A full ten days has passed since I last wrote—the price of a vacation in Puerto Rico, I suppose.
With a little detective work, I was able to find the political underbelly of PR. On a beach in Boquerón, I met Jim, an ex-pat who claimed he wasn’t (“To be an ex-patriot you have to leave the U.S.…”); he wasn’t voting, either. In Old San Juan, I saw an Obama sign in a front yard. In a club in Fajardo, I met a couple of young Obama supporters who were casting their votes as US citizens in New York.
But the Puerto Rican elections far eclipsed our presidential election; the countryside is literally blanketed with propaganda for senators, governors, and the like. What’s interesting, too, is that in PR, every sign is accompanied by a picture. You know how when we see political signs in people’s yards, they just have the name of the candidate? Well, in Puerto Rico, you NEVER see the name without the face featured as well. Some of the faces are rather comical—men with big bushy mustaches and bedroom eyes (and yes, most are men). But it’s interesting, always having that personal, face-association with the name. It gives one the feeling that you really know these people, that you’d have them over for a beachside barbecue of bacaito (fried cod) and lechon (pork) and go out back to smoke a stogie after the flan.
Now I am back home, and I’ve traded green plantains stuffed with crabmeat for eggs and home fries. That’s right: when I arrived back in the United States, I was ravenous for breakfast.
In my many travels, it is always essential that I find some place I can go to write, reflect, and, ideally, eat. In Cape Cod, I went to the library (sadly food-less). In Vermont, a brilliant bookstore/café rose to the occasion (excellent chai tea and muffins).
In Eastern Pennsylvania, diners are pretty much my only shot.
So today I grabbed my thinking gear and headed to the Chestnuthill Diner for French toast, scrambled eggs, and home fries. I was supposed to go canvassing at 10 a.m., but I was fourteen minutes late and the group had left without me. When I squeezed into a booth this morning, I was still wearing my Obama button, a feeble attempt to assuage my guilt for sleeping in.
I quite like the Chestnuthill Diner. They have breakfast all day, cozy booths, and a bar—for when orange juice straight up just isn’t going to cut it. Since I’d tried their blueberry pancakes before, I only needed a quick glance at the menu. But something caught my eye.
“What’s a ‘pork roll’?” I asked my waitress.
“A pork roll?” She eyed my candidate button suspiciously. “Where you from, honey?”
“Texas,” I said, “so I guess I should know.”
She nodded her head in agreement. “Hey, Chad,” she accosted a patron at the next booth over. “How do you describe a pork roll?”
“It’s a roll, but it’s pork,” said Chad, shrugging his shoulders and forking a piece of steak and eggs into his mouth. “Ham’s better.”
The concept of a pork roll really wasn’t coming together in my mind.
“I’ll have the ham,” I said, pulling out my laptop as my waitress scurried away. From across the diner I heard whispers of, “That’s a laptop she’s got there.” “What?” “A laptop, Hank!” I smiled to myself.
When my waitress, Marcia, returned with a steaming plate of food, she noted my button.
“Who do you think won the debate on Wednesday?” she asked, her hand on her hip.
“Neither,” I said, cautiously cutting into a plump slice of French toast. Wondering what the right answer was, I pandered a bit, avoiding the question. “I mean, I thought Obama did a better job of directly answering the questions, and McCain was certainly on attack dog mode. Still, he seems to be better at telling stories. And I hate when Obama stutters, I find it so disheartening…” I trailed off and took a sip of my cranberry juice.
“They did a poll,” Marcia said, leaning in a little closer. “Right after the debate? And they said Obama’s answers seemed more honest.”
My fingers were poised over the keyboard, itching to take notes.
Marcia edged still closer to my booth. “Let me tell you something. Do you know who took down those towers on September 11th?” I gave a half nod. I mean, I’m pretty sure I know. She continued undaunted. “Don’t tell me it was the terrorists. The government took those towers down. And that’s Bush’s government right there.”
Marcia was just getting started. “You know what it is? His daddy pushed him in, and he couldn’t get us out. He’s drained us. And I always knew it. I told my husband, the first time I saw George W. Bush, I told him, ‘We can’t trust this man.’ And look at us now!”
I swallowed a bite of ham and let Marcia lead me on an impassioned trek backwards through time. She was on a roll. “I’ve always been able to tell, you know. I knew Nixon was a liar. I knew it from the very beginning.” She leaned over my table and whispered conspiratorially. “And let me tell you something. Do you know why JFK got shot? Because he wanted to take the soldiers out of Vietnam. Bobby got shot for the same reason.”
She shook her head and laughed, almost embarrassed at our shared confidence. “But I like Obama,” she said. “And I know a lot of people ‘round here don’t. I think it’s a black thing. I just hope he doesn’t get shot. I grew up in Newark, you know. I was never bothered by the color of anybody’s skin.”
And with that, she wiped her hands on her apron, gave a quick decisive nod, and headed back to the kitchen.
Sometimes I am so fascinated by the American people. Who knew my waitress at the local diner would be a budding political analyst and psychic to boot?
Bill Maher better watch out.
