left their Sephora mascara at home where they can replenish, but really? If I'm in San Juan or Paris or Tehran, I have bigger fish to fry than a visit to the mall. All right, now that that is out of my system. We found (online - take note travel book publishers) a market that was described as more local than touristy, with fresh food, and a sidewalk full of vendors. We went. But first, we had to figure out how to get there. The bus station in old San Juan has a man in a glassed-in outdoor office that sits up on a wall about eight feet high, with a little speaker attached to where you try to talk to him. Even in English, this was not going to work. People stood at the wall, pressed the button, then yelled into the box, then had to step back about four fee

Thank the technological gods for air conditioning. I bow down before your all mighty, powerful, life changing air blowing. It was the only thing that kept us asleep. I resolve to stop that little grandfather clock from striking if it is the last thing I do. Aside from becoming a mosquito killing machine, of course. We are greeted by a stifling hot morning. But the sun is out, the sky is blue, and we have decided to get know Old San Juan. The city within the city is very simple to get around in. You walk. It is tiny and very accessible and if you get tired, there is a free tourist tram that does a loop. You just hop on and hop off as needed. But we are fresh, eager travelers! No tourist tram for us.  We start with the Paseo de la Princessa. This broad, tree and lamp-lined boulevard was built in the mid-nineteenth century. It is a great pedestrian strolling area, with flowers, a fountain, and great views of the old city wall (La Muralla) and the water. We meet our first Puerto R

I love it when passengers clap and cheer after the plane has landed successfully. There is a sense of relief, of joy, of a job well done that permeates the cabin air. For those few seconds, we all glance around and smile, we are together in this venture. We are not the jerk who reclined his seat for the entire five hour flight, we aren't the fat lady who raised the arm rest, then spilled into our seat mate's space and onto her thigh. We are one, the collective passengers of a tin can being shot through the air. We are grateful to have made it here alive, and we will celebrate! The muggy heat hit us like a wet furnace blast as we exit the baggage claim area. It is 10:30 at night. Never a good sign. We have to get a taxi from the airport into Old San Juan, where we are staying in our rented apartment. As I climb into the taxi, I hear a little voice say, "Good morning! Good morning!" I peer into the front seat and I see a tiny little head with a curly pigtail sti

I got lost in Granada. I walked up into the Albayzin neighborhood to watch the sunlight wash onto the Alhambra. This is an ancient neighborhood, full of twisting, narrow lanes. I walked to The Church of San Nicolas. There is a plaza where people can sit and watch the sun turn the Alhambra all sorts of interesting colors. I wandered through the neighborhood, sort of vaguely aware of where I was headed. But then on the way down I got completely turned around. I thought I was in one place, but was in another. I hate it when that happens. I meandered a little, then stopped two older, elegantly dressed ladies. I asked them if they could help me. They told me how to get back to my hotel - in Spanish. I nodded along, then pointed up the street. They promptly pointed in the opposite direction and we all laughed. The next morning, I walked to the entrance of the Alhambra in the dark, and was the fourth person in line. I wanted to see Muslim Spain, to see history. The A