Piragua Passion | Pasión de Piragua
"A piragua vendor and a summer visitor discover that some treats are sweeter than shaved ice"
Piragua Passion
Pasión de Piragua
The piragua cart was the only thing that made the Puerto Rican heat bearable.
"Tamarindo, por favor," I said every afternoon.
"You're going to turn into a tamarind," the vendor said.
"There are worse fates."
She laughed—a bright sound that cut through the humidity—and shaved the ice with practiced hands.
Her name was Josefina. She'd run this cart for ten years, same corner, same shaved ice, same smile that made tourists fall in love.
"You're different from the other visitors," she observed.
"How so?"
"You actually speak Spanish. And you come back."
"The piraguas are good."
"Just the piraguas?"
I was supposed to be on the island for two weeks. By week three, my boss was calling daily.
"Just come back," she said. "Whatever this is, it can wait."
"It can't." I watched Josefina pour cherry syrup over another customer's ice. "Some things are worth delaying for."
"You're still here," Josefina said when I showed up in week four.
"I can't seem to leave."
"The island has that effect."
"Is it the island?"
She met my eyes. "What else would it be?"
"You tell me."
She kissed me behind her cart, tasting of all the flavors she'd served that day—tamarindo and cherry and something uniquely her.
"I close at sunset," she said. "Come to dinner."
"Your place?"
"My mother's place. She's been asking about the tourist who keeps coming back."
"You told your mother about me?"
"I tell my mother everything."
Dinner was mofongo and questions. Her mother watched me like a hawk, testing my Spanish, my manners, my worthiness.
"She likes you," Josefina said afterward. "She only interrogates people she likes."
"What about people she doesn't like?"
"She doesn't feed them."
I stayed. Longer than planned, longer than reasonable. I rented an apartment, found remote work, built a life around afternoon piraguas and evening walks.
"You're crazy," my friends said from the mainland.
"I'm happy," I replied. "Same thing."
"Marry me," I said one sunset, kneeling by her cart.
"You're proposing at my workplace?"
"It's where we met. Where I fell in love." I held up the ring. "Where I want to spend every afternoon for the rest of my life."
"Tamarindo?" she asked, eyes shining.
"Forever."
"Then yes."
We married in her mother's backyard, surrounded by flowers and the smell of sofrito. The piragua cart was parked beside the altar, serving guests.
"To love," Josefina toasted, "found in unexpected places."
"To piraguas," I added, "the greatest matchmaker in Puerto Rico."
Piragua passion—some summers last forever.