You know you’re headed someplace good when it’s before noon and the music is blasting while you board the plane.

And you also know it’s time to drink!

And so I boarded my Merry Christmas-to-me flight to Santiago, Dominican Republic, where a driver from Coco Tours waited to receive me.

Shout-out to Coco Tours: not only are they the most reliable and highest TripAdvisor-ranked tour and airport transfer company in the DR, they were more than flexible with my travel arrangements and super communicative. If you’re traveling to the DR and need transport from an out-of-the-way airport (like me) or want to hire a private bus driver for the day, Coco Tours is the best. Tell them Loose Gringa sent ya!

I got into the taxi van and we proceeded down Santiago’s mountains to Cabarete, a small beach town in the Puerto Plata province.

Santiago’s Christmas celebrations were beyond crazy — everyone was in the street, gallons of Brugal rum dangling from seemingly everyone’s wrists, music and parties happening all over.

Then blackness.

The mountains enveloped us — hairpin curves and drop-offs I hadn’t experienced since driving the Road to Hana in Maui. With no lights, strays everywhere, drunken motorcyclists, and pedestrians darting from the brush, I was glad we were in a Catholic country, in the hands of a God-fearing man at the wheel, on Christmas day.

Greetings from snowy Boston!

Thank you, readers, for a phenomenal past year. 2014 looks to be even more superb, as next week I embark on an 8-day sojourn to the Dominican Republic’s north coast.

And three weeks after I return from the DR, I’ll be heading back to Tulum for a rollicking stay at Azulik and for another adventure in the Yucatan.

I can’t wait to share with you all my stories, pictures, and places in 2014.

There is SO much more to come and I’m thrilled to share it all with you.

Thank you for reading Loose Gringa and, as ever, stay tuned!

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.