Carmen talked me into going to Vieques.
I didn't need convincing about what was happening there. I needed convincing that standing outside in the heat all day was going to accomplish anything.
We went anyway.
I remember expecting everything to feel very serious and political, and of course parts of it did, but mostly I remember people. Talking, sharing food, complaining about the heat, somebody always knowing somebody else's cousin.
Carmen was much more energized by all of it than I was.
At one point she looked at me and said, "Aren't you glad you came?"
I told her I'd answer after I found some shade.
What I remember most about Georges is the sound.
We had prepared. Everybody had prepared. We had water, food, batteries, the windows covered.
None of that prepared me for listening to the house all night.
You could hear things hitting outside and sometimes something would make a noise and Tomás and I would look at each other trying to figure out what part of the house it had come from.
Water started coming in under one of the windows and we kept putting down towels even though there was obviously no point anymore.
Clara was eleven. She was scared but trying very hard not to show it.
The next morning was incredibly bright.
That's another thing I remember. After all that noise, walking outside into this beautiful blue sky and seeing everything everywhere.
I knew I was home before I was really outside the airport.
The doors opened and the heat hit me.
I'd forgotten how heavy the air could feel here. Mexico City could be hot but it wasn't this. This was like walking into something.
Mami cried when she saw me. Papá didn't, but he hugged me for a very long time.
For the first few weeks everybody kept asking when I was going back to Mexico and I kept saying I didn't know.
Eventually I realized I wasn't going back.
The strange thing was that Puerto Rico didn't feel exactly like home anymore either. I had spent almost five years missing it and then I came back and felt slightly out of place.
That lasted longer than I expected.
Somebody put on “Periódico de Ayer” at a party and I started crying.
Not dramatically. I just suddenly had tears in my eyes and had to go to the bathroom because I didn't want anybody asking what was wrong.
Nothing was wrong.
Héctor Lavoe had been around me for years in Puerto Rico and I barely paid attention. I was the one listening to rock records and making fun of what the grownups listened to.
Then I heard him in Mexico and all I could think about was home.
I stayed in the bathroom until I stopped crying and then went back out and pretended nothing happened.
I don't think anyone noticed.
Carmen's mother thought she was sleeping at my house and Mami thought I was sleeping at Carmen's.
We were 21 years old, which sounds ridiculous now, but neither one of us was going to tell our parents we were going to spend the weekend at Mar y Sol.
We went with some friends in a car that I can't believe made it there. I remember we brought almost nothing useful. No proper rain clothes, not enough food, nothing sensible to sleep on. We thought we were very prepared.
Then it rained.
There was mud everywhere. Everything was wet. At some point I stopped caring. I remember being exhausted and dirty and incredibly happy.
For hours people kept saying Black Sabbath was coming. Then somebody said they couldn't get through the traffic. I don't know when we finally believed they weren't coming.
I remember the Allman Brothers much more clearly. Or at least I think I do.
That's the strange thing after all these years. I don't remember the performances in order. Some of them I probably only think I remember because I've seen the names so many times since.
But I remember the crowd. I remember looking around and thinking I had never seen so many people like us in one place before.
And I remember Carmen turning to me at some point and saying, "Your mother is going to kill you."
She didn't.
She was much more interested in why everything I owned was covered in mud.
