As I got used to Puerto Rico, the tempo of my life slowed down. I think this is normal anywhere. We settle in once we settle down. A few nights ago we stayed up until 4am watching Office Space. We were too lazy to commit the energy it would have required to switch off the TV and go to bed. I only mention this is a counterpoint. The first nights I spent in Puerto Rico were anything but quiet.

It was my third night in Anasco that we first went clubbing. It wasn’t really our idea, but some of Fitz’s guests’. There were six girls from Florida staying in the penthouse at Casablanca. They were all attractive and similar to us in age, so Fitz had been especially scrupulous with his customer service. They wanted to go out that evening and Fitz volunteered to be their designated driver. I volunteered to tag along.

We left about 9pm. The girls were in party gear; short skirts and tops with bobbing tassels. They offered us beers, but we declined. The prettiest was named Jordan. She had warm brown eyes and a pleasant laugh. Fitz locked onto her like a heat-seeking missile. I tried to cut into the circle and introduce myself but he boxed me out like Charles Barkley going after a rebound. This left me orbiting around Nicole, slimmer and darker. She was the oldest member of the group. I thought she was probably 25. We piled into their minivan and pulled down the steep back drive of the Casablanca, crunching fallen palm fronds beneath our tires.

Fitz found a playlist and cranked up the speakers until the van buzzed. We flew through the winding jungle roads at dangerous speeds. Crammed alongside me in the back seat, Nicole was pressed into me at every turn. Her bare leg felt cold against mine. It was too loud to talk and too dark to see. I held on to the handle above the door and tried not to sway too much.

Our first stop was La Familia, a bar and pizza restaurant in the mountains near Rincon. We parked on the side of the road and the girls spilled out onto the shoulder. Immediately, they were swarmed with biting ants. I crawled out the opposite door, choosing to risk the oncoming traffic instead.

From the road, the entrance to La Familia didn’t look like much. The storefront looked like a squat, drab Puerto Rican answer to the Bates Hotel. A yellow dog snarled at us from the balcony of the adjacent convenience store as we picked our way across the hot asphalt and through the glass doors. We followed a hallway through the building and out the back door. The restaurant itself was at the bottom of a flight of wide steps. I thought the view was worth the descent.

The location was incredible. La Familia sits perched in a small bowl between steep, forested hills. As we stood at the bar we could see the moon reflecting off the ocean in the distance. Behind us a multi-layered pool trickled endlessly into itself, lights dancing beneath the water. A DJ slouched behind a small turntable, idly spinning trance records.

It all would have been ideal had the restaurant not been closed. We hovered around the bar for a while. The girls stepped thigh-deep into the pool to wash off whatever ants remained. We talked.

The girls had all been friends since middle school. Now they were celebrating together because Jordan, the youngest, had just graduated college. Nicole was working on a masters in psychiatry. Nikki studied fashion design. I forget what the rest majored in. In fact, I don’t even remember their names.

After 45 minutes, it became obvious that La Familia, though a beautiful spot, was not the party we were looking for. The girls wanted music—loud music, and bright lights and cheap alcohol. We wriggled back into the van and started off again. This time our destination was an American club in Rincon called Tamboo.

In many ways, Tamboo was even more beautiful than La Familia. A well-appointed bar faced the beach, surrounded by sturdy tables. Pillars held up the roof, where there was more seating and even better views. The open construction of the restaurant meant that you could see the ocean from anywhere.

While the girls bought more drinks and milled around the bar, I stepped off onto the beach. I’ve always been impressed by the ocean at night. In the hurricane season the waves quiet down. Now, in May, there was hardly any swell at all. The sea extended like a glossy black sheet into the infinite distance. A section of the beach was cordoned off to protect a sea turtle’s nest. Fitz and Jordan found there way onto the beach after me and we talked for some time.

When we returned back to the bar, the girls were chatting with the genial bartender. Because it was a Tuesday night, most of the area clubs, including Tamboo, were closing early. The bartender knew a place, however, that stayed open late every night. We took him at his word and got back into the van.

It was now quite late—after midnight. The streets were mostly quiet. We drove from Rincon, the Americanized surf town, to Anasco, the more rural, traditional area. In the old town center, we parked, unsure of where exactly we were going. The Tamboo bartender had directed us here, but we couldn’t see anything that remotely resembled a club. Just blank cobblestone streets. Stray dogs chased each other back and forth down the alleys.

There was an old couple sitting on the steps of some governmental building. We hailed them and tried out our Spanish.

“Donde esta el club?”

They pointed around the corner. We thanked them and headed in that direction. Once we turned the corner the narrow street opened up into a small cobblestone plaza. There were tables and chairs set up at the street’s widest point. Only one of the rolling metal grates that protected the shops was up. Behind it yawned a narrow space more like a cave than a room. There was a jukebox and a few chairs near the entrance. Deep in the back there was a small bar.

We danced there until three in the morning.