Travel Reference
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Soon we were twisting and winding along poorly paved roads through the range of low
hills stretching lengthwise across the middle section of the island.
“Does this area have a name?” Michael asked.
“Yep,” Armando said. “It's called La PRRA. Stands for—let me think—Puerto Rico
Reconstruction Administration, or something like that. It borders an area called Los
Chivos, which means 'the goats,' because it used to be full of goat farms.”
And I'd thought they were all in Villa Borinquen.
As he talked, we rounded a sharp curve and began climbing our way up a steep hill.
Near the top, Armando pointed out a large white house on the right.
“This place was actually on the market in the past year, until the owners decided not to
sell after a couple of offers fell through.”
I barely let him finish.
“Stop the car!” I gasped with the utter certitude of someone who has just careened head-
long into his lifelong dream.
He slammed on the brakes.
“Give me a minute,” I said, all but leaping from the car and bounding along the drive-
way for a closer look.
Although the house had seen better days, its outline was impeccable. Built on a steep
incline, it meandered slowly up the hillside in three handsome levels, all boasting panor-
amic views of the ocean half a mile away. Surrounding the house, mature trees swayed in
the breeze, including one of the largest mangoes I'd ever seen.
It was perfect—not too big, not too small, settled, cozy, strangely familiar even before
we'd set a foot inside.
In a word, this was IT.
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