“I believe you.”
“I’ve done it a million times.”
“Hang on, Jane. Now we’re discussing your sex life?” Michael interjected.
I clicked off speakerphone.
“Is he always like that?” Jane asked.
“He hates Christmas. It’s an overcompensation thing.”
“Poor you.”
“Can we call you tomorrow?”
She sighed.
“Sure, but is it always going to be like this?”
“Nah,” I said. “I’m sure in five or six years we’ll be much more relaxed about the whole thing.”
We called the next morning.
Carol and Jeremy loved the house. They spent the week snorkeling and biking around the island. They left a collection of sea glass on our coffee table with a thank you note.
Their last night, they got engaged.
Casa Dos Chivos was off to a good start.
☼ ☼ ☼
The bookings came in pretty steadily that first season. Our guests included a retired couple from Rhode Island, an accountant and his girlfriend from New Jersey, and a gay couple from Philly.
Nothing bad happened. Well, almost nothing. The island lost its water supply—not an unusual occurrence—for the better part of a day. I called the house and apologized to our guests, who couldn’t have been more gracious.
In a month it would be time for our next trip down to the island. We asked Jane to set aside a couple of hours to meet with us, and to invite Steve, our talented carpenter, to join us.
It was time to get serious about gutting and renovating the lower floor.
Yikes.
☼ ☼ ☼
Without realizing it, we had developed a “Vieques arrival” ritual.
This consisted of: taking a taxi to the car rental place (we’d decided it was a waste of Jane’s time for her to pick us up at the airport); getting our rental car and driving to the house; doing a quick walk-through, including taking an inventory of provisions and booze; and heading to Morales to stock up on groceries and supplies.
Okay, time out for a word about Superdescuentos Morales. For starters, there’s nothing particularly super about it and it’s usually unbearably crowded and the check-out people are sometimes a tad surly. Also it frequently doesn’t have what we’re looking for.
But after about a year we started to like it. For one thing, it reminded us of grocery stores from our childhoods. You know, narrow aisles, limited provisions, low expectations.
As middle-aged adults living in a large American city, we’ve grown used to vast, chilly supermarkets stocking fifty-seven brands of cereal and three dozen flavors of yogurt.
In contrast, there was something strangely comforting about having your cereal choices winnowed down from fifty-seven to three—Corn Flakes, Cocoa Puffs or Rice Crispies. You’re in or you’re out, case closed.
Although this had provoked minor irritation at first, now it felt strangely liberating: thank you for not making us think so hard about our fiber intake.
There were other things we liked. The liquor aisle was surprisingly well-provisioned. No, there was no Dutch triple-distilled gin but there was Tanquerey and Beefeaters, not to mention Stoli vodka and Jose Cuervo tequila. Also, a decent selection of wine, particularly red. What more does one want?
In addition, there was the oddly compelling kitchen/hardware section, which changed imperceptibly from visit to visit. Sometimes it boasted a large and varied inventory of bathroom-related items—shower curtains, toilet brushes, plumber’s friends in several different colors and shapes—while at other times the focus seemed to be on garden supplies. Sometimes you simply didn’t know what you’d get. I remember once seeing rat traps dangling next to lingerie sachets.
One of Morales’ most noteworthy features is its deliciously chilly “cold room.” This is a U-shaped annex to the main store, entered through one set of automatic sliding glass doors near the cash registers and exited through another, where fruit, vegetables, dairy products, meat and the random bottle of Veuve Cliquot Champagne are kept.
The temperature is probably around fifty-five degrees in there. On a hot afternoon, after we’ve wrestled our way through the crowded sweaty aisles of the main store, it’s sheer heaven to complete our shopping experience in the cold room.
Sometimes, I confess, we even linger.
Not that there’s much to linger over.
For example, although Michael and I have always loved our green vegetables, they’re decidedly not a staple of the Vieques diet, and the pickings in the cold room are depressingly slim. Occasionally we’ll find a bunch of fatigued-looking broccoli wasting away in the produce section, and once or twice we’ve come across a head of cabbage that looks like it was rolled down a muddy hill to the market. But usually we end up buying frozen vegetables just to get our greens (this was before we discovered the “vegetable man” near the hospital or, even more recently, the farmers’ market near the GE plant).
Also, counter-intuitively, we seldom find lemons or limes at Morales. You’d think citrus fruit would be a dime a dozen in Vieques, but not so much. Instead, we’ve learned that the limones growing on the tree in our side yard add a perfectly acceptable note of tartness to our vodka tonics.
Then there are the lines. If we arrive in town on Saturday we know we’re in for a very long haul. It seems that most people on the island, not unlike working folk everywhere, do the majority of their grocery shopping on Saturday afternoon. We’ve grown used to standing in line for as long as half an hour behind shopping carts piled high with household staples, frozen pizzas and huge bags of rice.
Rush hour at Morales supermarket
Offsetting the wait is the generally festive mood of the crowd. Invariably there’s an incident—someone will drop and break something, a credit card will be refused, a mother and child will squabble over a candy bar—causing everyone to stop what they’re doing and watch with rapt interest. Then, just as quickly, the spaghetti sauce will get mopped up, the bill will be settled with cash, the child will be handed his chocolate, and the whole incident will be forgotten, making way for the next spectacle.
The locals love to observe the passing parade. And if you pay close enough attention, it can be lots of fun watching them watch one another.
☼ ☼ ☼
We went over the house with a fine-tooth comb looking for signs of wear and tear from our first few rounds of guests and were amazed to find none.
Instead, what we found were helpful comments in our “Suggestions” book for making the house better-equipped for future guests.
We were all set to make Cosmos one night and couldn’t find a cocktail shaker. Maybe you could get one in time for our visit next year?
Sure thing. Glad to hear you’re coming back.
I’m a compulsive baker, and yes I know it’s way too hot down here to bake, but one morning when I decided to make some muffins there was no muffin pan. Maybe you could invest in one for your next weirdo guests.
Delighted.
This was the kind of feedback we wanted, needed, welcomed. Our goal, after all, was making a stay at our house as pleasant as possible.
☼ ☼ ☼
The third morning of our visit I woke up early, grabbed the keys to the lower floor and made my way down the side stairs and around the driveway (remember, there was no staircase connecting the floors at that point).
Having more or less finished re-doing the upstairs, I was excited at the prospect of gutting and rebuilding the lower level. But once I swung open the door and switched on the single overhead light, the magnitude of the project socked me in the gut.
It was a dump—an even bigger, more disgusting dump than I remembered from previous trips.
Of course we had already given the project lots of thought. We had walked through the derelict rooms many times the past few months. We had even hired a crew to scrape away the top layer of crud and to haul off smashed cabinets and rusty appliances. Havi
ng measured all the existing rooms, we’d given a lot of thought to how we’d like the whole thing reconfigured.
But the planning phase was over—now it was time for action.
I flipped through some drawings we’d made a few months earlier and tried to imagine what the space would look like when these spidery lines were translated into concrete walls.
From the beginning our main goal was to take advantage of the view which, admittedly wasn’t as dramatic as the panorama from the floor above, but was a knock-out all the same. We were still puzzled and amazed by the fact that many of the locals, the former inhabitants of our house included, didn’t seem to value the ocean view as much as we did. Or at all.
In fact the second floor faced inward, as if deliberately shunning the view. The L-shaped living room stretched straight across the middle section of the space, from the breezeway on one side to the garden on the other, with the kitchen in the short leg of the L at the far end.
The only windows faced the garden or, even worse, the carport.
Spaced like jail cells along the front of the house (the ocean-facing façade) were two tiny bedrooms with miniscule windows and a bathroom in between. To people born on the island, it seemed the ocean view was something to be avoided. To us, it was both stunningly beautiful and a commercial asset and we intended to feature it.
Our idea was to keep at least one of the bedrooms where it was currently situated but open up the other to form part of the living room, with French doors leading out onto the terrace. The bathroom would need to stay in place—moving it would simply be too expensive—but we could shift the kitchen to the garden end of the living room and use the old kitchen space at the back as a second bedroom.
As I sat there that morning, I could suddenly see the whole thing.
And it was a thing of beauty.
☼ ☼ ☼
Steve came by that afternoon, and the three of us trailed downstairs for a “first look.”
Steve’s eyes darted around the derelict rooms with genuine excitement. Considering the massive amount of back-breaking work that needed to be done, this struck me as slightly peculiar—but also a good sign.
I showed him the pathetically amateurish drawings Michael and I had made a couple of days earlier.
“Cool,” he said, pacing around as he studied one of our sketches. “I see what you have in mind. Looks great.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“You can actually read our drawings?”
He smiled and glanced at the Stone Age-style sketch in his hand.
“Sure. No problem.”
Okay, the verdict was in. He was high as a kite again.
“What about floors?” Michael asked. “Any ideas?”
“I’d definitely go with ceramic tile,” Steve advised.
“Sounds good. Think we’d ever find anything we like on island?”
“Probably not,” Steve laughed in his vacant, bemused way. “But it’s worth looking.”
I glanced around the space.
“So what else?”
Steve consulted his notes.
“Let’s talk about the kitchen.”
We strolled down to the far end of the room.
“How about concrete counters?” he asked.
“I like it,” Michael said.
I wasn’t so sure. Generally speaking, I prefer my concrete in places like driveways and floors, where nature intended it. But considering that our entire Vieques house was built of concrete, my reservations may have been a bit academic. Steve went on.
“So this won’t be a full kitchen, right?”
“No, we thought just a dorm fridge and a microwave. Think breakfast, not dinner.”
“Smart,” Steve said. “If they want to roast a turkey they can do it upstairs.”
There were other details to discuss—which windows would have glass louvers and which would have metal, the style of vanity for the bathroom—but essentially the big decisions were made.
We wrote Steve a hefty deposit check and sent him on his way.
☼ ☼ ☼
The next morning we went shopping for ceramic tile. Unfortunately, not many places in Vieques sell this particular item. And when they do, the choice is usually abysmal.
But we spotted exactly what we wanted the minute we walked into Nales, the island’s biggest hardware store—a weathered terra cotta tile in thirteen-by-thirteen inch squares.
Perfect.
In fact, it seemed too good to be true.
“It’s great, but they won’t have nearly enough in stock,” I said to Michael in my best doom-and-gloom voice.
“Let’s find out,” he said. He took the sample to the desk and asked about quantities. No one knew.
“Could you tell us who would know?”
Blank stares. Not unfriendly, not unhelpful, just blank.
Michael, looking taller than his already considerable height of six-four, stalked out of the store and into the lumberyard with the tile in hand.
“¡Hola!” he shouted to the first person he saw.
That unlucky soul ambled over and listened to what Michael had to say, but it was a waste of time—he clearly had no idea what we wanted. Michael, however, isn’t one to give up. He launched into an elaborate ritual of sign language and pantomime, with some rudimentary Spanish thrown in for good measure, until his message seemed to percolate through.
“Ah,” the man said, thumping his forehead with the back of his hand. “Sí,” he said. “We have.”
“Great,” Michael smiled triumphantly in my general direction, waiting for the man to produce the tile.
But the fellow just stared back. He was clearly an old hand at this game.
“¿Mañana?” he hazarded.
“How about today?” Michael suggested.
Our friend removed his hat and scratched his head.
“Tito!” he yelled to his colleague.
Tito, shorter and balder, wandered over and was rewarded with what seemed to me an incredibly complicated explanation, punctuated by a couple of dark, sidelong glances in our direction.
“Sí,” said Tito after an extended pause. “We have.”
This sounded suspiciously familiar.
“Great, we’d like to buy them,” I interjected. “Now.”
He hitched up his pants, casting a quizzical glance in our direction.
“How many?”
Oh God. Frantically, I ran the figures in my head.
“Seven hundred square feet.”
Tito pondered this figure for an extraordinarily long time.
“Bueno,” he said at last. “We have this number.”
Michael and I were practically panting with excitement at this point.
“Great. Where are they?”
Tito’s expression turned from exhilaration to despair on a dime.
“Not here,” he responded with apparent sympathy.
I could have wept.
“Where are they?”
“Frankie’s house.”
“Who’s Frankie?”
This question clearly rocked his world. It turned out that Frankie was not only his boss but the owner of the store.
“Could you call him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“His mother, she die. The day before today.”
In addition to being sad news, this didn’t portend well for getting our hands on the tile anytime soon. The stench of defeat was in the air, at least for now. We slunk back inside to have a final look around and pay for our other items.
“Ask them if we can take the sample with us,” I whispered.
“Are you nuts?” Michael said, stuffing the tile into one of our bags.
We called Steve from the car and told him the story.
“Oh, Frankie. Sure, I know him. Cool dude.”
He sounded remarkably calm about the whole situation.
“Can you call him?” I squeaked.
Long pause.
“Now?”
“Yes, please. And be sure to buy more than we need, because if you don’t and it’s discontinued, we’re screwed.”
“Okay,” Steve said, sounding slightly perplexed by my urgent tone.
“Thanks. And don’t forget to order more than we need. Lots more.”
“Man, you really like those tiles, don’t you?”
“Love them.”
I could hear the contented, zoned-out smile in his voice.
“Cool.”
☼ ☼ ☼
People who’ve paid a fair amount of money to rent a house on a tropical island don’t particularly like being woken up every morning by the sound of a construction crew drilling and sawing away downstairs. I know what you’re thinking and I agree: what a bunch of self-indulgent wusses.
Nonetheless, this meant that Steve and his crew, who were chomping at the bit to get going at this point, couldn’t start on the downstairs renovation until the house was unoccupied.
For the first time, our guests seemed like inconveniences. Okay, inconveniences who paid us money and were invariably grateful for our hospitality. But still.
Finally, a free week rolled around in mid-March. Jane called us the first morning the crew began the demolition job and held up the phone as Steve swung the sledgehammer. We heard a dull thud and the sound of plaster hitting the floor.
It felt oddly exhilarating to hear our house being torn apart.
Downstairs during renovation
Jane took pictures of the rapidly-transforming space and emailed them to us a week later.
We weren’t sure if these shots made us feel better or worse about the renovation. Despite our initial excitement, there was something unsettling about actually seeing our house being pummelled, pounded and jack-hammered to pieces from hundreds of miles away.
“What if the new beams aren’t strong enough and the upstairs ends up downstairs?” I wailed.
“Steve knows what he’s doing,” said Michael. “Go lie down with a cool cloth on your forehead.”
Jane kept us posted as work progressed, and everything seemed to go according to plan. Finally, one day in early May, she called to say that everything was cleared out and they were ready to start rebuilding.
I called Steve to thank him. He sounded pleased but preoccupied.
The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House Page 12