Puerto Rico Punch

At the end of Cristo Street, the Park de la Palomas is a mini St. Mark's Square, with a gorgeous view of the water and buildings across the bay. Three sunburned tourists put down their Bacardi Rum carrier boxes and head for the quaint sea wall. "Oh my God," shrieks one, "we are so getting our picture taken here!"

Slick makes her own squeal of delight at La Calle, a narrow series of shops whose walls are covered with caretas -- grotesque papier-mache masks worn at island carnivals. She splurges on a toothy polka-dotted number and goes back to the convent in time for cocktails under the moonlight.

For dinner, it's Baru, much loved by locals for its nouveau Caribbean cooking. It's a casually elegant, white-tablecloth place with hip couples drinking blue martinis beneath oddly European-style paintings. Slick tucks into her fresh spinach salad and salmon with capers to a backdrop of samba music.

6:12 p.m .

Island Girl's boat heads straight for a megawatt rainbow that's like a portal to paradise, which turns out to be Culebra after all. Once on land, she finds Culebra's main square quiet and deserted, and she enters a tour operator's office to find out where to rent a bike. She gets a phone number but is advised: "Best to call in the morning. They're probably already drunk now. It's slow season."

It's definitely slow at Mamacita's, a raffish guesthouse and restaurant with a screaming pink facade. An employee tells Island Girl that the bar is closed while it renews its liquor license. Ouch. That's like hearing there is no potable water. Without Mamacita's, she learns, only one bar is pouring that night.

After exploring "town" -- a grocery store selling chickenfeed and plantains, a Chinese takeout place, a fork in the road -- Island Girl grabs a stool at the low-key Dinghy Dock. That's just what it is: a dinghy dock with kitchen furniture and a good paint job. While watching the tarpon beg for scraps of food, she glances across the bar to see a group of expats waving at her. She waves back.

Soon Island Girl finds herself exclaiming "bon voyage" to a female couple she's never met before. She can't even remember which Midwest state they are returning to. Of course, this did not stop her from attending their goodbye party with her new bar mates. "Have a good trip!" she shouts on her way out.

By midnight, Island Girl and much of Culebra's population are squeezed into the very sweaty El Batey, where the pounding Carib-rap shakes the palm trees. A wizened local, somewhere between 73 and 90 years of age, mimes a Chippendales move and gives her a charming three-toothed smile. As the beat shifts to salsa, Island Girl does her best to match Senor Wizen's bowlegged steps.

Saturday

9 a.m .

Island Girl sleeps in.

10:15 a.m.