PART II of the SCRAPBOOK I post:
posted about it already ❤️ a whimsical place
and florida’s west coast
block island, rhode island
posted about The Block too
galilee, rhode island, ferry waiting
One of my favorite places to visit is not far away, although it feels as if it were and I only go once a year. I’ve even missed a year once or twice. Wonder every time I take in the glorious air and sun and sky why I don’t go more often. Perhaps afraid to lose the specialness of it? Don’t know. But just driving to Galilee and waiting for passengers to disembark the incoming ferry fills me with happiness.
mural, old san juan, puerto rico
Never, ever, do I get too much of Old San Juan. I could go every day while I’m home. Sometimes do, to my mother’s dismay. In the old city, I also have the best memories of my Dad. For example, we saw a young man (like the one in the mural above) one afternoon as we strolled many years ago. We heard him first, yelling “A-zu-CE-nas! A-zu-CE-nas!” He had bunches of long flowers over his head, liliums, for sale as he walked down the street. My Dad asked me if I wanted a flower. I was taken aback and said no.
many times since, i have wished i said “yes”
So when I saw the mural years later, I had to photograph it and recapture that day with my father. The mind is wonderful. It allows me to regress or catapults me forward according to what I need. Now I have the moment in a tangible way. I look at the picture and hear the man, bring back the conversation and the walk on the cobblestone streets with my father. The street was full of happenings, as usual. We always found time to go to Old San Juan at least once during my short stays. Our few times together were always spirited — that’s not the right word. I’ll find it. Definitely memorable.
On that particular day, we looked for the Zaragozana restaurant to find out what became of it. Someone I worked with asked me if I knew the restaurant, said he had been there often when he sailed to the Caribbean. I had never heard of it. But afterward, whenever I went to Old San Juan, I would photograph it and show him the picture.
My father and I were told that the owner maintained it, painted the façade, etc., but would not open it to the public due to having to hire union workers. Don’t know if that was true or not, but I was thrilled to have a story to tell along with the photo that year. I believe the young man selling the azucenas told us that, but the memory of it has faded a bit. I also think he wore a blue shirt,
which is why seeing the mural flooded my eyes
when I came upon it, and there was no way for me to describe to my husband what it meant to me, not in a quick way anyway. Sometimes I have to be very direct with him, and this was not conducive to being direct but meandering. So I shot the photo and moved on, my heart full.