A SURREAL COURT ADVENTURE IN THE CONCRETE ASPHALT CAGUAS COUNTRY SIDE

PERHAPS you may remember the post from 14 November 2009 about that picturesque(concretesque/asphaltesque?), town with the original first name of country. I took, probably the cleanest public space around, the TRAIN, without public water closets, to RIO piedras to catch the Yellow Big Bus. I was fortunate. It was waiting for your humble servant.

It costs $1.50, same as the train. Primitive, comfortable with probably 1 million miles,
this one had no refrigerated air. Thirty seconds after I sat, I noticed this fat, chummy,
fellow missing some front top teeth loud conversation with another fool across the aisle. It
started probably as a COLLECTIVE MONOLOGUE, one of those cultural marks defining
this forsaken culture. It was about music, the typical seasonal Christmas kind. Ramito and Chuito el de Bayamon were mentioned. I am not saying/writing that is only music for this time of the year. It only gets air time on radio/TV after Thanksgiving
the beginning of the buying madness essence of the event.

At any rate, this loud scum bag, after losing his chat pal, made a phone call on similar
subjects and others, for 45 minutes. Almost the whole trip. Another passenger,victim of this national pandemic, exclaimed ALLELUIA, when the mother sucker finally shut up. I got off maybe half a mile from my destiny, I could not take it anymore. The Court Building built thirty years ago. When I attempted my entrance, I was not allowed, since I forgot, going with shorts.

I went to buy some ugly, disgusting blue jeans for ten bucks to enter the damn building four hundred meters away. A kind employee helped me. I left with them
on, he took all the stickers off. Hit the road back to the eight floor to proceed with
my mission. It was eleven am. Thirty minutes later I talk to Ingrid, who went to pick
up the documents. First, she found just one. Went back and found the other. I was
somewhat happy until, at the moment of paying with IRS (the colony one) stamps,
I had only one set instead of two! Her supervisor fault, since she was the one to call
me the day before, to pick them up, making the mistake.

Since it was now 11:45, I had to go out and buy the stamps from the Mexican free lance out doors entrepreneur with a beach umbrella and chair, selling these stamps ($3.o0 for $5.00), in front of the Police Precinct,(built around the same date of the court). for the second time, and wait until 1 pm, to go back to court and get the damn documents.

During the lunch hour I went to walk by those streets of my childhood and later, visited the barber Montanhez (since 1969) and went down Georgetti and Acosta St.
To my annoying surprise the CAGUAS COUNTRY is in a SANTURCE STATE OF MIND. Turdy/turdish raw sewage waters were coming out the pipes intersecting the mentioned streets.

Santurce and Rio, have neighborhoods with PERMANENT sewage leaks and fountains. Editors Note.

One of my regular oasis is right where this fountain of used H2O, with lots of urea, was
refreshing the pavement, splashing the pedestrians with every car passing as if going from Brisbane to Perth, my official distance example. Also the only environmental
issue mentioned so far. These waters will go straight to the rivers and so on... After one with a chaser went back to court. Got the documents and left. Thank God.

On the way back in the yellow bus, it was now 2:00, I noticed some foreigners that do
not look muck different from us, except for their dark, darker than ours borne sun tan.
Their speech melody is also different, accent is a term not exactly of my licking since yours truly thinks of ACCENT when listening to the gibberish Jamaicans, and US Virgin Island natives sound like with their MOTHER TONGUE. Moving forward
there were lots of trucks, heavy traffic on the way back. One fool is almost run down
in his silly, careless run to catch the bus.

Around two forty five, we arrived to certain stop and many women of the group mentioned were waiting for the bus. They are the health aids, domestics of those
island natives who can afford them. One thing is always striking. These women working, being exploited for peanuts, do not seem worn out or sad, all the contrary.
Their chit chat is peppered with laugh and smiles. Their hips, butts, breasts full
of living energy to share.....At least in my imagination... Time to go... Almost forgot
these people are from La Espanhola. We have to thank them, deeply...Thanks to them
there is PUERTO RICAN RUMS, since we have no sugar cane, the MOLASSES are imported from that island with these (not all) handsome women. I do not really
care about the men...Actually I would send them all back there or to the USA, keeping
just the women...Until then....

2ND EDITORS NOTE

Collective Monologue is a conversation that some
friendly or irate jerk/jerkette starts in a line of
people in a public space, a bank, court.

Or seating down. It consists of stupid,
elementary observations, criticism of the slow
speed of the employees, it is in essence
thoughts expressed aloud, without any
sense of what education/behavior
should be in a public space.

It starts with one fool and
it spreads like the porcine flu.

Sometimes is fun..Often
a pain in the ass/ears.