The hurricane had another strong force waiting on the other side. In August of 1930 a product of the police and military forces had taken control of the country: General Rafael Molina Trujillo. San Zenón gave the newly minted president the chance to rebuild a capital that would speak of the strength of his government… and the only way to do so was by using reinforced concrete. Thus swiftly, Santo Domingo started having some concrete thoughts —and building accordingly. That’s when the city started seeing works that reflected the technical prowess of the 20th century: 1927’s Baquero Building —an eclectic neoclassical structure that was one of San Zenón’s few survivors— was joined by the likes of the Fernández Building, an art déco project created by José Antonio Caro and Leo Pou Ricart. Other newcomers were the city’s first Evangelical church, built by Benigno de Trueba and Eric Mayer on Las Mercedes Street, as well as the eye-catching Casa Vapor by Henry Gazón Bona. Thanks to these arrivals in quick succession, Santo Domingo started seeing a modern Caribbean city staring back in the mirror.

Back then, the University of Santo Domingo didn't offer a BA in Architecture. That explains why a young draftsman at the Design Office of the General Authority for Public Works had set his sights on the East Coast of the United States: his goal was to gain admission to the Department of Architecture at Yale. After a stint at Columbia's fine arts school and also at several of New York's architecture firms, he was finally able to enroll at the Connecticut university —on probation, though, as his record showed a trail of academic and professional experience in fits and starts. Against the expectations of the admissions department, he would go on to graduate at the top of his class, claiming several student awards in his wake. After graduation, he embarked on a grand tour of Europe in order to better train his eye: Paris, Rome and Madrid were on his itinerary, and there he absorbed several years' worth of stylistic education in a matter of months. Back home in 1932 he went on to design a few residences, such as Rancho Cayuco, a Spanish Revival home occupied by Porfirio Rubirosa and Flor de Oro Trujillo —that is, the dictator's daughter. In fact, having a Trujillo as a client would become some sort of future leitmotiv: between 1939 and 1956 architect Guillermo González would go on to produce some of the most iconic public buidlings of the era.

The Dominican capital —now known as Ciudad Trujillo in honor of its megalomaniac-in-chief— didn't have a strong tourism industry, and thus lacked the type of hotels that could lodge demanding travelers. At most, there were some small B&Bs and guesthouses run by inmigrant families —such as the Fausto or the Presidente. Local reality was far behind the display seen at the other two large Caribbean cities, with its Gran Condado Vanderbilt in San Juan and the Nacional in Havana. Both featured more than 100 guestrooms and a large list of social amenities that the humble dining halls of Dominicana had trouble even imagining. But that would soon change: Trujillo was doubly inspired by a visit to New York City's Waldorf Astoria and a letter from the manager of the Condado hotel suggesting the creation of a hotel that would rise to the city's new reality. According to official statements, Dominicans were in for an innovative surprise. And they were right: that new hotel on George Washington Avenue would come to challenge the hospitality universe in the Antilles.

The actual building process was a joint endeavor between Guillermo González and his younger brother Alfredo. In a generous nine-thousand-square-meter 20-hectare lot, the architect had devoted space to the many things that the Fausto, the Francés and the other hotels in Santo Domingo failed to see as essentials. This could be clearly seen in matters of height: González's proposal rose to five stories' worth of reinforced concrete overlooking the Caribbean Sea in a west-east direction.

The initial blueprints for the Jaragua Hotel, signed by the González siblings, were ready for approval back in October of 1939. Those pages bore an innovative rationalist proposal with an obvious efficiency in terms of distributing its interior spaces. On top of that, it's quite surprising to see how the eldest González had a crystal-clear vision about what he wanted, as the proposal reveals a thorough level of details —for example, he had written in a minimalist clock in the lobby, floating glass doors and specific requests for finishing materials.

But do note that the Jaragua was not wholly born in the Dominican Republic. The first to place rationalist hotels across the sea were the French: André Lurçat designed the Nord-Sud in Corsica (1929) and Georges-Henri Pingusson created Saint-Tropez's Latitude 43 (1932). One can ascertain the reference just by looking at those white volumes, with their glass surfaces facing a body of water.

There's also the matter of the Nordic countries. The Maalaistentalo Building (1927-1928) and the Viipuri Library (1927-1935), both by Finnish architect Alvar Aalto, feature a series of openings that slightly resemble the choices made in the Jaragua project. The same can be said about the Pohjanhovi, a hotel designed by Pauli and Märta Blomsted in 1936: its composition is quite similar go its Caribbean counterpart.

But no other element was the object of a copy+paste move as much as the hotel's exterior staircase: when González attended the 1939 New York World's Fair, he brought back as a souvenir the memory of the stairs at the Ford Motor Company pavilion, with its notorious curves swirling around a flagpole.

No other Dominican project had yet made it as far as the Jaragua Hotel: it was widely showcased in international architecture publications, even in spite of the troubled general climate due to World War II. For example, Interiors highlighted its design in 1944, while Proyectos y Materials and The Architectural Forum followed suit in 1945. The latter, in fact, dedicated a generous spread featuring the hotel's blueprints, as well as its long list of materials and suppliers.

Just the sheer name "Jaragua" became shorthand for live music: in the 40s and 50s José Manuel López's band would play from Monday through Friday, while the weekends belong to Luis Alberti, the leader of the Orquesta Generalísimo Trujillo. The band had a repertoire that included Toda una vida and Quizás, by Osvaldo Farrés; Bésame mucho by Consuelo Velásquez and Capullo de alelí by Rafael Hernández. The bolero section usually featured Paraíso soñado and Ven, both by Manuel Sánchez Acosta, as well as Apasionado by Águeda Blandino, No te vayas by Luis Chabebe and Concierto de amor by Nicolás Yabra; the merengue spotlight featured the likes of El sancocho prieto, Loreta and Caliente, written by Alberti himself.

In spite of Trujillo's negative reputation, which kept many would-be visitors away, his machinery kept believing in the idea of a large-scale tourism industry for Santo Domingo. That explains why, in 1948, the González siblings received a commission for an expansion; they built five detached bungalows and 57-guestroom annex towards the east. The casino was moved to a new spot on the second floor and the main dining room grew to an even grander scale. // In the 50s, the southern façade got its brick-red awnings, the rooftop garden had its trellis and the grand terrace got a new bandstand. Nevertheless, no expansion at the time was as noticeable as the project undertaken for the preparations of the Fair for Peace and Fraternity in the Free World, an event brought along by Trujillo's desire to show the world the modern nation he had created. González was hired to increase the hotel's capacity with a 100-guestroom annex, located to the northwest side of the lot. This building, connected to the mothership via a walkway, was popularly known as the Holiday Inn, as it was then operated by the American hotel chain of the same name.

Four years after Trujillo's assasination, in 1965 the country was in revolt, as civilians joined by the military took to the streets of Santo Domingo to try to reinstate Juan Bosch's constitutional government, overturned by a coup in 1963. Fighting intensified due to the intervention of the United States, with the troops of the so-called Interamerican Peace Force, created by the OAS. The Force rented the Jaragua Hotel's main building as lodging, and that stay sadly damaged its infrastructure, leaving it worse for wear.

While Trujillo's government did have a long-term vision for tourism development, the truth was that the Jaragua Hotel was not profitable. There weren't enough check-ins to cover the costs of maintenance, but while Trujillo was alive it became rather commonplace to alter the bottom line in order to keep the dictator's whims at bay.

What's more, the hotel went through an unfortunate series of rescinded contracts, since many companies promised to embark on a full revamp of the building and ended up running away due to the high costs involved. Between 1942 and 1973 management had gone through 12 different pairs of hands, both local and foreign companies. Thanks to such swings, it became normal to close a year in the red. This administrative instability led to having a building that was simply not in any condition to keep up with market demands.

By the early 70s, the Jaragua Hotel had still failed to become profitable; it urgently needed someone who could see the operation under a different light. Fortunately, someone was willing to give it a chance: José Hernández Santa Cruz, known as Papito Santa Cruz, a Cuban businessman with previous experience in casinos, restaurants and night clubs both in the Dominican Republic and overseas. Although Santa Cruz had never been at the helm of a hotel, he rose to the challenge of a head-to-toe revamp valued at 1.2 million pesos, as the building was in a dire state. The process went from the ceiling to the AC units to the common areas and a full set of new furniture, as well as the façades, the pool area, old restaurants brought back to life and a new two-story casino. But there was one project in particular that would stand out in the middle of it all: La Fuente.

By mid 1984, the press caught wind of the plans to tear down the old Jaragua building... and yet the Transamerican contract still hadn't gone through Congress for approval. Motivated by the possibilities of this legal limbo, several civilian groups came together to try to stop the massacre. This list included journalists, architects and architecture students, as well as the members of Grupo Nueva Arquitectura, who sent a formal request to local legislators to declare the hotel part of the country's design heritage. That November 14, at the City Hall, councilor (and architect) Joaquín Gerónimo did officially declare it a work of cultural heritage, sending his proposal to the Executive Branch in order to try to halt the plans that wanted to see the old building fall in order to build a new complex.

As the calendar marked March of 1985 and the debate about Jaragua's future went on, the hotel stood completely empty, ready to be demolished. Although Congress still hadn't approved the contract, Transamerican began by tearing down the south façade of the building... but that drove such a media frenzy that they had to put a stop to those works. // Martínez Burgos y Asociados, a building contractor, had hired Cocimar to handle the demolition itself, and Cocimar then hired Dykon, an American company specialized in explosives. And so, on the afternoon of March 13 people resigned themselves to witnessing the much-hyped spectacle of a Hollywood-style explosion, since authorities explained that the building was in such dire conditions due to the impact of four decades of saltpeter that it could tumble down on its own without warning. And yet, when those two thousand loads of TNT went off, the Jaragua Hotel barely moved a few inches... there stood Guillermo González's masterpiece, nearly intact, seemingly taunting those who dared called it a weak white elephant. Unfortunately, as dynamite failed to do its job, Transamerican's plans continued and they gave the building an ingnominious death, using a wrecking ball and even using pickaxes.

In a country that has only been taught to appreciate one type of architectural heritage —that is, a colonial one— our built testimony of the 20th century is often misunderstood and unaprecciated. Things get more complicated once we take into account the shared role of our architects, the authorities, our real-estate developers and the homeowners who show little to no sensitivity to fight for its preservation. Who's crazy enough to preserve a crumbling Gazcue manor when one can instead plant an apartment building, its aesthetic value notwithstanding?

That explains why a large part of our modern heritage can be found modified, maimed and even abandoned... while another part has already disappeared. Just like the Jaragua Hotel went down, so did the Molinari House by Tomás Auñón and Joaquín Ortíz. So did the Matadero Industrial by Henry Gazón Boná. So did the Secretary of State for Health and Education and the Workers' Hospital Dr. William Morgan, both designed by Marcial Poy Ricart. So went the Schad and Pichardo Ricart houses, some of the first samples of residential rationalism presented by Guillermo González.

In spite of this long list, we still have a bundle of architectural heritage items about to the lost which, if we come to our senses collectively, we can still save. The Centro de los Héroes sees how its Venezuelan Pavilion, by Alejandro Pietri, is at risk of tumbling down. On El Conde Street stands González's Copello Building, as well as the Díez and Baquero buildings, both created by Benigno Trueba y Suárez. In San Pedro de Macorís there's the Morey Building by Antonio Morey Castañer. Santiago de los Caballeros still has its abandoned Mercedes Hotel, designed by Romualdo García Vera. These projects can still return to the glory of days past via a series of interventions that can provide a productive use. An intelligent readaptation is, indeed, the name of the game here.

The Teatro Agua y Luz, designed by Catalonian architect Carles Buïgas i Sans for 1955's Fair for Peace and Fraternity in the Free World, is going through a process similar to the hotel's final years. Unfortunately, a dubious series of contracts and its unprotected state for more than a decade have turned it into a strong candidate to become our next Jaragua. Will this be the generational catalyst Millennial architects and design professionals need? Will this be the example that will force us to acknowledge how we're failing both our city and our citizens? Are we willing to fight to stop the few Jaraguas we have left from crumbling?