It was the summer of 2001 and I was on the brink of adolescence, embarking on my first journey outside the continental United States to the tropically convenient American territory of Puerto Rico. I was 11, and already the goofball in my group of friends – but, away from those with whom I was familiar, I was painfully shy. Until a family vacation from hell rid me of all my inhibitions.
The chaos began when my well-intentioned parents decided to take my brother and me to see the beautiful rainforest. My mom had her heart set on going to the El Portal de El Yunque National Forest visitor centre; a friend had told her it was “perfect for kids”, with guided, paved pathways, a cafe, and even a gift shop. But when my flustered, monolingual father got lost on the Puerto Rican freeway, he panicked, as my mother flipped through the map trying to direct him. “What’s a salida?!” he cried, sailing past the “exit” signs.
