Hot Pockets and Peanuts...

San Juan, Puerto Rico.  Around 11:00 pm (Florida Boy Time)

And there I was.   

About 4 Medallas (Puerto Rican equivalent of Bud Lite) later and in San Juan, Puerto Rico.  I skipped through the terminal excited and ready to rock.

I get to the baggage claim which was an interesting experience in itself.  After waiting around a little bit and scoping out some of the local incoming talent I found my bag and tried to walk out into the Puerto Rican night.

Again no dice.

For those of you that haven't experienced the San Juan Airport here's some IMPORTANT ADVICE:
 You've got to have your baggage claim ticket to match your bag in order to leave with your luggage.  This isn't the States.

You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. (This will become a popular line in the next couple of days once the rest of the Grizzwalds arrive.)

So after digging through all my pockets I finally find my claim ticket.  Bingo!  And then I'm out in the Puerto Rican night.

I light up a smoke and wait for the old man to pick me up.  One smoke down and then I wait some more.  No problemo.  This is why God invented cell phones.

I call him and tell him I'm there and ready to go.  He says he's at the Airport but all the way at the beginning of the terminal- there's some kind of traffic blocking everything and it's stop and go.

I look at the Airport street and notice dozens upon dozens of cars whizzing by.

Ah, my old man.  I just know that he's still on the couch and casually taking his time.

Fortunately, he only lives about five minutes away and I know it shouldn't be long.

Smoke em' why you got em'.

Another ten minutes go by and I wait some more.  Finally he shows up and we give the pat on the shoulder and load up my one bag and head off.

Ahh, the San Juan night. 

I've only been here two times before and the last time was about 4 years ago- Just after the Puerto Rican Olympic basketball team beat the U.S. Olympic team in the Olympic exhibition games.  Boy were the Ricans going nuts then!  And it was good.  Even Rome has to fall sometimes.

So we cruise down the highway and my Dad is pointing out different landmarks and streets and trying to be the best guide he can be.  I kind of feel like telling him that it's the middle of the night, I'm a bit ripped, I hardly remember any of San Juan, and that we could be in my own backyard and I still wouldn't know where I was.  Instead I just listen and laugh with him as we drive. 

And then we get back to his place.  Our place (Although I hadn't come to terms with the idea at the time.)

First things first and he shows me the downstairs office.

Holy shit!

He has moved the office of Price Transportation Services since the last time I was here.  The last time I was here he lived lived in a small high rise apartment complex a few miles down the road in a part of San Juan called Santurce.

This place is a bit different.

The downstairs apartment, structured more like a house than the tiny apartment I knew in the past, is the office of Price Transportation- fucking awesome.  In the main area (or living room if you will) is about  five to six desks with a few computer towers buzzing in the corner.  I look around in shock for the first couple of moments.  The old man's been busy and has expanded a little bit.

Now keep in mind this isn't the digs of a Microsoft Corporate High Rise or even a modestly impressive office space in the States, but from what I had expected from my memory of before I can honestly say I was really impressed.  I mention this to him and he looks at me strangely.

I never told you I moved and hired three more employees?

No Pop, you sure didn't.

And thus is the best example of one of our biggest problelms - communicating with one another.  Remember, he's never asked me to come here before and help out on a more serious level and I've never asked him for the opportunity.  Also remember I'm not here basking in the lap of luxury- the recession that we know in the States swings all ways and it's hitting here as well.

And now I'm here.

So I check out the front part of the office, the employee kitchenette, and then the two offices in the back.  He has one of the offices and PTS's longest and hardest working employee, our Operations Manager, Poli has the other.

Nice digs, Pop, nice digs.

Then we walk back out to the main office and he nods towards the corner to my desk.  A long white folding table with a laptop, phone, and blue lawn chair.

Plush, baby, plush. 

I laugh and we head upstairs.

Upstairs is his apartment.  Our apartment.  A two bedroom with a small kitchenette, bathroom, and two bedrooms, one which is mine.

It's got a T.V. with satellite and a small A.C. unit ( Something that I am now learning blows so much dust into the room that if you don't clean it regularly then you'll be coughing and sneezing throughout the next day.)

And there the lap of luxury ends.

Beyond that I look at the sleeping arrangements.  On the floor to the right is a decent enough air-mattress, a thin old crusty sheet, and an even older looking pillow that I just know used to belong to his Cocker Spaniel (Spunky) until he decided to upgrade him and toss the hand-me-down to me.

Across from the air mattress is an old black futon that sags directly in the middle.  A red sheet lies on top.  Not exactly the Ritz.  And I love it.  (In truth, it's a lot nicer than it sounds- windows that let in plenty of light, the sound of planes gently landing off in the distance, and the best part, the sound of the Coqui frogs gently chirping in the distance- but we'll get to them later.)

And really I love it.

After the initial tour I regretfully mention that I'm hungry- I've only been traveling for about 10 hours straight, not mention I've been up for God knows how long- and could use a bite.

No problem he says and shows me the fridge.

Oh shoot, he says, looking inside.  I really meant to go shopping early.  No worries.  Here, have a hot pocket and some of the peanuts I scored on my last business flight and we'll pick up some food tomorrow.

He tosses a couple Hot Pockets at me and a small mini-bag of American Airlines peanuts.

I look at him, waiting for him to smile and get to the punchline.

Smile he does and then mentions he's tired and would like to go to bed.

And this is my old man.  The Prez.  The Man.  Clark Grizzwald and John Candy mixed together in one body.  And I love every bit of him.  

I laugh and say goodnight and look down at my Hot Pockets and Peanuts. 

Fuck it, I'm no stranger to either and walk over to the microwave to burn a couple of masterpieces.

Oh yeah, he calls out from the bedroom, There's also a case of Medalla in the bottom of the drawer.  It's all yours.

My fucking old man.  He's saved my life in so many ways and I love every bit of him.

A case of Medalla beer.   

It's a party!  It's a party.