It is a pleasant isolation: sipping coffee I hope is decaffinated, surrounded by the chattering of a language I know only a little. Quiero tipico, huevos fritas, y decafe con leche gets me eggs, tortillas, gallo pinto, sour cream, and the coffee so bitter-sweet I suffer a crisis of my atheist faith.
It costs four dollars American for this feast and three hundred to kill a man, last night's dinner companions telling me the dangers of two men on a motorcycle, faceplates black, idling on Avenida Central. But thoughts can't stay dark long in this place: the sun is too bright, the sky too clear. I sip my coffee and watch Volcan Poaz lying dormant on the horizon. Pura Vida!
