El Convento
Part 2 in a Series of Reflections by Mario Garcia on participation in the April 2025 Soul of the Movement pilgrimage to Boriken with a gathering of national movement leaders.El Convento
Hotel El Convento is a four-star boutique hotel in Old San Juan. It was originally constructed as a Carmelite convent in 1646, under the patronage of King Philip IV of Spain. Founded in 1651 by Doña Ana Lanzós—a wealthy widow who donated the land—it remained a cloistered space until 1903, after which the building sat closed for over five decades.
In 1959, under Operation Bootstrap—a U.S.-driven industrialization policy designed to rebrand Puerto Rico from rural to modern—the convent was repurposed into Hotel El Convento. The transformation was both architectural and ideological. It was renamed and renovated again in the 1990s, emerging in its current form: a European-style luxury hotel, self-styled as historic refinement.
Walking into El Convento, the first impression is spatial. The lobby is open, high-ceilinged, and animated by a breeze that moves in from the plaza. The air is thick with salt and heat.
The courtyard is overgrown in a deliberate way. A towering Níspero tree casts a canopy over stone and foliage. The plants aren’t decoration. They are part of the architecture now. The atmosphere is dense and alive—less staged than it initially seems.
Upstairs, I located my room on the third floor. I took a few moments to clean up and get ready to meet the city. I hit play on Javier Solís and played “Mi Viejo San Juan” on repeat until it filled and permeated the room where I would sleep. I made my way back down to the courtyard bar to redeem one of my drink tickets.
The bar is framed by arches and stone. The two bartenders behind it were poised but approachable, with that rare capacity to both host and witness. I took a seat next to three other guests who looked, by every available indicator, wealthy. Well-fitted linen, choreographed laughter, the visible lightness of people who move through the world with options.
I don’t often linger in spaces like this. The currency of presence can feel over-regulated. But there was something about this one that didn’t repel.
I ordered a mojito.
As I sipped, a woman approached—American, blonde, rust-and-cream paisley dress, posture tilted away from the couple she arrived with. Her husband and his friend were deep in conversation. I had caught fragments—statehood, independence, the future of the island. I asked her directly what the conversation was about.
“Puerto Rico,” she said. “Should it be a state or a sovereign nation?”
A beat later, the question was turned to me.
I didn’t have an answer ready, and I still don’t—not in the way people want one. But what I felt, without hesitation, was resistance. Not resistance to the question, but to the premise. I had been on the island for less than two hours. And already, I wanted to defend it from further claiming—from being anything but Boricua.
The Next Morning 04/28
I was awoken by a text from Alexie: she was downstairs in the courtyard with Laura and Luana. I readied myself and made my way downstairs.
Stepping back under the Níspero tree from the night before. It still held the air. I carried with me the residue of the previous night’s conversation at a bar called El Batey—gentrification, displacement, statehood, the asymmetries of foreign investment. La Isla del Encanto unfolds slowly, withholding nothing, but refusing to reveal everything at once. And already, I felt implicated. Boriken says: “welcome” but it also says “watch your step.”
Meeting Alexie in person for the first time had none of the usual formalities, as was expected. It felt familiar, like everything else thus far. Borikén had received me the same way the night before. This was not an introduction. It was an alignment. We greeted, sat, and the four of us exchanged names and context. There was no performance. Just presence. A pattern was taking shape.