By seven o'clock the shops are open, and a stirring of wide shutters in the upper stories of the houses shows that even the women are about. Hundreds of men are having their coffee in the cafés. Probably a band is playing somewhere, which means a detachment of troops returning from early mass in the Cathedral.
By ten o'clock this early activity has worn itself out. The sun has got well up into the sky, white and hot. It falls in the narrow, unshaded streets, and the cobblestones begin to scorch through thin shoe soles. It is a time to seek the shade and quaff cooling drinks. Business languishes. About eleven shop shutters begin to go up, and soon the streets are as deserted as at midnight.
This is breakfast hour, and until well after noon not a shop or public building will be found open. About one or two, whether the siesta is long or short, people begin to reappear and the shops reopen. Gradually traffic revives. By four o'clock, when the Palais de Justice has cast its cooling shadow over half the blazing plaza, loungers begin to appear to occupy the numerous benches and blink idly at the guards about the gloomy Palais entrance. With each passing hour the city presents a livelier appearance, until at six o'clock it is fully awake and ready for dinner, the principal meal of the day.
In the evening is when the inhabitants of San Juan really live. These are the pleasant hours of the day. From the sea comes a breeze, cool and fresh, to whisper to the few shade trees in the plazas and revive enervated humanity. Twice a week one of the military bands plays in the principal plaza. Then it is worth while to go, hire a comfortable arm chair from a muchacho for ten centavos in Puerto Rican silver and sit and observe and listen.
These military bands—there are three stationed in San Juan—are equal to Sousa or Herbert on a considerably smaller scale. They play beautifully voluptuous airs of sunny Spain, the strains swelling and quickening until they entice an answer in the livened step and unconsciously swaying bodies of hundreds of promenaders; then slowly dying to a sweet, soft breath, borne to the ear from distant guitars and mandolins. Italian, French and German composers are not neglected, while occasionally there will come a spirited bit from some modern light opera, or even a snatch from a topical song of the day.
On band nights San Juan may be seen at her best. The concerts begin at eight o'clock. Prior to that hour the private soldiers are permitted the liberty of the plaza, and hundreds avail themselves of the opportunity for an airing. At eight they must retire to their barracks, leaving the plaza to the officers.
The music racks are set at one end of the plaza, and the musicians stand during the two hours of the concert. By the time the second number on the programme is reached the plaza is thronged with the wealth, beauty and fashion of the Puerto Rican capital. A row of gas street lamps, thickly set, encircles the Plaza, while at each end rise iron towers, upon which are supported electric arc lights.
All the houses surrounding the plaza are illuminated, their bright coloring and Eastern architecture giving an Oriental effect. The balconies—every house has a balcony—are filled with gaily dressed women and officers, and through open windows glimpses of richly furnished interiors can be obtained. On the street level, the Grand Central and other cafés, the Spanish Club and a dozen brilliantly lighted drug stores and shops help flood the plaza with light and lend life and gayety to the scene.
The throng is characteristic of San Juan of to-day—of the San Juan which will soon cease to exist. There are Spanish officers, hundreds of them, clad in an immense variety of uniform—to use a perfectly truthful paradox.
There are officers of the Guardia Civil, in dark blue suits and caps, their cuffs red and gold, the rank indicated by eight pointed stars, and with small spurs sticking out from under the long trousers.