I had not accounted for Puerto Rican day. The trains were packed, I was behind schedule and Eric was probably very upset, drinking water on the sheep’s meadow by himself. There might not be enough time to plan our evening. I was not going to get very tan before lunch. My palms were sweaty and the subway station humid as always.

But it was something to observe. There were Puerto Rican flags everywhere and the people were drinking a nicer rum than I ever bought. “We’re going,” said a woman, smiling at the bright subway lights. “We’re going.” A man nearby tried to convince her that she had the wrong day, that Puerto Rican day was really tomorrow.

I didn’t even know there was a Puerto Rican day. The woman looked at me, worried. “Is it today?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. “But it’s also tomorrow.” By the time the train unloaded I was florid, my hangover well cured and my navigation skills inhibited.

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