I hate this. We're driving in circles without directions to our hotel. There are barely-dressed people everywhere -- tank tops, midriffs, bikinis, flip-flops, shorts, and wife-beaters. It's nighttime, but that's good cause to be out, apparently. Cars are honking, darting in and out of traffic on the small street. People don't cross at crosswalks and don't look both ways, or any way. All that's missing is throbbing Latin dance music. This is San Juan Puerto Rico.

I've never been to the Carribean before. Andrew and I stepped out of the airport an hour ago and couldn't see. We had jumped into a body of water that seemed to sit in the air. It wasn't raining but our glasses were suddenly wet, I couldn't see. The weather was as thick as gooey butter. I didn't move and sweat began to run down my back.

National gave us a Subaru Forester, maybe to make us feel a little more like explorers. As we're driving around this urban street rave, I wonder how the AWD will come in handy. Driving over the piles of cars? I wish.

After about an hour, we find our hotel where, through the valet's thick accent, we mistake the "fifteen" dollar parking price tag for "fifty" and drive around for another 30 minutes looking for a spot. It's different here. Even Walgreens has a gated parking lot with a ticket booth.

Our home for the night, The Water Club, bills itself as "San Juan's only boutique hotel on the beach." Literally sitting on Isla Verde beach, the white building is cast in blue light. True to its name, there is a waterfall in the lobby, and in the elevator. Our room on the sixth floor has blue lighting, pine floors and white accessories. This place is hip, but it's more Target than Four Seasons. Everything is cool without attention to detail. Kitsch.

Andrew and I wander out and find dinner at a crowded restaurant called Metropol. His chicken tastes like Spam, my Cuban shredded beef has the texture of bubble gum. We chew, swallow and leave after discussing our big plans for the next day.