In Search of Job on Beach

I made a detour in September to Puerto Rico, to interview with Magistrate Judge Marcos López of the United States District Court for the District of Puerto Rico. I had been hoping to clerk in precisely that court while slaving away at dozens of federal clerkship applications during the course of the summer – indeed, the District of PR was at the beginning of it all the very impetus for my clerkship search. And when I got an email from Judge López – ultimately the only judge in that District who had posted an open one-year clerkship for 2009-2010 – I decided it would be best for me to make the trip, however long. If it was unsuccessful, I would have no regrets – and I could spend a few days on the beach (or so I thought. Hurricane Ike had just blown through the area, leaving a broken-record 10-day forecast of thunderstorm after thunderstorm).

I arrived in PR and headed to Old San Juan, taking advantage of the FREE public buses (aaaah, paradise… at least until December, when they’ll cost money again), and relished in not having to fumble for change. At the recommendation of my friend will, I sought out “Guest House 205,” located “next to a Chinese restaurant” on Calle Tanca, which is two blocks long. Arriving at Tanca and immediately seeing a Chinese restaurant, I inquired at all the neighboring apartments to discover that Calle Tanca happens to have one Chinese Restaurant per block. Guesthouse 205 is run by Victor, a very friendly heavy-set Goateed man who looks like a tanner version of the average Packers fan, and his elderly father, who I simply called “Señor.” He called himself “Castro,” (his last name) whenever I asked who was pounding on the door of my room – invariably he would yell “Castro” and show me that I’d yet again left my key in the door. I always thanked him sheepishly, and then he would shuffled down the hallway and up the stairs, never wearing a shirt or any underpants under his slightly sagging shorts. I’d thank him and he would respond with his trademark sound-effect, an “oooaahh” that ascended in pitch much like one of those whizzy toys with the fan inside you might find at the circus or in a quarter machine in the front of any large grocery store in the United States.

I spent the first night fruitlessly looking for a dry-cleaner, having smashed my suit into a very small roll-on borrowed from my Argentine roommate. Ultimately I ended up simply steaming up the bathroom and hoping that would do the trick on my suit and shirt: when I took off my flip flops and donned a suit in the cheapest hostal in town to go to a job interview, I felt a bit like I was putting on a costume – my dirty unshaven backpacker life colliding more directly than ever before with notably impending day-job-dom.

I bussed to Bayamón and asked around for the federal court, an unassuming building (except for the big gate and security guard) located a few blocks from the banks and on a street boasting 10% intact sidewalk. I passed the afternoon in the court cafeteria, until getting the call from Ariel, Judge López’ clerk, that the Judge had time to interview me.

The whole interview process was very unassuming – the Judge asked me nothing about the law I have supposedly learned in two (expensive and taxing) years of law school, preferring to focus on my interest in Latin America and human rights, and on the real benefits of the U.S. system that a lot of us take for granted – notably the relatively dependable due process given to criminal defendants (I think it is clear that in many other countries – even “first world” ones – one is much less likely to receive the process you do in the United States, being read your rights, being given the right to a lawyer, presented with the charge against you, etc…). I had also just watched an in-flight presentation of Keven Spacey’s HBO movie about the 2000 election, and it struck me how the population of the United States essentially accepted the decision of the Supreme Court as the end of it. My perception was heightened coming from a Argentina, a Latin American country (like most others) where public protests and distrust of government are so much more commonplace: the day I left Buenos Aires, disgruntled bus companies had staged a dramatic protest, parking several hundred buses on a central thoroughfare at rush hour, paralyzing the city. At any rate, my conversation with the Judge was stimulating and interesting, and I was glad I had made the 17-hour trip for the one hour interview.

The following day, as a sourpuss sandwich maker was constructing my footlong Subway club, I got a call from an unidentified number - Judge López. I answered, of course, and he treaded water much too long before saying that he was calling to offer me the job, which I accepted on the spot. I briefly discussed the details under the burning glare of the peeved Subway girl, and when I hung up, my jubilant vegetable-loading instructions contrasted hilariously (from my perspective) with her unnecessarily annoyed condiment application. I took my sandwich and coca-cola to the beach, and though it wasn’t the sunniest of days, I contented myself knowing that I would have a year’s worth of beach days coming my way. Getting this clerkship in Puerto Rico, I feel like I’ve really swindled whoever it is that runs the game of Life, since I’ll ostensibly be furthering my career while living in the tropics.

That evening, I celebrated a touch, with some fantastic Indian food, fine whiskey, and a train of barstool companions, before returning to recline on the balcony of “Guesthouse 205.” High heels on cobblestones peppered the constant reggaeton backround beat provided by every open-windowed sedan and discoteca in all of Old San Juan. That very spot was bustling hundreds of years ago; I wondered what the Spanish colonists and soldiers would think of the long line descending down the slope of Tanca from the mouth of NOISE, a (clearly) popular discoteca: the street was teeming with teenage girls baring budding cleavage, mini-mini-skirts and hoop earrings (just the kind the pirates wore??) I popped a beer and relaxed with my guitar, strumming some old tune, but the only words that came to mind were something like

What would your mother think
If she could see you now…

Would you show your mother
That much of your breast
And what would she think of
That thing you call a dress

(Or are they themselves somebody’s mother? Soon enough, doubtless.) I’m all for high skin-visibility, in general, but (in that moment at least) I must have crossed dangerously far into a puritan mindset of middle-aged-ism. At any rate, with herds of horny budding reggaetoneros congregating on the street below, I accepted that NOISE was probably not my scene, and went to bed content.

I spent the next day with a stereotypically random hostal crowd –
• A goateed, white linen-shirted Midwestern musician named Randall who had been on a tour of Caribbean islands playing music with locals. We jammed on the porch for a spell, and exchanged info. Another in a long line of hostal-made contacts.
• A beautiful blonde, outgoing Austrian who had in one day developed both bed bug bites and (unrelatedly) a non-sexual (I think) relationship with Randall which was rife with the rancor and playful bickering typical of long-standing marriages. Randall assured me she had made the trip to PR solely to Salsa with her “Brown Boys.”
• Two skinny English boys fresh off of Uni who had been dumping Pounds in the Virgin Islands for weeks. One of them, with bleach blonde curly hair and a Michael Anthony Hall profile, somehow put the Austrian girl under his spell, despite wearing pajama pants to the pharmacy.
• An American named Gene from DC, who thought that Michigan was located where Montana is, and who had come to Puerto Rico to learn Spanish. Randal and I dined with her at some American-style fancy Hamburger joint next to the Cruise liner docks, site of the world´s absolute worst and overpriced meal. I tolerated a subpar piña colada, feeling like I should at least have one on the “Island of Enchantment” before heading back to where it was still wintertime.

The next day, I managed a quick run to the beach, where I faced a dilemma: I was wearing shorts and “runderwear” – a speedo-resembling underpant with a specialized frontal wind panel and wicking microfiber. Should I get my shorts wet, or just rock my underpants? I decided that this was no time to be modest, despite the growing population of retirees and randoms on the beach, and I didn’t want to have to ride the bus with wet shorts, so I happily gave my runderwear their inaugural dip in the Commonwealth’s coves. I’ll stand by my decision (admittedly, I also ran all around the campus of the University of Michigan wearing nothing but my runderwear and my shoes, so perhaps I should not have been so shy… and now, weeks later, having been assaulted with the outgoing Brazilian speedo custom, I realize how silly my modesty really was.. (blog forthcoming)).

That about does it for my trip Puerto Rico – You are all welcome, come October 2009. More nonsense to come regarding the Porteño Primavera, Booze in Brazil, and other instances of overly-forced bilingual alliteration.