(His high-school friend Pino is joining us for dinner.) Not to mention that when two Puerto Ricans meet anywhere outside of the island, they’re never quite strangers. “My God, you went over the line!” Or perhaps it’s that he’s still running with the same crew he has had since he was growing up. “Benito, te safaste,” he recalls her saying. “When she listened to ‘Safaera,’ ” he says - referring to the song off YHLQMDLG that pays homage to early reggaeton (back then, we called it “underground”) in its sexually explicit lyrics - “she sort of scolded me.” He puts on a gentle but concerned voice and begins imitating his mother. Perhaps it’s how frequently he mentions his mother, both in conversation and in songs. In person, Martínez Ocasio exudes a humbleness that belies his star power. “Well, we’ll get there,” he assures me, taking a sip of white wine. Martínez Ocasio looks like a bored, tired kid dragged to a family function. It’s painfully obvious that the energy levels at the moment are extremely low - decidedly not activa’o.
There’s a brief silence and some stifled laughter around the table. The only noticeable remnant of Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio’s larger-than-life alter ego is his nails, which are decked out in an immaculate green manicure. He’s buried in a big black puffy coat, scrolling through his phone a single curl is braided and looped through a little plastic bead that hangs over his left eye.
Estamos activa’os!” Bad Bunny tells me when I meet him and his three-person crew at a Michelin-starred restaurant in the East Village on one of the first cold nights in November.
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