To Puerto Rico for Spring Break... with Grandma

Spring Break was two weeks ago, but a warm, sunny day here at Princeton can evoke for the traveler — with a bit of imagination — the tropical atmosphere of vacation. For me, however, the most vivid reminders of my Spring Break in Puerto Rico with my older sister and grandmother are the pieces of skin that cover every surface of my room with a light, flaky dust.

I am peeling. I have full body dandruff. When I walk, just call me comet Dave-Bopp who leaves a conic tail of dead cells clouding behind him.

By the way, the word "grandmother" above is not a typo. You thought this was going to be a hip story like the ones you hear in the cool eating clubs about getting wasted in Cancun and hooking up with Abercrombie models. No. This is a story of a sunburn, traveling with octogenarians and El Chupacabra.

If you don't know Spanish, then you would arrive in Puerto Rico and see the Chupacabra T-shirts, mugs and bubble gum and not understand. Well, I don't know Spanish, so it took some time before I learned that this word means "The Goat-Sucker." Further explanation came only near the end of the trip. And what a horrifying experience it was. But first things first.

After arriving at the hotel, I thought that a great way to get a quick tan would be to wear no sunscreen and let the burn turn magically into a tawny golden-brown. The suntan gods are actually pretty cool with this method as long as you sacrifice one complete layer of your epidermis. So on the first day of vacation, the Puerto Rican sun smote my alabaster flesh until my face and body looked like Santa Clause's nose after snorting too much coke.

To make it even worse, my grandmother insisted that I shave for dinner the second night. You do not know the meaning of pain until you have a third-degree sunburn and then have to shave.

It's like saying, "I'm going to stick my head in an oven until my face is really red and slightly on fire, then take razors and scrape at my flesh until the skin and hair are shredded off! More please!"

When we weren't at the beach, we took half-day trips to different tourist destinations. You may not know, for example, that Puerto Rico houses a rain forest in the heights of mountains. It is my guess that this is probably one of the few rain forests in the world with picnic shelters every 25 yards.

One of the highlights, however, was our van driver, José. Like nearly everyone we met in Puerto Rica, he was friendly, but once in a while his candor may have gone too far, not because I never talk about raunchy things, but seldom do such conversations come up when my grandmother is in the back seat.

Once we were at a stop light talking with José about the welfare state of the island and other serious topics when a man walking between the stopped vehicles approached our car. José shifted his eyes and spoke: "Who's this guy? You know, I think he's gay."

What?

The light turned, and we drove on. Later during the ride, José commented on the various shops we passed: "There's Wal-Mart. Yeah. Oh, you guys have to see this place. Look for the big sign that says 'Protecting the Planet.' Isn't that a funny name for a condom store?"

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Excuse me?

During the boat cruise, we asked the captain to take our picture. For the first shot, we smiled easily at his command: "Say Cheese!"

What a nice man! But for the second photo later on, the captain shattered his innocence when he matter-of-factly asked us to "Say Sex!"

Huh?

You should see the picture. My grandmother is frowning, my sister looks embarrassed and I am just wearing a face of complete confusion. With those million-dollar smiles, this guy should work for Olan Mills.

Before this trip, I decided that the top three conversations I most wanted to have with my grandmother were: 1) homosexuals 2) condoms 3) sex. I'm sorry, but even if you have a really good relationship with your grandparents, it's tough to get much deeper than, "Yes, Nana, I really loved the cookies."

Picking us up from the boat ride, José began to talk about fried food, Spaniards, then softly, about the Goat Sucker. Some of you may have seen "The X-Files" episode where someone or something is sucking all the blood out of cows and chickens. The origin of this story is in Puerto Rico.

Evidently, every night a few years ago, the local news would report a sighting of the Goat Sucker or some farmer whose chicken's blood was sucked dry.

The creature was described as gray and hairy, having the appearance of a goat standing on his hind legs. Some accounts even gave it wings.

José's personal interpretation was that there was an island where the U.S. Navy ran experiments on monkeys. Now that it was abandoned, it is the Island of Monkeys and many are mutated. José believes the Goat Sucker is really a mutated monkey.

We laughed with the American skepticism of Agent Scully, but he reproached our mirth and assured us that the stories were true.

As we drove on, our van suddenly smacked into something with a dull thud and José started shrieking in Spanish. We accelerated as he soberly turned his head back to us and said two words: "Goat Sucker."

He was obviously shaken, and I looked at my sister and grandmother who were as confused as I was. Then, laughing, he said it was just a pot hole and that he knows every pot hole in this highway.

At the hotel, my grandmother paid him, and we took the elevator up to our room. We were all tired after a long day so I climbed on the bed and flipped on the TV. The station is local and in Spanish, and so I couldn't understand it.

It began like your average local news show with the man and woman speaking about current events, but then a drawing of some hideous creature and map with an arrow pointing to the vicinity of our hotel popped up on the screen beside the words "El Chupacabra."

Then more images appeared — the highway we were on and mothers with their children walking around all under the constant commentary in Spanish. I don't think my sister and grandmother were watching too intently, and so I quickly turned it off. Plastered with aloe cream and ointments, I slid carefully under the covers making sure that I didn't further aggravate my already tender flesh.

That's how the vacation ended and I still don't know what really happened. Many questions remain: Does the Goat Sucker exist? Did we hit it? Why did José act so strangely? What is the possibility that I'm telling the truth? Why do some restaurants not have booster seats?

So if you ever travel to Puerto Rico, ask for a van driver named José — it's a very unique name in that country — and don't forget to ask him to tell you about the Goat Sucker. You'll be in for an exciting vacation. Just don't forget the sunscreen.