Lounge of Dreams
Like all great cities with a fiery mystic wave of ancient times, San Juan is first and foremost a city that is best observed under conditions of dim lights. It is inhabited by all kinds of folks. The streets are mostly filled with dwellers who make their night by passing through a place of interest in the hopes that some fella will pay attention to their behavior. There are beggars and peasants living among the stores closed for the night. For some reason the people here don’t mind their presence.
The streets are decorated with ancient marble bricks, creating a bumpy and stale road for the cars to pass. At every corner there was a bar, and each one had a different Happy Hour to intrigue those who psychologically find themselves dependent on a drink at a specified hour.
Little plazas adorned the city in distinct locations throughout. The one northwest — up a steep hill, is called The Totem. The other one down southwest is called The Church, and the final one was west, named The Convent. Filling the empty spaces are people of all walks of life; old and young, sad and happy, beautiful and dammed.
Ol’ San Juan is a city where the night swiftly moves its visitors by the touch of what has come to be known as blind faith. There was a sense of peace everywhere I went in the old town. A psychological knack to mind your own business is present, and only through pleasant invitations can there be a chance to meet new people. Tourists and locals interact in the most superficial of ways, connecting only through their love of alcohol. You could say it was a self-aware atmosphere. No one had a quarrel with the idea that the most adequate way to live life is by flowing through the historical backbone of identity.
When I was young, San Juan was just a normal city to me. I had little to no peculiar attraction to it. The city grew on me when I began reading the works of Hunter S. Thompson. As I read more about him and his legacy in the field of journalism, I came into contact with an interesting fact about how he lived in San Juan for over three years, and how his experiences during that time came to shape much of his journalistic integrity, which I came to hold on a very high regard.
My infatuation only grew throughout time when I became interested in this whole idea of what a city is supposed to be: a place where special people come and meet to make something of themselves. With my curiosity in check, and before I could hedge my own bets, me and an obscure companion made Ol’ San Juan a weekly staple of conjugal visits for the embedded purpose of smoking and talking.
Up in the middle of Calle Fortaleza, there was a luxurious apartment complex owned by a Spaniard couple of Madrid origins. Upon its entrance, you are to be immediately transported to another time and place, another way of life. Pipes worth up to $150 lurk in the exhibition area with a modesty fit only for those willing to buy it. Flask decorated with precious jewels can be seen in their neatly places cartridges, and sombreros worn by men of high stature are placed on view for anyone who so wishes to pass by. The place was open for anyone of any race and creed.
Since the beginning of April, I’ve religiously made my way into the shop to smoke and occasionally drink. Around that time I was feeling an ego boost for no particular reason other than for the sake of receiving one. There was no substance to it, but it made me see myself as this individual on his way to becoming a phenomenal writer capable of going toe to toe with Joyce, Hemingway, and Faulkner. Every one of those great writers had that one place which spoke to their magic more so than any other place they must’ve visited in a lifetime full of visits; I figured this may very well be my place.
The cigar shop had a large smoking lounge next to an open bar. The drinks were at a steep price, but their cigar collection was at a pretty apt market price. There were tables and chairs at the epicenter, spacious sofas on the corners, and brooding air conditioners that gave the atmosphere a chilly sensation up on the roof. The sofas are where I did most of my smoking. The cigar of my choosing was of the Dominican Republic — Arturo Fuentes if I recall correctly. A fifth puff into the exercise, I was being swept away into an obscure oblivion patching up whatever doubt I had coming into the world.
Deep conversations with good people is the key to every great relationship. For two hours beneath a specter of power and meditation, I and my companion would spend hours drowning down our frivolous sorrows. Letting the night take the individual into a state of complete control over the emotions that come across his path are constructive for the mechanisms that are in charge of the functions of such individual.
The puffs of smoke surround the fiber of my being. My mood eyes mellow, and life becomes clearer. My reaction to the people around me changes; every person I see is a chance for a good conversation to be had. The movements of strangers catch my attention. The mind begins to wonder just what is it that led them to this very moment, close to a stranger who only wishes to know more about them but without the courage to ask. I’ve never been in the lounge alone, a mistake that fills me regret, for it denies me the chance to meet people who share a view of the world that can teach me something.
Intricate fantasies are played out. Words I wouldn’t dare utter to just any person come to mind, and freedom to confess any thought of the nature consumes my soul. My only wish in those sullen hours on contemplation is the touch of a woman by my side. I would abandon my companion in an instant if there was ever a chance to spend the rest of the night in a long romantic adventure with a girl willing to give the moment a shot.
When an excursion is on its way to being over and only about two inches of tobacco are left, my thoughts move to that of a more destructive paradox. I came to be aware that I was in a place where dreams are seen in every corner. Just what that dream means is unknown, but I know it is just what I am looking. The idea that if you work hard enough one day you’ll no longer feel trapped is the greatest trick ever pulled on civilization, but it worked. Have you ever wonder why it works though? People feel most alive when the eyes are enclosed or playing games with the imagination, making them believe for just one little moment that everything they see of value is theirs, and the only way to pay it is by worshiping money. I don’t understand it.
Every cigar I have ever smoked will probably come to result in my premature death, a subject I’ve thought about for much time. I don’t see any other response to that uncertainty better than by ignoring the pre-disposed messages in favor of a well-lived life where excess is the norm and sin is must. The idea that life is a precious gem and that we must cherish it with all our moral and ethical construction is perhaps the most overrated idea man has instilled to the heart of every living organism worth knowing.
At one point, whenever time dictated, the place kicked us out as if we were a sad case of fleas. It was delicate in nature, with the respect of blowing winds. The walk over gives me a chance to see the whole city spark. Even late into the night there’s always a place full of life. The people here are persistent with their pleasures.
I don’t know why I go there every week, and I don’t know why it makes me indifferent to all that has come to encompass this mess of a life I chose to live. It is the only place where I can pretend to be who I want to be, even if those intentions are to be a narcissistic twat who thinks very highly of himself for no particular reason. For those mere two hours, I was exercising my freedom to live according to my own vision. I wanted to pretend that all my life ever amounted to was a dream, even though for all intents and purposes, it was nothing but a dream.
