The condado plaza: Restaurants in San Juan, Puerto Rico

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The Condado Plaza Hilton reviews, photos – Condado – San Juan

Oceanfront views

The Conrad features a great location next to a public beach and near Condado Plaza. Guests enjoy the three pools and the hotel’s bright and cheery decor.

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• hersheyj

  Over a year ago

  Loves it

  super clean
  Super nice rooms with mixed views. Restaurant ok food-wise but super service. Property showing wear with slow elevators

• oostolazarivera

  Over a year ago

  Loves it

  sx
  good

• ThenakedislandS

  Over a year ago

  Loves it

  Contemporary, stylish
  Conrad is located at the very tip of Condado. Its lobby is modern and chic. The hotel is walking distance to both La Playita (a small lagoon beach) and the gay beach near Oceano and Atlantic Beach. For updated accurate information on gay San Juan, visit http://thenakedisland.com

• benbch

  Over a year ago

  Water slide is a hoot. Agua Bacardi 151 drink is dangerous.

• YourPalPete

  Over a year ago

  Loves it

  My Favorite San Juan Hotel
  I haven’t been here since last year, but I’ve stayed here SO many times in the past. It’s my favorite hotel in San Juan. The location is wonderful, right on the Condado, and the hotel itself is very nice. Walk out the door, head to the left and enjoy the walk past some beautiful old Art Deco buildings reminiscent of Miami Beach. There are a couple of gay bars within walking distance, which is very convenient. Lots of restaurants are nearby as well. Next time I’m in San Juan, this will once again be my hotel of choice.

Tags

• Swimming Pool

• Gym / Workout Room

• Spa

• 4 star

• Spa

• Hilton HHonors

• Close to everything

• Friendly staff

• Try the restaurant

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The Rum Diary read online Hunter Thompson (Page 3)

Instead, I ordered more coffee and reread the telegram I received with my plane ticket. It said that a room at the Condado Beach Hotel was booked for me.

It was not yet seven in the morning, but there was a crush in the cafe.

Groups of men were sitting at tables under a panoramic window, sipping whitish liquor and talking energetically. A few were in business suits, though most were wearing what looked like local uniforms: thick-rimmed sunglasses, shiny dark trousers, and short-sleeved white shirts.

Fragments of conversations reached me from different directions: “… there are no cheap corners with a sea view left … uh, here you don’t have Montego, gentlemen … nothing, he has this stuff in bulk, you just need … for ointment, but better not pull until Castro and his gang poked their feet into…”

After about ten minutes of such prompting, I began to suspect that I had landed in a hangout for “business”. Most of them seemed to be waiting for an eight-hour flight from Miami, which – from what I could gather from conversations – would be bursting at the seams with architects, consultants, nudists and mafiosi tearing up from Cuba.

Their voices were starting to get on my nerves. It’s not that I had a reason to hold a grudge against “business”, in any case justified, no … the very act of buying and selling is disgusting to me. One feels like punching some salesman in the muzzle, to the point of a crunch, to crimson “glasses” around the eyes …

As soon as I started to listen, even halfway, everything else faded into the background. As a result, the feeling of lazy languor disappeared, and then I got so angry that I waved the rest of the coffee and got out.

The luggage room was empty. I found my two trunks and hired a porter to a taxi. As we walked, he gave me an unfading smile all the way and repeated over and over again: “Si, Puerto Rico esta bueno … ah, si, muy bueno . .. mucho ha-ha, si …” [“Yes, Puerto Rico is good … ah, very good, yes … a lot of ha ha, yes … ”(Spanish)].

In the taxi, I leaned back and lit a small cigar bought in a cafe. Now I felt much better, I was warm, comfortable – and absolutely at ease. Palm trees swept past, the plump sun scorched the asphalt ahead, and a feeling came over me that I had not experienced since those first months that I spent in Europe: a mixture of ignorance and indomitable freedom – “I don’t give a damn about everything!” – a kind of certainty , which attacks when a fresh wind rises and a person takes the first step on that straight line that leads to an unknown horizon.

The car was speeding down a four-lane freeway. On either side stretched a vast complex of yellow residential areas, cut through by high storm walls. A few minutes later we passed what appeared to be a new residential area, lined with identical pink and blue houses. At the entrance there was a billboard informing all travelers that they were in the territory of the suburban village “El Hippo Urbanization”. A few yards from the shield stood a tiny barn made of palm branches, leaves and flattened pieces of tin, and next to it was a post with a hand-painted sign “Soso Frio” [“Cold Coconut Milk” (Spanish).]. A 13-year-old boy was leaning on a board-counter and staring at the passing cars.

To appear half-drunk in a foreign city is quite a shake-up for the nerves. It feels like something is not right, you just can’t get used to it. So when I got to the hotel, the first thing I did was go to bed. Woke up at half past five, hungry, dirty and not quite at ease. I went out to the balcony and stared at the beach. Below me, in the oncoming surf, splashed a crowd of women, children and pot-bellied men. To the right stood another hotel, and behind it another – and in front of each was its own crowded beach.

I took a shower and then went down to the terrace. The restaurant was closed, so I tried my luck at the bar. Apparently, it was brought here untouched straight from the ski resort in the Appalachians. I stayed there for two hours drinking nuts and looking at the ocean. There were about a dozen other people in the bar. The men looked like sick Mexicans, with stringy mustaches and silk suits with a plastic sheen. Most of the women were American, frail and aged, and all of them in cocktail dresses with short sleeves that fitted them like rubber.

In this company, I felt like a piece of garbage, a fin, washed ashore by a wave. My rumpled jacket is about five years old, its collar was frayed, there were no arrows left on the trousers, and although the idea of ​​putting on a tie did not occur to me, without it I was clearly a black sheep here. Then, in order not to sound like a hypocrite, I dropped the rum and ordered a beer. The bartender gave me a sullen look, and I understood the reason: there was nothing on me that would have a sheen. One must think that among the locals this is considered the seal of Cain. If I want to achieve something here, I will have to get hold of a brilliant wardrobe, apparently.

At half past six I left the bar and went outside. It was evening, and the main native avenue, Avenida Ponce de Leon, looked impressive and elegant. On the other side were houses that once overlooked the beach. Now they overlooked the hotels, and most of the buildings were hidden behind high hedges and walls that cut them off from the street. Here and there I noticed a patio or porch, enclosed by a grid, where people sat and sipped rum. From somewhere came the chime of bells, the sleepy strumming of Brahms’ Lullaby.

I walked a block, getting used to the local atmosphere, and with each step the bells got closer. Soon the ice-cream van came into view, moving slowly down the middle of the street. From its roof protruded a gigantic popsicle, adorned with flickering lamps; red neon explosions lit up the entire area. It was from the bowels of this truck that the melody of Mr. Brahms originated. Passing by, the driver smiled happily at me and pressed the horn.

I immediately hailed a taxi and told the driver to go downtown. The local old town is a narrow island, connected to the rest by several bulk dams. We went to the one that leads from the Condado area. Dozens of Puerto Ricans lined the railing, fishing in the shallow lagoon, and to my right was a white mass under a neon sign: Caribbean Hilton. This, I knew, was the cornerstone of the local tourism boom. Conrad came first—appeared as Jesus—and the goldfish followed him. There was nothing here before the Hilton; now at least pick the stars with your hands. We passed the deserted stadium and soon found ourselves on the boulevard that ran along the steep bank of the embankment. On one side the Atlantic darkened, and on the other, through a narrow strip of the city, thousands of colored lights shone on moored cruise ships. We turned off the boulevard and stopped at a square that, according to the taxi driver, was called Plaza Colon. He demanded thirty dollars for the fare, and I gave him two pieces of paper.

He looked at the money and shook his head.

— What? I asked.

Taxi driver shrugged:

— No change, senor.

I rummaged in my pocket – only one nickel. I knew he was lying, but I didn’t want to bother changing dollar bills. “They are robbing insolently,” I said, throwing the papers into his lap. And he shrugged his shoulders again and left.

Plaza Colon served as a kind of hub, where several narrow streets converged with wheel spokes. Buildings with two or three floors were crowded, balconies hung over the pavement. The air was stuffy; the stench of sweat and garbage floated on the wings of a barely perceptible breeze. The murmur of voices and music could be heard from the open windows. The sidewalks were so narrow that the feet were striving to get into the gutter, and the streets were packed with fruit vendors whose peeled oranges went for a nickel [Nickel – a coin of 5 cents.] apiece.

I walked for about half an hour, looking at haberdashery windows with Ivy League suits; peeped through the doors of dirty bars full of whores and sailors; I dodged people I met and thought that I could fall down at any moment if I didn’t find myself a restaurant.

I finally gave up. There doesn’t seem to be any restaurants in the Old Town at all. The only eatery that caught my eye was called the New York Diner, and even that was closed. In desperation, I waved to a passing taxi and asked to be taken to the Daily News office.

The driver stared blankly at my face.

– Newspaper! I yelled, slamming the door behind me.

“Ah, si,” he muttered. – “El Diario”, si.

— No, damn it! – I said. “Daily News… American newspaper… El News.”

He obviously hadn’t heard of her, so I had to drive back to Plaza Colon, where I leaned out the window and addressed the local “pharaoh”. He, again, did not help in any way, but then some man got off the bus and told us where to go.

We got to the embankment along the cobblestone pavement. No newspaper signage. I even thought that the taxi driver had deliberately brought me to such a place in order to get rid of an unprofitable client now. We turned at an intersection, and suddenly he hit the brakes.