By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
"You've got to believe in something," said my grandmother. She stroked my head while I argued that scientifically, the appointment to which I was driving her, could not be with a paraplegic physical therapist. Not possible, I said, someone who cannot walk cannot help you to walk. I believed in science, in reality, I said. But truthfully, after 10 years of working in healthcare, I believed in nothing. I was suffering from what is widely known as "compassion fatigue" in healthcare. It can look different on everyone, but I wore mine like a cloak of indifference. And, so I didn't have to feel all the feels of working with the sick, I hid behind the cloak. I was fried. When I got the opportunity to move to San Juan, Puerto Rico to work with a start up company that had nothing to do with sick people, I didn't even think twice about taking it. Logistically, it made no sense, but, really, I had no choice. This time, it was me who I had to save. Only looking forward to the peace of never playing a role in whether someone lives or dies, I did not expect much more. I had never even been to Puerto Rico, but I was running to it. It took me over a month to get into my apartment in San Juan. After 6 weeks of hiding my 4 cats in a tiny hotel room with a leaking AC, I moved to Condado, an upscale neighborhood on the beach. I justified the cost of living there with the fact that I didn't speak a word of Spanish (most everyone in Condado is fluent in English), and also that I would not be buying a car in Puerto Rico after having seen the way people drive. While walking around, it didn't take me long to fall in love with the city. As you would expect in any beach town, there is a casual atmosphere and food and entertainment everywhere you look. But, besides the espresso, what won me over was the natives. And by the natives, I mean all of the natives, not just the people who artfully made my double espresso every day. The manatees and sea turtles who live in the lagoon, the lizards and iguanas who climb the palm trees lining the steets, and the chickens and pigeons who dig for roots and rubbish in the many parks were not only beautiful, but seeing their grace and the grace of the humans who embraced the co-existence of these animals in their communities was bringing me back to life. It was biodiversity at, in my opinion, it's finest. The animals were treated with respect, and even cared for and doted on by many locals who offered food and affection. Most of all, I fell for the wild cats. I was at first delighted and then shocked to see the dozens of cats and kittens who live in the streets all over the city. Do they have enough food? Where do they go to get shelter from the island's notoriously brutal storms? I learned that people all over the city have dedicated "colonies" that they feed every single day, hurricane or 100 degrees. They make sure hundreds of cats have vaccines, veterinary care, and are spayed and neutered. All on their own time and own dime. I started to feed a couple of cats on my street, vowing to not get attached. I named them and figured out their favorite foods. I didn't care what passers-by thought when I knelt down on one knee like I was opening a diamond ring box to present my "catchelors in paradise" with their dinner each night. I started volunteering at a local cat rescue, and was taught about TNR, which means trap-neuter-release, and was able to implement it on my street with some help. Most importantly, I was taught the power of community in watching people give endlessly, probably more than they had, to those less fortunate in their communities, regardless of them being furry, four-legged, and rough tongued. I had found, on this remote, seemingly forgotten island, something to believe in.