Three hours on the phone with assorted ATT-related entities trying to get my email to work properly. Result: It’s MY fault. Even though I didn’t do anything. But one technician was kind enough to send me some learned articles on fixing it myself. This is a vast improvement over the criminals who wouldn’t do anything unless I agreed to pay them up-front or subscribe to a repair service. I kid you not.
I think it’s time to sever the bond between me and ATT. This weekend in Puerto Rico, I could receive, but not send emails, something I learned about 4 hours into it and my Outbox registered as pregnant. I had to copy each and every note and re-send using some of my secret gmail addresses. Hope nobody gets upset when my message comes in from WangWaver@gmail.com.
Speaking of Puerto Rico, I was there on business last weekend, but I had a day to explore. It was my first visit. Virginal! I scoot down to Viejo San Juan and poke around in the museums, cultural centers, and local shops as well as the ancient forts and walls.
It is hot as dragon snot on those narrow cobblestone streets, so every hour or so I am obligated to pop into a bar for a cold Medalla, one of the local beers. Always drink the local beer except in France, where they think brewers are supposed to eat the hops and drink the water before making the brew.
The photo above is from Terminal 3 in the Lauderdale airport, which serves JetBlue and has a lot of international travelers who I guess find this amusing. Or at least the airport administration does.
The second photo needs explanation, mostly because I’m a lousy photographer and the tiny cell phone I use is just lame. The plaque on the building identifies it as the Ministry of Culture, which sounds kind of ominous in an Orwellian style. The patch of white suspended from the second floor is, so help me, a dead pigeon. Somebody, presumably in the Ministry of Culture, thought it would be a good idea to hang a feathery bird carcass by a fishing line over the door, where it swung back and forth in the ocean breeze.
I’m here to assure you that it would be a disservice to reduce the culture of Puerto Rico to this crude exercise, but there it was for all to observe.
San Juan was lovely, friendly, and interesting. I was tickled to hear a lot more English spoken on the streets than I hear in Miami. Better drivers there, too, and despite numerous open-air restaurants small eateries, the grease smell wasn’t nearly as heavy. Even the tourists seemed much more relaxed and open. And get this — the cops were helpful! Can you imagine?
I look forward to returning.