You Say Pasteles, I Say Tamales

23 Writers, 23 Nights, 23 Absolute Scrumptious Delights

I am jazzed to join 22 other writers on this Holiday Blog Tour, bringing to light the spirit of Christmas in our own way. Please read my story, You Say Pasteles, I Say Tamales, reliving my first Christmas in Puerto Rico as I battled homesickness for San Diego.

Post a comment and subscribe to Sylvia’s Spotlights and you will be eligible to win a $10 Amazon.com giftcard.

Check out my last post for the continuing list of writers, with Regina Tingle on December 16. Welcome to my story…

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Puerto Rico sounded exotic and like the perfect place to start a marriage. Paradise, I thought. It conjured up images of romantic, tropical, cultural—all seductive and exciting.  So in late summer of 1982 when I was just 22, the very next day after I got married in San Diego, California, we boarded a plane to start married life in Puerto Rico—more than 3,000 miles away from the comfort of my home and the lifeline of family. 

Not new to moves—I had been a Navy brat all my life—I saw the transition itself as an adventure, a new slate, a blessing. It would be all that and more. I was an adult with a husband. I was the wife of a general manager of a major food company. I was a wannabe journalist, fresh out of college with some work in the field experience—but a whole lot of enthusiasm.  I had graduated just months earlier not only with a USC diploma, but with an Outstanding Graduate in Journalism award. I was ready for anything.

Or so I thought. My enthusiasm quickly waned on the flight from San Juan to Mayaguez in the small plane with about twenty passengers. Turbulence rocked the little plane and then it would free fall, as if God were dropping dice on a roulette table. Women whipped out their rosaries, crying, yelling, “Ay, Dios mio! Ayudanos!”   Even if I hadn’t known Spanish, I would have picked up on the desperate pleas, the all consuming panic. “Oh my, God. Help us.” I sat in silent fear, knowing if I dared open my mouth, it would not be a pretty sight. I prayed my own prayers, clutching arms tightly. Thinking of my family.

The bumpy landing brought more tears and loud “Gracias a Dios!” kind of remarks. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God, too.

When I stepped off the plane in Mayaguez, on the western side of the island, the heat and humidity was so intense, my instant thought was the cliché, “It feels like an oven.” Even after that plane ride, it made me want to turn around and go “home.” I don’t have a poker face and I’m sure at that moment it registered panic and a “what the hell have I done?/what am I doing here?” kind of look. 

I also looked at my husband, with his smiling face; he was anxious to show me where he’d lived the last six months getting things ready not only for his transition to his new position, but getting things ready for me. This was home.

I stayed.  It didn’t take long to acclimate. To Mayaguez. Married life. The plethora of writing and teaching opportunities. To island living, made most magical because of the people I met.

Underneath the fullness of this new life, there was still that sense of being uprooted from my family, the nearly daily phone calls from my mom, and all of a sudden, from my extended family, whom I just hadn’t had enough time with as that Navy brat. I missed them, the fast flowing Spanish at the kitchen table, even if my own was dismally poor. I understood. It was the feeling of connection.

Yet, I came to love Puerto Rico, especially my Mayaguez. From its natural beauty of crystal blue waters, phosphorescent bays and lush vegetation to the scrumptious seafood that, literally, was caught fresh outside a restaurant’s back door. I savored the mofongo, tostones, anything garlic, and flan and rum. I loved the architecture and culture that had Borinquen and Spanish and African influences which mesmerized me. 

Poinsettias and bougainvillea grew wild on the hillside. The houses that dotted the hillside leading to our home were painted in bright colors, far from the careful beiges and soft yellows that we had used to blend in growing up. It seemed colors were as bright as zest for life, saying “Live! Enjoy! Revel in unique!”  And the Puerto Rican people, the real people we got to know seemed so alive, spoke fast and dropped their s’s in Spanish, danced a mean Merengue and embraced me with open arms, making me feel at home. They were kind and generous, open and friendly.

Despite this, when that first Christmas rolled around, homesickness hit hard. But one night, people who worked with my husband came to our house and I was baptized into Puerto Rican Christmas spirit and tradition that filled my heart. They gathered us up and off we went to experience my first “parranda,” a sort of caroling event where we travel from house to house and the owners of each home welcome us in for food and drink and then they join us as we continued on our way.   We hardly knew anyone but that didn’t matter. I was swept up in the magic of it. The men played these amazing instruments like guirros, palitos, congas and maracas. Christmas carols were not somber American tunes. They were filled with joy and depth and were loud. A true celebration of life.

And in one home, surrounded by this joyful and boisterous crowd, I felt at once, grateful and alive and was able to close my eyes and picture myself at my abuela’s house in Californa, surrounded by my parents and brother, aunts and uncles and cousins and so many others who flitted in and out throughout the season.

Instead of tamales we had pasteles (wrapped in banana leaves!). Instead of mariachis, we had jibaros with guirros and guitarras. Instead of Christmas trees, were palm trees and wild growing poinsettias. Instead of soft somber carols, we had joyful ones. Instead of eggnog, we sipped coquito.  

And yet, the similarities connected me and grounded me—and I mean more than the rice and beans (yes, even though they are habichuelas instead of frijoles). There is Feliz Navidad, midnight mass and endearments like mija/nena. There are gifts. There are feasts. There is music. There is celebration.

With everyone talking and eating and singing, hugging and laughing and sharing, my two worlds melded together to make me realize that Christmas is simply profound when you give yourself over to the joy of connecting to people you love and celebrating life. Whether stateside or on the island, Mexican, Puerto Rican or American, I celebrate Christmas in my heart, my memories and in the moment.

Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad!