The Come Down Is Rough As Hell. But At Least There’s Puerto Rico.
Photo by Aaron Gonzalez on Unsplash
BY DENA ROD
Welcome to The Transgender Sabbatical Blues, an ongoing series exploring Dena Rod’s experience as a transgender, non-binary, Iranian American Bay Area local who took a five-week sabbatical all over the Northern Hemisphere.
“I’m still on the boat,” Becky said, and I knew exactly what she meant. As soon as we got in the taxi from Yacht Haven Grande in St. Thomas and headed to the airport, I felt the gentle reminder of the rocking and swaying of the BlueBelle in my body. Our meat sacks worked so hard to find homeostasis on a constantly shifting platform and they weren’t about to give it up as easily once we transitioned back to landlubbers.
Like most transformative experiences that occupy a particular container of time (vacation, conferences, Burning Man, marathons) once you leave that container you are in for a world of transition, also known as “decompression.” This term comes from scuba diving where if one ascends too quickly from depths, they’re at risk for “the bends” or decompression sickness. If you leave the transformative container you’ve occupied too quickly or have a rapid transition, you’re in for a world of hurt. What kind of hurt is truly up to a myriad of factors (when was the last time you drank water or ate a nourishing meal?) but the hurt for me (at least) usually culminates in a low mood and the need for a lot of rest.
It’s not a great formula for packing in sightseeing Puerto Rico in two-and-a-half days.
Not only were we back on land after spending most of our time at sea, we were now navigating a border crossing even though we were technically still in the United States. The sheer abundance of people was more than we’d seen for a week, not to mention being in an enclosed space with all of them. I struggled with not eavesdropping on the conversations around me, ranging from people recapping their spring break to complaining loudly about the lack of line decorum as we were all filing to Customs and Border Patrol.
I was surprised to see U.S. citizens needed to go through customs, almost as if we left the country. The whole time we were in the U.S. Virgin Islands, there was a constant reminder that yes you were still in the United States even though it looked so different from the mainland! The crystal clear teal waters? Yes, those belong to the United States, don’t you forget it. Doesn’t matter if it was indigenous land once upon a time. You’re in America now. Just look at the abundance of white Americans in their athleisure running along the yacht harbor shore! What could be more American than running?
But geography is the cruel headmistress of the difference between the contiguous United States and its accompanying territories. The nation-state of the U.S. works puritanically hard at making sure its borders are secure, even as the airport staff was running on Caribbean time, a leisurely pace that doesn’t particularly care for your own personal scheduled itinerary. There was no TSA pre-check in the small airport that was Cyril E. King airport and the presence of all the NO PORK PRODUCTS signs in customs/border patrol screamed at all of us passengers in line purgatory. It was a rush to the gate.
Old San Juan is as good a place as any to decompress. Photo by Zixi Zhou on Unsplash.
As we boarded our flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico, I still felt an internal rhythm of rocking from side to side. It reminded me of long beach days spent in the ocean as a kid, where we would let the waves break over us over and over and over again in a joyful celebration of crest and release. When I would try to go to sleep at night after those beach days, I could still feel the waves breaking across my body, even though we were miles away from shore.
I was exhausted from the mad dash to get on the plane, barely slept on the 90-minute flight, and felt dysregulated as fuck. Being neurodivergent in a world that’s built by neurotypicals who are able to filter out bright lights, loud noises, and sensory discomforts makes traveling even more of a challenge to navigate. My arms ached from pulling, grasping, and tugging my belongings, my head pounded from the changes in pressure, and it felt like every cell in my body was screaming for me to get back to sea instead of being up in the air. Decompression had begun and it felt like I was in agony. But I was trying to keep a bright demeanor because traveling can already be full of woes and complaining usually doesn’t make it any better. So I grinned and bore it the best I could.
As we deboarded the airplane and headed to our hotel, the swaying still accompanied me. There once we got to our hotel room and looked out the window, Becky and I marveled at the view. We were staying at one of the hotels close to the Puerto Rican Convention Center and the new Distrito T-Mobile, a glimmering complex built to tempt those traveling from the mainland to spend their dollars, PTO, and 5G data capturing all the bright lights and photo ops. Right out our hotel window, we looked out onto the harbor of San Juan Bay Marina, observing at a distance others living their best #BOATLIFE on catamarans, yachts, and more. I could feel the tug on my heartstrings as my body remembered the last week. I was still on the boat in my head and my heart but my body and belongings were on land in Puerto Rico.
This wasn’t time to decompress and for slowness. It was time to explore Old San Juan and feast on its offerings.
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