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Walking barefoot in the warm sand I uncovered a small glass bottle with a rolled-up piece of paper in it. A crab skittered got out of the way as I picked up the bottle. The paper had a message on it; with fine detail, the lettering was a romantic scrawl; it had energy and a pull that said, “This is Rebirth.” The address was vague but I knew of the cross streets: 4th and Carnival. A taxi picked me up by the pier, the driver blasting a soothing cumbia that caught the eyes of passerby. Smiles on every face, the friendly, inviting warmth in their faces. A wonderful high befell me as I caught the smell of the cigar smoke spilling out of the cab. It was a clear sense of synchronicity, this was the right path. Funny how something like the feeling of sand, ocean, sunshine, cigar smoke, can all trigger deeply embedded feelings in our genes to promote an overwhelming emotion like bliss. Where was I going? I gave the driver the address from the piece of paper and even he had to do a mental double-take. Where we were headed was the dark side of this small island. Pass all the tourist spots and the local hangouts, through many back alleys the directions led us to a dingy but pleasing street corner. Storefronts were graying and bordered up. Nobody was in sight except for a stray dog tasting an empty chip bag. I got out of the cab and paid. He said something to me, a strong Spanish tongue, all I got was, “Bienvenido a casa!” As he left a trail of smoke was pulled from his car and the music melted into the thin late afternoon sky. Seco hit my nostrils and perked my interest in this otherwise eventless road trip across town. Then faintly I heard sounds of music. Beautiful chords and soft scales of a guitar; rhythmic drumming in syncopation; and the accompaniment of a jazzy voice singing somewhere far off and hidden to the uninvited. Still, I hadn't quite found the place; I was standing outside staring at two faceless clay buildings for over half an hour; the addresses on both indicated that a number was skipped. History was stored here, in these streets - these buildings reverberated the waves of traditional siestas throughout time. Across the street, I saw a little cafe. I went inside to ask about the missing building. The owner, a small lady, maybe in her late eighties, walked out from the back through a thin curtain. She greeted me as kindly as everyone else had and started to make a cup of espresso. Freshest and sweetest coffee I have ever had; that's when I noticed a table in the back with a large mound of beans that must have been harvested recently. When I asked about the buildings and the address I was looking for she just shook her head, “no sé.” She went to the back and left me sitting there looking out the open door to a town of both equal parts of fullness and emptiness. Full in that life and spirit were present. Empty in that of stress, faults. . . and people. Where was everyone? From where was that music and dance calling me from? I stood up and finished my coffee. The sun was beginning to settle with a subtle flux of baby blue and a burgundy cream filling the sky. La Abuelita came back and handed me another similar piece of paper, a ticket stub, a pass to the next level. She walked me outside on to the street and pointed up towards the mountainside. From there in the middle of the street, I could make out the strip of lights in a row not too far up the epic mountain. The volume of the music rising. The waft of tropical exuberance lifted my feet and I made steps to the mountain. This small town was testing me – I had to pass through in order to get to where I needed to be. By spontaneous happenstance, deciding to go ahead and listen to whatever sign I got, this was a magical trip of the individual.