“Yes, Jane, but as you’re well aware, people never listen to the voice of experience.”
☼ ☼ ☼
And then there was the question of pictures.
As in, hanging a few on the walls of our Puerto Rican retreat.
Although I admire minimalism as a decorating philosophy, I’ve never been one for bare walls. Sometimes when I flip through Elle Décor and encounter one ultra-hip white-on-white room after another, I feel frostbite nipping at the edges of my soul.
With apologies to the mavens of “less is more,” I just have to say it: sometimes more is more.
I need color. I need something to look at.
Our house is not a haiku. At the very least, it’s a sonnet. Some days, it’s an ode.
Unfortunately, the picture selection in the stores where we’d bought our furniture on the big island, was either non-existent or embarrassingly bad. Not quite Elvis on velvet but dangerously close.
Clearly, we’d have to buy our pictures elsewhere and ship them down. But where? And how?
One day, as I pondered this problem on my lunchtime walk, it occurred to me that Ikea might be the solution. Ikea has terrific poster frames. Even better, they’re fitted out with plexiglass instead of real glass, which would undoubtedly get broken the instant we tried to ship the frames to Puerto Rico.
The next weekend we made a beeline for our local Ikea.
No poster frames with plexiglass in sight. We wrung our hands.
In desperation we repaired to the cafeteria for Swedish meatballs.
Thus fortified, we returned to the frame department and bought fourteen poster frames, in various sizes, with real glass. When we got home we smashed the glass into tiny pieces, double-bagged the remains, and tossed them into the dumpster behind our building.
Then we placed an online order for fourteen sheets of custom-cut plexiglass and fourteen stylish, brightly-colored prints.
Once we had everything on hand—frames, plexiglass and posters—we packed it up and shipped it to Vieques via the U.S. Postal Service.
The whole thing cost a fortune.
Our pictures, however, look fabulous.
Elle Décor would thoroughly disapprove.
☼ ☼ ☼
Once the gods of small things had exhausted all other means of thwarting our efforts to get our furnishings to the island, they appealed to the Puerto Rican Customs Office for assistance. It was an effective move. Several of our purchases languished in a San Juan shipyard for at least two months.
There was no rhyme or reason to it. Some items whizzed through customs in a flash. Our kitchen, for instance, complete with busted cabinet, shot through without a problem, while other items got semi-permanently stuck in the labyrinth of Puerto Rican bureaucracy.
Particularly puzzling was a vanity unit for the downstairs bathroom, which logically shouldn’t have presented any more or less of a challenge than the kitchen cabinets.
Did I say logically? Please accept my apology.
Another piece taken hostage by the Customs Office was a kitchen island with a butcher-block top that we’d bought in D.C. for the downstairs kitchen. For some reason this thoroughly innocuous item seemed to throw up all sorts of red flags. And so it sat, along with the bathroom vanity unit and a couple of other items, for weeks and weeks, gathering dust in the shipyard in San Juan. Michael doggedly tried to liberate them from their pointless incarceration.
As with our Home Depot kitchen saga, Michael and the lady at the Customs Office became fast friends, chatting almost every day for two months. Carla seemed to want to help, although there was more than a whiff of helplessness in the way she presented the situation.
“Yes, yes, this happens all the time,” she advised week in and week out.
Although there was a measure of comfort in this information, it was of the distinctly chilly variety.
“I’ll see what I can do,” was her constant refrain.
Strangely, Carla never seemed to mind Michael’s calls. If someone contacted me every day to complain about an issue over which I had little or no control, I would do my best to fob him off on someone else—anyone else. But as ineffectual as Carla appeared to be, she was infinitely patient.
In the meantime we got so desperate we considered praying to the household gods for the release of our furniture, though our baser instincts told us we might get better results offering them something more tangible than mere words. After all, they were withholding material goods—maybe something equally concrete would appease them.
We bandied around the idea of torching a side table we no longer liked but, when you live in a condo, the neighbors get surprisingly cranky about furniture incineration.
Instead, we threw out a duvet cover I’d spilled cereal on and donated some cheesy novels and a Spanish dictionary (in case the Puerto Rican gods were monolingual) to the local library.
And guess what?
It worked!
Two days later Carla called Michael to congratulate him.
“Your items are on the boat to Vieques as I speak.”
Thank you, domestic gods. We love our vanity unit. We hope you enjoy our cereal-encrusted duvet.
☼ ☼ ☼
One of the lessons we learned from all this drama is that the good old U.S. Postal Service is the best and cheapest way to ship things to Vieques—as long as they’re not too big or too heavy.
During the first year that we owned the house we shipped down, via U.S. parcel post, six ceiling fans, several boxes of track lighting, and untold quantities of books, sheets, coverlets, towels, placemats and kitchenware. And not one thing ever arrived damaged.
In subsequent years we rose to even greater heights of shipping creativity. When we couldn’t find a barbecue grill we liked on Vieques, we bought one in Maryland, dismantled it, mailed the parts separately to Jane, and reassembled the whole thing once it arrived.
I realize the following qualifies as a minor digression but I have to tell you that Michael installed all six of those ceiling fans. Among all of my other phobias, I’m deathly afraid of electricity. Each time he stood on the metal kitchen ladder and twisted the little copper wires together on yet another electrical connection, I found myself taking a mental inventory of my dark-colored clothes to make sure I’d be presentable at his memorial service.
Needless to say, my fears were unfounded—Michael’s father, an engineer, had thoughtfully passed along his fix-it gene to his son. The fans ran like a charm and once Michael had finished hanging them (having first satisfied himself that they didn’t wobble, wobbling being a pervasive ceiling fan malady), he moved on to installing the track lighting in the kitchen. Eventually he also replaced every electrical outlet in the whole of the upstairs unit.
His ingenuity not only saved us money but also gave us the sense that we were somewhat in control of a project that was occasionally veering into “out of control” territory.
That, in itself, was worth a fortune.
Twenty-Four
The Pachyderm Waltz
Lots of people complain bitterly about the heat and humidity of D.C. summers, but Michael and I love them.
While others are hibernating in their houses with the air conditioning cranked up to Arctic Blast, we’re out on our bikes, sweating buckets, frying our endorphins.
The hottest day of the year finds us doing something so counter-intuitive that even we are forced to question our sanity—rowing on the Potomac, walking from our building in upper Northwest to Capitol Hill (some seven miles), or hiking the Billy Goat Trail at Great Falls.
In short, it doesn’t get too hot for us.
So when we discussed the idea of returning to Vieques in July, it seemed completely normal.
Yes, the timing of our trip to the island the previous July had been dictated, at least in part, by our need to get the upstairs level of the house finished in time for the rental season.
But once we got there we realized we didn’t mind the super-drenching humidity o
r the sheer wall of heat that slapped us in the face each morning when we opened the door of the air-conditioned bedroom and walked into the un-air conditioned space beyond.
In fact, we liked it.
And anyway, we had a deadline again this year. The lower floor had to be decorated and furnished in time for the coming season so we could advertise the house as a three-bedroom and, hopefully, pull down some serious cash.
No problem, we thought. Ha ha.
☼ ☼ ☼
Our journey from D.C. to Vieques generally took between eight and nine hours, door-to-door, depending on our connection in San Juan.
On departure day we would get up at about four o’clock and catch a seven o’clock flight from Dulles to San Juan that landed around eleven-fifteen. If luck was on our side we would then sprint across the sprawling, hyper-air-conditioned airport and jump on a twelve-forty-five flight to Vieques.
But that was a rare occurrence.
More often than not there was a delay in our departure from D.C., meaning that we’d miss the twelve-forty-five to Vieques and be forced to take the two-thirty flight instead. Even so we would get to the house by three-thirty or slightly later.
We had made the journey from D.C. to Vieques eight times since buying the house and had fluctuated between the two scenarios described above.
But that was about to change.
When we arrived at Dulles that still-dark July morning, around five forty-five, the departure board indicated that the flight was on time and scheduled to depart at seven o’clock.
And things looked normal enough at the gate. The waiting area was crowded with sleepy-looking people sipping coffee, the heavy silence punctuated by the occasional, muffled flight announcement or the scream of an over-excited child.
We settled in for a half-hour wait before boarding began.
We were still waiting five hours later.
First came an announcement that the “carrier” (aka plane) that was slated to take us to San Juan had been delayed in New York. This seemed odd. Typically planes scheduled to depart as early as seven in the morning have been loitering on the tarmac since the night before.
“But,” we told ourselves, “of course, there are always exceptions.”
And anyway, the flight from New York was a short one and, since there was no bad weather to cause further delays on this cloudless July morning, there shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe we’d be delayed an hour or so and would be forced to take the two-thirty.
No big deal.
Then came the announcement that the plane in New York was experiencing mechanical difficulties.
Suddenly it was a big deal after all.
We swung into action. Michael tried to reach the airline on his cell phone while I dashed to the gate counter. Two people had already queued up ahead of me, but I’d been quicker than most, and within minutes at least twenty people snaked along in my wake.
The woman in front of me was soon up to bat.
“I’m making a speech in San Juan this afternoon. How are you going to make sure I get there on time?” she hissed, all but seizing the gate agent by the neck.
The agent, who had looked grumpy even before the delay was announced, now positively bristled with irritation.
“To be honest,” she replied, not even bothering to look up, “I can’t do anything to guarantee you’ll make your speech today.”
“You’re not even going to apologize?” the woman spluttered.
The agent looked up at the woman and flashed an odious smile.
“Okay, I apologize.”
This was spoken with all the sincerity of a python to a rabbit just before swallowing it whole.
I was up next.
God help me.
“Well, she was lovely,” I commented as I sidled up nervously to the counter, gesturing towards my predecessor in line.
“Charming.”
“How do you stand it?”
She finished typing and hit enter with a loud click.
“It’s pretty bad. On the other hand, if I quit I’ll end up announcing the blue light special at Kmart.” She smiled—and yes, this time it actually qualified as a smile, though still with slightly sinister undertones. “Or worming puppies at the Bethesda Humane Society.”
“Either way, you’re dealing with assholes,” I said, hoping to dazzle her with my wit.
She stared right through me.
“What can I do for you?”
“We were wondering,” I mumbled, tempted to flee in terror, “if there’s a chance we could get on another flight, maybe with a partner airline.”
A look of pity flitted across her stern features.
“That seems highly unlikely, considering that all the airlines have either merged or despise each other at this point.”
“Ah.”
She sized me up for a couple of seconds. “Where’s your traveling companion?”
I pointed at Michael who was lingering impatiently nearby.
“The tall one?”
I nodded.
“Yep.”
She stared at her screen for a few moments.
“Tell you what,” she began. “When we do actually get this wretched flight in the air I’m going to upgrade you gentlemen to business class.”
“Oh my God, that’s so nice,” I gushed.
She gave me one last appraising look. “Save it,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s gonna be a long wait.”
☼ ☼ ☼
We got to San Juan at six-thirty that night. We had missed our connecting flight by almost six hours. There was still one flight to Vieques but it was full. We were stuck.
Resigned to the idea of spending the night in San Juan, we rushed back to the airline ticket counter and explained our fate, hoping at least to get a free room.
The agent typed our information into her computer at a glacial pace.
“I sorry,” she said. “Since San Juan no your final destination we don’t have no responsibility for you stay here.”
At this point Michael moved into battle mode. He positioned himself directly in front of the diminutive woman.
“It’s been a long day,” he said. “Have a heart.”
She gazed up into his big blues eyes for a moment.
“Excuse me.”
Ten very long minutes later she came back with her supervisor.
“It okay.”
She handed Michael a voucher for the airport Days Inn.
As far as we were concerned, it could have been the Ritz.
☼ ☼ ☼
The next day, once we finally got back to the island, we hardly knew where to begin.
Although Jane’s helpers had already moved our belongings from her garage into the downstairs level (along with several pieces we’d decided to relocate from upstairs), the men had done little more than pile the furniture into the newly-refurbished space.
It was a daunting prospect. Plastic-shrouded mattresses lay like beached whales across dusty consoles and rattan chairs; brooms and mops nestled untidily in the corners; boxes of every size and shape filled in the blanks.
In short, it was a near-solid wall of chaos.
We began by moving all the boxes out onto the breezeway. There Michael opened each one in no particular order, sorted their contents, and bagged the guts (usually environmentally-unfriendly styrofoam peanuts). Then he broke down the boxes and flattened them for the garbage men.
Back inside, in the ninety-plus degree heat, I began my task by carving out a provisional passageway from the main door straight through to the garden door on the opposite wall. After all, nothing could be accomplished until we were able to move back and forth more freely through the space. Then I began edging each piece of furniture towards its ultimate destination.
It was like dancing with elephants.
By early afternoon Michael had unpacked all the boxes and stowed their contents—everything from shower curtain to blender—towards the front of the main room, where the dining table and
chairs would eventually be placed.
In the meantime, I had managed to scoot, coax and finesse the larger items into their intended rooms, with occasional help from Michael for the heavier pieces. By mid-afternoon the beds in both bedrooms had been assembled (twins in the back, queen-size in the front) and made up. We had even taken the time to hang a few pictures.
Downstairs bedroom after renovation
The kitchen had also begun to take shape and the living area had been knocked together with the few pieces we’d bought so far.
Tomorrow we would begin placing all the smaller items where they belonged.
It was a start.
The next morning, I called Steve to give him a first-hand report of how everything looked. His voice was thin and reedy.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Back in the hospital,” he sighed. “I keep getting these damn lung infections.”
“Is Sue there?”
“Of course. She’s right here. I’m afraid this hasn’t been much fun for her.”
I tried to click into a lighter mood.
“You wouldn’t believe how great the old place looks. You’re a genius.”
His sudden laughter degenerated into a protracted cough.
“Thank Jane, not me.”
I waited for the coughing to subside.
“Well, it’s a gorgeous sight. We’re emailing you some photos today. We can’t wait for you to see it in person.”
A long pause.
“Me too,” he said. “And hey, thanks for calling.”
☼ ☼ ☼
Yes, the downstairs level of the house was taking shape but it was becoming painfully obvious that we needed more furniture.
Lots more.
And although we could barely stand the thought of launching another assault on the San Juan shopping mall, we had no choice.
So we duly boarded an early flight to San Juan the next morning and set out with a sigh for a second round of marathon shopping at Plaza Las Americas, the vast, sprawling mall on the outskirts of the city.
Our list was long.
In the furniture category, we needed a sofa, two comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and a bookcase for the downstairs living area, side chairs for both bedrooms, and (since we’d moved the rattan dining set we’d originally bought for the upper floor to the downstairs space), a new dining table and chairs for upstairs. The new table, we decided, would need to seat six to accommodate the occupants of our about-to-be-launched three-bedroom rental.
The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House Page 15