As good a day as any

Like when I read Jack London, and didn't foresee a way on earth that anyone else could have escorted his pencil; like when the evening fog rolled in so thick, I pooled water in my palms; like when their family served me fish and cheese, and I knew they wouldn't be eating dinner; like when he and I couldn't catch the bus after darkness and had to walk all the way home, and I preferred it that way; like when an old friend stopped through town, and only two Old Rasputin's weren't quite enough; like when I saw her face back lit by train cars and moonlight, and knew my soul would live forever.

Romans 1:20 -"His invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made."

If a man's identity has anything to do with his ability to communicate his opinions, call me John Doe.

I took a quick, three block stroll over to the nearest Pupuseria (griddled tortillas with goodness inside them) this evening to pick up dinner for myself and the two ladies I am working with. Having no intention of placing a complicated order, I went textbook, straight ticket revueltas (a combination of pork, beans, and cheese), seven of them. After fumbling through communicating that I wanted them to go, I took my ticket, number 35, and found a cozy brick archway to lean against for the time being, doing my best to conceal the blue and white striped umbrella I brought with me in case it rained.

"I took in my surroundings, and in between the blown transformer and random fireworks, plotted and scoped out the nearest wooden bench I would dive under in case of a genuine attack, even going so far as to hypothetically roundhouse a machine gun out of one of my assailants hands."

Before long, more than thirty minutes passed and all potential suspects had long thanked the host for their food and departed with their families, leaving me with a whole new lineup. The host noticed me, subtly trying to get his attention; not wanting to uncover my umbrella, yet notify him of my concern.

He came over several times, each time with an inquisitively apologetic look on his face, internalizing my order number and shaking his head confidently, like he had everything under wraps. And yet the food never came, and he continued to stop by, and ask me questions. I was tired, and grew more so with the fact that I couldn't understand a word that was coming out of his mouth, with explaining for the seventh time that I speak very little Spanish, and with the fact that even if I wanted to, there was no way to communicate what it was I wanted. So I began to blanket respond to every question with, "Si."

In hindsight, I realize that more than likely, each of his questions went something more like this...

"We just served a lady with an order number 16 higher than yours, did you notice that sir?"

"There's no way on earth that it should take an hour to prepare seven pupusas, were you aware of that sir?"

"The dish-washers and I just snack-timed on your entire order, are you cool with that sir?"

My food did arrive, and it was incredible.

I love El Salvador, and am constantly reminded of the often impossibility in communicating my opinions, or what it is that I want...a reality I wish I learned years ago.

Take 1: FC Academy El Salvador - First Baptist Church of Boynton Beach

Yellow Feather

I once told you when you looked hard enough at me, I saw dancing.

And in your breathing, felt the crescendoing fire rhythms of an ancient people, as we, nomads, under the constellations painted with each of your finger tips, joined to worship the sustaining life giver. Clothed in our souls, we pressed bare feet into the clay soil so mightily, the whole earth trembled in our wake.

And you knew I was telling the truth, because the dust clouds never left your eyes.

Independence Day

The night was misted rain, like fading laughter to the story teller. Passing stray dogs, I overstepped torn open trash bags, styrofoam, and cracked chicken bones. Mexico scored first, and three more times from different angles, within the thirty seconds it took me to sidewalk from the corner convenient store to the first pupuseria. I pictured the guard at the gate spilling his red beans in celebration all over his booth, or onto the six inch television he and his girlfriend stared into as I left the community. Conscious of the darkness, I sunk both hands into my jacket pockets, and enabling my upturned head and squared shoulders to pretend confidence, continued up the road until half-time. I crossed the road, finding the gate of 'El Mirador,' and escorted by my aloneness, proceeded, as would a bride, to the railing overlooking San Salvador. Two couples, disengaged to the eleven of us others, kissed church bells into the view.

I didn't get fireworks on the fourth of July, but I did get two million lit up kitchen windows. I do.