A sick-day in bed can ruin an experience, but a week in pain knocks the romanticism out of travel.
It’s only a memory, now.
More doctors are needed in a place like Honduras, and better medicine, healthier drinking water and more clinics to feed health into rural areas.
But these problems will be met later in the story. After my friend Paulo had gone to hobble away up the hills, my suffering paradise, so unrequited, approached.
Under the lights that filled the sky between buildings on each side of the street, arch lanterns flickered till they held the darkness in a narrow frame. Unfortunate locusts trapped in dust buzzed on top of the cobblestone. The coughs and sputtering sound of wheels that carried traveling shanty cars could be heard trapped in the cinder block walls of unfinished building and the stucco, now orange, that tilted like painted graves.
Before he went Paulo lit a cigarette. I took a breath and felt an angry thought, so brittle and tainted. The call of unemployment and futility stung the back of my eyes. I was depressed.
“American problems touch the developing world with heartbreak,” Paulo said. I looked over. He leaned over the balcony and watched the neighbors gather their plastic chairs in holy half circles and I smoked my last cigarette while leaning against the railing watching the reflection in the closed sliding glass door.
“You are all romantics,” I said. “To be born Honduran is to be born in search of love.” “Someday the country might be that way. Right now we like sex too much care about love. At least I do”
Paulo followed me inside. Dust from the open balcony door lifted in and the sky above the arch lights filled with a dark April blue.
“Will you remember to get a book tomorrow?” Paulo asked. "I've read everything i brought with me."
“I will,” I said. Reaching for am empty clear bottle. “The rum is gone,” I said
“We should get some more,” Paulo said.
“I’m too hungry. Do you want to get something to eat?” I asked.
“Na, I would go with you, but I don’t have any money”
Paulo had left into the night, searching for recreation in the touch of a woman or man. With enough rum he didn’t care which. I went down the apartment stairs to the corner. With the lip of a cardboard box a woman was fanning coals at the bottom of a black circle grill. I sat on the curb, my feet plunged into the cobble street where I watched stray dogs argue for spots near the table ends. I thought about life and wanted to be happy, but I was drunk and still too hungry to think much.
When the single church bell rang i knew the night was getting late. The food came hot and ready to be devoured. I sat at the table with an old man who ate with his fingers. I did the same. I had learned that’s where the most flavors arrived from. Afterward I went home, drunk, full and tired, and not thinking much about anything. That’s how I wanted to end every night, at least when there was no love in the air, only lights, sex and observations before dinner.
