Rincón — Spanish for corner — is on the Western side of Puerto Rico, a two hour’s drive from San Juan.

Waiting for us was an enigmatic and as yet faceless man known only as Carlos, whose condo we’d be renting out. I’d texted with Carlos throughout the day and he’d informed me that Rincón was easy to get to, but hard to navigate once there — because the little surfing village doesn’t really have many road names. Using our GPS was useless as well. It was almost as if Rincón didn’t exist. I was intrigued.

One road name stuck out, however, and would foreshadow our entree into town.

Evening fell as we entered the village. We followed Carlos’ instructions of turning this way and that at specific landmarks and against all odds we successfully located a trove of oceanfront condominiums. Carlos met us ever so briefly at the front gate to exchange keys before speeding away in a fancy little car.

We were starving, but before we could leave the house to explore, a little disaster occurred. Not within 15 minutes of us being inside the condo, the toilet exploded.

There was a geyser, a lot of screaming, frantic running … Water gushed for minutes until we finally turned off the water valve in the bathroom. We got Carlos on the horn and he vowed a plumber was on his way.

Treading an inch of water throughout the house, we got the hell out.

But where to go?

The sleepy town of Rincón was almost fully dead, as it was the off-season. Restaurants shuttered and no one walking the streets, we managed to find the downtown area and wandered into a place called Brothers Pizza for a late slice.

The local ne’er–do–wells were congregated there and happy to engage us and provide the evening’s entertainment.

Greetings from Rincon!

The older gentleman of the bunch asked us to meet him at the pizza parlor the next day at three, where he would feed us moringa tea and it would cleanse us and maybe we’d have some psychedelic experience … I wasn’t really sure what he was talking about.

But you know I was into the idea, anyway.

As for Anne. Not so much.

The skies darkened as we left San Juan. With crippling hangovers, we held the hope of pork before us — pork, that magical meaty cure, that salty warm bite, that crave-worthy combo of grease and protein that could surely transform our alcohol-induced woes into a thing of the past.

We had a date with Guavate, the pork capital of Puerto Rico.

Even Anthony Bourdain made this sacred trek from San Juan, down highway 52, and then onto PR-184, also known as the pork highway:

After the city’s bustle waned, we entered Guavate, a mountainous and lush region famous for its lechón, or roast pig. The idea is to cruise along the main road where lines of smoky, open-air lechoneras beckon. On Sundays, throngs of locals come out for merrymaking, Medalla Light, and dancing. While it’s almost impossible to choose which lechonera to dine in, we took a stab at Lechonera El Mojito, glowing like a beacon of hope, with its three kings.

I speak Spanish, but I couldn’t identify anything other than lechón, salchicha, arróz, and maduros. Foods were displayed in simmering metal squares, cafeteria-style, and I pointed out what we’d be trying — a little of everything. When in Guavate, after all.

Talk about cheap, delicious, and filling. Oh, and healing, too. After gulping such delicious grease down with a Coca-Cola, the hangover began to taper off. Just take a look at that crispy chicharrón and tell me that’s not a miracle.

After, we decided to hit up the store next door, Mi Ricon Salsero. Dedicated entirely to salsa artists, you can buy towels, t-shirts, jewelry, virtually anything emblazoned with the mugs of famous salsa stars. Did I know who any of them were? Absolutely not. But this store was by far the most charming I’ve ever been to. The prices weren’t the lowest, and I definitely need up up my ante when it comes to Spanish haggling, but who could resist this portrait of hip Jesus?

A towel and a neon green “Soy Salsera” t-shirt later, we were ready to head back to San Juan.

Not so fast.

“Señorita! Señorita!” shouted the owner of Mi Ricon Salsero.

We stopped in the parking lot and watched as he popped the trunk of his car and emerged holding a coconut … with a spigot.

Shotglass in one hand, he poured for me what’s known as pitorro, or moonshine, illegal in Puerto Rico and sketchy coming from a stranger — so of course I had to have it.

And it was truly delicious. I had seconds, even thirds, until the man forked over the whole coconut.

Some magic can only happen in Puerto Rico, I guess.

Like that, my hangover was finally gone.

That night at José Enrique was one of the best meals of my life.

If only I could remember it.

Somewhere between the glazed chicken wings and the introduction of apio, a potato-like root vegetable, and the 900 mojitos I drank, things got hazy.

En route to Jose Enrique

But before all that was the myth of José Enrique itself — the chef was recently named a Best New Chef by Food & Wine magazine and the restaurant is lauded as THE place to eat when in San Juan.

We had to go.

Chef Enrique!

Nestled in Santurce — San Juan’s largest neighborhood — Chef Enrique’s award-winning restaurant looked nothing like the glitz-spattered facades of San Juan’s restaurant-lined streets. In fact, the exterior was practically indistinguishable from the homes the restaurant borders — there’s no signage to guide you, and the area is dim, a tad rough around the edges. I wondered momentarily if the GPS had steered us wrong. But this aesthetic is wonderfully misleading, even charming, and speaks to the chef’s focus on ingredients and not glamour. The no-frills restaurant even reminded me of Mexico’s cocinas economicas — essentially someone’s house-turned-public dining room by day — as Jose Enrique was outfitted with a gate out front, a porch, front steps, a small dining room, an L-shaped bar, and a kitchen visible from it all.

As soon as we sat down, the drinks came. And came. And never stopped. Behold, Marisa, bartender extraordinaire and friend for life.

Sunburned, drunk, red.

My filmmaker friend Lydia Hyslop actually introduced Marisa and I. When Lydia learned I was headed to Puerto Rico, she connected us via Facebook. I’d never heard of José Enrique until Marisa told me it was a must do. She was obviously right.

And her mojitos were mind-erasing wonders.

We were handed no menus; rather, the night’s offerings were scrawled on a dry-erase board. They change daily.

But I can tell you that Chef Enrique is known for melding traditional Puerto Rican staples — we were presented with a huge side of pigeon peas and rice — with the island’s abundant seafood.

In between dishes, we had shots paired with cinnamon-dusted orange slices. A first.

And it was all downhill from here. We arrived early and stayed until closing where we effectively took over José Enrique. See Stacy’s Vine below.

We harassed waiters, patrons, took a tour of the kitchen, met a famous businessperson, ate ice cream, and Stacy somehow managed to keep it together enough to drive us back to our apartment.The next morning a vomit showdown ensued between Anne and me, but we both agreed our night at José Enrique was one of the best of our lives.

Popping in to greet the kitchen staff.

In San Juan or going there? You must visit José Enrique. It is exquisite.

Remember to:

Drink Marisa’s mojitos.

Have a shot.

Be prepared to wait — Jose Enrique doesn’t accept reservations. Or, if you’re lucky, find a seat at the bar like we did. The service is impeccable and the kitchen view ain’t bad either:

 Check out this interview with Chef Jose Enrique at NBC Latino.

I admit, I was a little nervous about going to Puerto Rico.

Wasn’t it too … American?

Well, yes … and no.It’s true that Puerto Rico is a U.S. territory and that the U.S. government is sponsoring a referendum giving Puerto Ricans the opportunity to vote on the possibility of statehood.

But after my Spanish language classes prepping me for stints in Mexico, with all its learning curves and beautiful cultural differences, I was worried about how Puerto Rico could ever compete. “Oh, you won’t need Spanish there,” people told me. I’d heard about the commercialization of San Juan and was even warned to pass it altogether. These warnings bothered me when it came time to plan for the trip; I didn’t want the United States in the middle of the Caribbean/Atlantic. I wanted another country; I wanted to speak Spanish and to be confused; I wanted the dumbfounding and rewarding experiences of Mexico under another country’s name.

And I did get that. Puerto Rico is similar to the United States in that you can throw a rock and hit seven Walgreens and a few shopping malls and a Dunkin Donuts, even. Creature comforts are there, which was odd at first, and then I remembered how, at one point in Mexico, I daydreamed about walking through the immaculate aisles of a Target. After being sequestered on a small island with only a few stores to procure wares, I was ravenous to peruse products, to run my hands across cotton sheets, to push a plastic cart around and buy crap for the sake of buying crap.

So, no, some parts of Puerto Rico are not as exotic or as difficult to adjust to as Mexico, but I did need my Spanish! Not everyone speaks English (and thank Jehoshaphat for that!)! The food is amazing! The people are, too!

Don’t listen to the naysayers: Puerto Rico is very much it’s own country.

And I loved it.

I arrived in early June with Stacy and my poet soul sister and collaborista, Anne Champion. Our agenda was simple: have fun, befriend strangers, practice Spanish (mine), eat mofongo, relax, go crazy, and write a book (with Anne). We would accomplish all, and more.

We upgraded to this orange Jeep at the airport. You would too, right?

We’d spend three nights in San Juan and four in Rincon, the surfing village on the island’s western coast. We found our accommodations via Airbnb.com and Homeaway.com.

First up, San Juan, where we checked into our condo in the colorful, gay-friendly, and happening neighborhood of Condado. No time to rest, however — Stacy’s attorney friend scooped us up for a late lunch at Kasalta, a bakery and sandwich shop that received a visit from Barack Obama in 2011. The bakery now features huge homages to him.

I ordered a delicious cubano and a slice of pastel de tres leches. My favorite.

Not only is it good to have a local friend, it’s good to have one who’s an expert on law.

Let’s face it: My reputation precedes me. After nearly being thrown in a Mexican jail, I still hadn’t learned my lesson. Law-breaking is an essential part of any vacation, if you ask me. But only if you can get away with it!

So she filled us in on matters of parking, never trusting the police (no surprise there) and the various scams they pull, areas to watch out for, and more.

Would we listen? Sometimes.

Caged in Puerto Rican porch

After relaxing for a while and picking up some Medalla from the local grocery store, we got ready for our mofongo-seeking night.

Mofongo is mashed (fried?) plantains stuffed with meat. The foods of Latin America are just far superior than anything here. I could live on pupusas and tacos and mangoes and batidas. After stuffing ourselves, we all remarked how we could eat this food all day, everyday. I’ve just now found an authentic Yucatan-style taqueria in Boston.

Now, someone lead me to the mofongo!

Mofongo delight!

Tips for staying in San Juan:

• We really enjoyed Condado, right on Ashford Ave., the so-called Rodeo Drive of Puerto Rico. Shopping was great, lots of one-offs you won’t find anywhere else.
• Find mofongo at all costs! It’s so worth it.
• Drink Medalla, the undisputed king of all summery warm weather beers. This stuff goes down like water. I’m hooked and can’t find it anywhere.
• Walk around! If you’re in a hotel, get out there and meet people. Meander into bars and restaurants — San Juan is teeming with options.
• Rent a car. San Juan’s traffic is notorious and headache-inducing, but you’ll want to get out of the city sooner or later for the nearby Bioluminescent Bay or El Yunque rainforest.
• The off-season (roughly late spring through summer) is less crowded than the wintry months. But it’s still crowded! I can’t imagine traffic in San Juan on a Friday night in December. Bring your cyanide pills!!

After dinner, we spent out first night recuperating from a day’s travel looking out at the city from the caged-in porch of our Condado condo, full from mofongo, refreshed from Medalla, hair humidity-struck, but we were drunk and delirious and in Puerto Rico.

It was just the first night. We had no idea of the hijinks to come.