Caribbean Vegas

They often arrive in San Juan to find that their confirmed hotel reservation has long since gone to someone else. If they finally get into one of the overbooked establishments, they have to make dinner reservations a day in advance just to eat when they want in their own hotel. They pay stiff prices for almost everything, and the cab drivers hurt their feelings by speaking English when they try out their high school Spanish. But this is Puerto Rico, and this year the tourists, the mainlanders, statesiders, continentals, or just plain gringos are flying down as never before.

No Place Like Home. Tourism is still third, after sugar and manufacturing, among industries in the U.S. island commonwealth. But what a business. In the past four years, income from tourism has practically doubled, from $53 million to $96 million. And this year the Chamber of Commerce happily contemplates a take of well over $100 million from 550,000 visitors. Last week, at the height of the winter season, more than 80% of San Juan's total 4,000 rooms were occupied, including the suburban motels and unpretentious rooming houses. Space was so tight in the top spots that prospective guests at the Rockefeller-owned Dorado Beach Hotel, where rates run to $75 per couple per day, were putting up a $300 deposit just for a reservation. The 160-room Flamboyan Hotel, which opened last week, is already booked through the season. And later this year, Philco, Gibson Refrigerator and the Disciples of Christ have scheduled conventions that will bring 18,000 visitors to Puerto Rico.

Why the rush? Certainly not the advertising; the government itself spent a scant $107,000 last year to push tourism, though the airlines and hotels upped the total considerably. First of all, it is the climate. "This is the place with the weather Miami advertises," cracks the Director of Tourism. Then there are those fast jets with their low, low air fares ($104 round trip, economy class), and the idea of having a Latin adventure not too far from home without worrying about visas--or rocks and riots. "You get a little of the Latin influence," said a blonde from Rhode Island, "but you feel right at home."

Nobody's home was ever so noisy. There are limbo, jazz and Gay Nineties joints scattered all along San Juan's quaint and narrow streets, Mexican, Cuban, Spanish and Italian nightclubs that rock nightly to trumpets and guitars. Last week Comic Jackie Mason held forth at the Caribe Hilton, Eartha Kitt was belting them out at the Americana, and strolling violins pierced the air in the Shalom Room of the Lee Hotel, which features its own synagogue. For the economy class, San Juan's hotel row has hatched two Red Rooster restaurants ("where corned beef and pastrami are king"); another, in staid Old San Juan, was discreetly latinized to El Gallo Rojo. This year there are Sunday bullfights in the Sixto Escobar Stadium--but no blood, as a concession to sensitive American tastes.

Ace in the Hole. The biggest draw of all is the gambling. In 1949, the government opened the door to gamblers, and there are many Puerto Ricans who rue the day. But not the hotelmen. The handle at the island's 13 hotel casinos is conservatively estimated at $50 million a year--which pays the rent, tides the hotels over the lean summer months and brings the tourists back for more. Of the Caribe Hilton's $750,000 profit one year, fully $500,000 came from gambling. Another casino grossed $650,000 in winnings in December alone.

Unlike Las Vegas, where the game grinds on 24 hours a day, San Juan casinos do not open until 8 p.m. and close at 4 a.m. The government keeps a whacking 37% of all casino profits, and makes dead-eye sure everything is on the up and up. It even collects mug shots and a record of all well-known Las Vegas lowlifes, and fingerprints every casino owner--including the likes of Conrad Hilton and Laurance Rockefeller. The government's Gambling Control Section trains and licenses the croupiers, sends inspectors to watch all tables and settle all arguments--usually in favor of the customer. Casinos are prohibited from advertising, serving liquor or accepting bets beyond certain limits. The top is $100 per roll for dice, $50 for a hand of blackjack and $20 on a roulette number.

The high-stakes boys at Las Vegas might sneer at such a penny-ante game. But the Puerto Ricans aren't greedy. Says one San Juan croupier: "Every day fresh money arrives by the planeload."

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