Bath Time

WW had spent a few minutes every day going to the yacht club office to see if a rental car was available. He finally gave up on getting the special deal through the Yacht Club and took a taxi to Leaseway to pick one up. While he was gone, I bundled up the laundry.

We needed the car for a number of reasons, not least being to carry us to San Juan and our flight home in two days’ time. Also, in my readings I had told WW about Coamo. Aside from being the principal chicken-processing centre of PR, it also boast baños (baths) fed by thermal springs. For those of you unaware, WW has a complete thing about hot springs. We had to go to Ax-les-thermes in France; we had to go to Coamo in PR.

We dropped the laundry off at a place that does everything except the part where you put it into the washer with detergent. We had to pick up our three washersful before 5 p.m. We took off to Coamo.

The baths proved a bit difficult to find. We had expected a sign screaming out an announcement of their whereabouts. Well, there was a sign. I think it was about 4x6 inches. Anyway, after a deal of backing and forthing, we arrived at a parking area. A tree by its edge was responsible for a regular cacophony of screeches and squawks. Closer investigation revealed a nesting colony of cattle egret with ridiculous fuzzy babies dotted about the branches.

A tree full of baby egrets

We followed a road down and along below a small inn with a swimming pool, where children were having a great and boisterous time. Then we followed a little rise and, behold! Three levels of thermal bath, the topmost and hottest featuring water at 110F. We went hunting for a place to change and finally tucked ourselves into some bushes above and back from the baths. Later we would learn that there was a changing room, disguised as a shed connected to a locked cement structure.

WW in the middle bath

Your blogger in the hottest bath...feeling faintly lobsterish

The bathing was lovely. Recommendations say no more than 15 minutes, then a breather. It’s not as though you have much choice; we’re talking hot water. Various people, young and old, were making use of the baths. One elderly fellow seemed to be giving himself a cure. He hobbled from one end to the other of the deepest pool, making determined circuits and looking pained. We chatted with a few of the people, then, after soaking up all those tiny ppms of hydrochloric acid and sulphuric acid and carbonic acid (it’s a wonder we had any skin left), we headed back to Ponce, our laundry, and Django.

That evening, WW decided we should go to an upscale restaurant for dinner. He wanted a steak. So we settled on Rincón Argentino. I had read that parking would be tough in the old town, so we parked on the extreme outskirts. After walking many blocks in the dying daylight and seeing miles of parking spots, we returned to the car. The blocks we had walked were not ones we would happily do late at night. We parked a block from the restaurant.

The steaks were amazing. WW ordered rib steak and I ordered a small filet, for about $22 US, including two side dishes. My steak was just about a perfect 3-inch square, done to rare perfection. The one thing it wasn’t was small. There was live music performed by a man singing at a bandoneon (kinda like an accordion), who later accompanied himself on guitar; he was also very good. He played some Piazzolla, one of WW’s favourite composers. A perfect end to a sulphurous day.