Sulayman Touray, father, seeker, and storyteller, brought his queen Shanika and their two bright stars, Anaïs (3) and Anadontes (5), on a journey to feel history, taste culture, and touch the spirit of a people who’ve been through it all and still dance in the face of it.

From the moment they arrived, the energy was thick.

They started where all love begins—in the kitchen. The restaurants? Flavors on full blast. Shanika was smitten with creamy mofongo, and Sulayman nearly passed out over a plate of slow-roasted lechón.

“Yo, this pernil got soul,” he mumbled, mouth full. The kids went wild over fried sweet plantains and coconut candy from a street vendor. Anaïs called it her “island ice cream,” and Anadontes? That boy tried every juice in sight like a one-kid taste-test team. Guava, passionfruit, tamarindo—boom boom boom, he downed them like a champ.

But the food was just the appetizer—San Juan had something to say.

They walked through the art-covered streets of Santurce, where the walls shout louder than the music. Protest graffiti, wild colors, images of struggle, love, and resistance. You could feel it—generations speaking through spray paint. One mural showed a mother holding her child, fists raised under the Puerto Rican flag torn down the middle.

Sulayman looked at his son and said, “This is where art becomes truth.”

And then they saw him—a full bronze statue standing proud in the middle of a small plaza tucked between two alleyways.

Barack Obama.

Yeah, that Barack.

The kids pointed, surprised. “That’s the president!” Anaïs squealed. The statue wasn’t just a tribute—it was a symbol. A Black man honored in the Caribbean, fist in the air, smiling like he knew the fight wasn’t over—but we were still here. Shanika took a picture of Sulayman standing next to it, raising his fist with pride. “Black excellence travels,” he said.

Later that day, they visited the majestic Castillo San Felipe del Morro, a centuries-old fort that stood like a giant watching over the sea. The kids ran across the open field, chasing seagulls and sunlight, while Shanika and Sulayman sat back and took it all in. That wind, that sky, the stone walls—it felt eternal.

But nothing hit harder than the moment they stepped into Santa María Magdalena de Pazzis Cemetery, perched right by the Atlantic Ocean.

White tombs, radiant in the sun, stretched toward the sea like prayers made stone. The wind howled soft like voices from beyond. It was beautiful—but chilling. A spiritual pressure hugged the air. Anaïs stopped skipping and just stared. Sulayman felt it in his bones. “The ancestors walk here,” he whispered. “They still watching this island.”

Even little Anadontes said, “It feels like... they're home.”

Later, with a local guide named Tito, they toured the legendary basketball court known not just for being in music videos and films, but for being a battleground turned sanctuary. Tito told them how gangs used to meet there—sometimes to settle beef, sometimes to find peace through the game. “This court,” he said, “it saved lives.”

By the time they packed their bags, the Tourays weren’t leaving with souvenirs—they were leaving with legacy.

They had danced with spirits, tasted revolution, touched pride, and stood beneath the gaze of giants.

And on the flight home, Anaïs leaned into her mama and said softly, “The birds, the ocean, the statue man... they all tell stories.”

And Shanika smiled, brushing her daughter’s curls.
“Yes, baby. And now, so do we.”