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 The story blends professional duty with cultural immersion, creating a dual narrative of business and discovery. On the surface, it’s about two engineers traveling to Puerto Rico to oversee production at Jabil’s Cayey facility. Beneath that, however, the narrative emphasizes themes of cultural exchange, resilience, and the search for meaning beyond work. The backdrop of Puerto Rico’s tropical warmth contrasted with the snowbound Boston they left behind reinforces the idea of escape—both physical and emotional... First Installment

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Mission to Cayey 

By Harry Arabian

We were searching for the right place to bring our medical instruments to life. After months of design trials, documentation reviews, and test procedures, management decided to partner with Jabil Manufacturing in Puerto Rico. Their global reach and reputation for precision gave our team confidence that the first production run would be in steady hands.

I—Herald, fifty years old and serving as the principal design engineer—was paired with José Rodrigues, forty, our sharp but sometimes stubborn production engineer. Together, we were tasked with a two-week mission to set up operations at Jabil’s facility in Cayey.

On January 15, the timing could not have been better. A snow blizzard was hammering Boston as our flight took off, and by mid-afternoon we stepped off the plane into the warm, marine air of San Juan. The contrast hit immediately—humid, fragrant breezes in place of frozen winds and slush.

By 2:00 p.m., we had reached our hotel on the western coast, overlooking Rincón Beach, a place I had read about in my travel guide. “A surfer’s paradise with unforgettable sunsets.” I had insisted on a higher floor with a balcony, my photographer’s instinct outweighing everything else.

At check-in, the hotel clerk, a young woman with an easy smile, looked at me curiously.
“I’ve saved one of our best rooms with a view for you,” she said, sliding the key card across the counter. “Are you a surfer?”

I glanced at the reflection of my long hair in the polished counter glass and laughed. “Not quite. Just a photographer.”

“Well, then you’ll have plenty to capture,” she replied warmly. “In the morning, the sun rises over the Cordillera Central mountains. By day, surfers ride the waves at Rincón. And at night, if you look south from your balcony, the waters near Vieques will glow.”

I nodded, already imagining the frames I might capture. An ideal photography room indeed.

José stepped up next to me, tapping his fingers against the counter. “First floor for me,” he said matter-of-factly. “I don’t trust elevators, and besides—I want quick access to the restaurants and bars.” His grin widened. “And don’t forget, the Buena Vista Social Club is performing tonight at La Factoría, right next door. That’s where you’ll find me after check-in.”

He looked at me with a mischievous smile and sang a familiar phrase: “Quizás, quizás, quizás.”

I chuckled. Over the years, that word had become José’s way of signaling polite disagreement during design reviews. Whenever he muttered quizás, I knew he was thinking: Herald, there’s a better way to do this.

We collected our room keys and parted ways, agreeing to meet again at five o’clock once we had unpacked and settled in.

The elevator sighed as it reached the eighth floor, doors parting to reveal a quiet corridor lined with polished wood and muted lighting. Room 818 waited at the far end. I slid the card into the slot, the lock clicked, and I stepped into what the clerk had promised—a photographer’s room.

The balcony doors framed the westward view like a canvas already waiting for its first brushstroke. The ocean glistened under the slant of afternoon light, waves rolling in restless rhythm. Out beyond the surf, tiny figures carved lines across the water, surfers balanced against the sea’s temper.

“Through a photographer’s room, with a wide-open view,” I murmured, almost reverently.

Habit pulled me to my backpack. My zoom camera fit neatly into my hands, and within moments I was tracking surfers mid-ride, shutters clicking in quick bursts. In the distance, the Cordillera Central rose in deep green folds, a backdrop so commanding it looked like nature itself had staged the scene.

A dozen shots later, I slipped the memory card into my tablet and uploaded a few to Instagram. Time to make some followers envious, wondering if this man ever worked, I thought, grinning as the likes began to appear almost instantly.

The clock read 4:30 p.m. I had half an hour before meeting José. Carefully, I tucked both camera and tablet into the room’s safety box. My fingers danced the code—1765, a nod to the first sparks of the American Revolution. With a solid click, the door sealed shut.

I changed into casual evening clothes, lighter fabrics for the humid night ahead. With one last glance at the glowing horizon outside the balcony, I locked the room behind me and stepped back into the elevator. The descent carried me from solitude to anticipation—the hum of the lobby, José’s jokes, and perhaps the first taste of Puerto Rico’s rhythm waiting downstairs.

The lobby carried the low hum of evening conversations, travelers drifting in and out beneath the soft glow of chandeliers. I spotted José near the check-in counter, his laughter rolling out like a familiar refrain. He was talking animatedly with Maria, the same young woman who had given us our keys earlier.

As I approached, José turned with a grin.
“Maria is recommending a place down the street,” he said. “Lechón asado—slow-roasted pork. She swears it’s the best you’ll ever taste, especially with a side of arroz con gandules—rice with pigeon peas.”

I chuckled, unable to resist the tease. “Quizás,” I said, drawing out the word the way José often did in our design meetings.

His eyes lit up, as if waiting for that exact reply. With a flourish, he pulled two slips of paper from his pocket.
“Well, I am sure,” he countered, waving the tickets. “Buena Vista Social Club. Tonight. 7:30 p.m.”

The names printed on the tickets caught the light, and I felt a jolt of excitement. Music and rhythm in the Caribbean air—our first evening in Puerto Rico was shaping into something far richer than a corporate assignment.

“Maria arranged these for us,” José added, slipping the tickets back into his wallet. “Dinner first, then the show. Trust me, Herald, they will play your word—Quizás, quizás, quizás.”

I laughed, shaking my head, but inside I felt the same anticipation José did.

The evening air in Old San Juan was alive with sound—laughter spilling from open doorways, the distant strum of guitars, and the rhythmic clatter of plates from street-side cafés. Following Maria’s tip, José led the way down a narrow cobblestone street to a small, family-run spot glowing with warm light and the aroma of roasting pork.

Inside, the tables were simple, but the fragrance surrounding us was anything but ordinary. Soon, the waiter set before us two steaming plates of lechón asado—juicy pork shoulder marinated in a bright garlic-citrus blend, slow-roasted until the edges glistened with perfection. The first bite melted into flavor—tangy, savory, smoky, all at once.

Beside it, a generous mound of arroz con gandules—rice simmered with pigeon peas, sofrito, and just enough seasoning to carry the soul of the island in every spoonful. Together, it was more than dinner; it was a welcome, an introduction, the kind of meal that speaks the language of place better than words.

José leaned back with a satisfied sigh, raising his glass.
“I told you, Herald. Nothing like Puerto Rican pork roast.”

I nodded, savoring another bite, thinking how quickly this place had shifted from assignment to experience. Work could wait. Tonight, Puerto Rico had set the table for us.

With full stomachs and the lingering taste of garlic and citrus still on our tongues, we stepped back into the night. The cobblestones of San Juan glistened faintly from the day’s humidity, the streets alive with chatter, laughter, and the rhythmic pulse of distant music. By the time we reached La Factoría, it was just after 7:30 p.m.

Inside, the space glowed with low amber light, walls lined with history and sound. The crowd pressed in, a mix of locals and travelers swaying with anticipation. Then, as if on cue, the first notes rose—the unmistakable cadence of The Buena Vista Social Club.

Their music carried with it more than melody. Each chord, each lyric, was a living thread of Cuba’s rich cultural heritage—a tapestry woven with boleros, son, and danzón. The rhythms spoke of resilience, of joy tempered by struggle, of traditions kept alive across generations.

José nudged me, his grin wide. “Listen closely, Herald. They’ll play your word soon.”

I laughed, shaking my head, but when the familiar refrain of “Quizás, quizás, quizás” floated through the room, we both joined in the chorus of voices. For a moment, time felt suspended—the mission, the deadlines, the factory in Cayey—all set aside in favor of music, memory, and the heartbeat of the Caribbean night.

The night after the concert had one more surprise. Back at the hotel, José went straight to his ground-floor room, but Maria’s earlier comment tugged at my thoughts: “Look south, sometimes the beach glows at night.”

I stepped onto my balcony, turned left, and froze. The entire shoreline shimmered in an unearthly light. The waves glowed blue-green as they broke, each crest scattering a thousand tiny sparks—microluminescent organisms awakened by the tide. It was like watching the ocean breathe fireflies.

Instinctively, I hurried inside to fetch my camera. The safe sat where I had locked it earlier. Confidently, I tapped in my code—1765. A beep, then silence. The door didn’t open. I tried again. Nothing. Another attempt. Still locked. My watch read just past midnight. With a sigh, I conceded defeat. The glowing shoreline would remain unrecorded, at least for now.

Sleep eventually claimed me, the luminous tide lingering in my mind like a half-remembered dream.

... to Be Continued