Out in the All of It

I had been in Cartagena only two days and already I was enchanted by its beauty, stunned by its poverty, finding it a place of startling and unsettling contrasts. Early in the morning of my third day, eyes gritty, sleep elusive, I left the Plaza Hotel at first light and made my way along the narrow streets toward the ocean to a cafe' I had noticed the day before. i carried a tattered copy of Time magazine under one arm and a paperback novel pushed down in my back pocket, my shields against a growing sense of isolation and loneliness. The cafe' was spacious, wood frame, painted green, its tin roof rust-stained, canvas window coverings rolled up and tied. Inside were a few tables and chairs. A bright yellow and green sign hung above the doorway. Entering, I noticed two women in the back, each wearing a light blue bib apron, ironing what looked to be white table cloths. I sat at the table nearest the front, looking out at the empty street. It was still early and there were few people and little traffic. I listened to the muted sounds of the women ironing and talking, the irons hitting the cloth with muffled thuds, their words spoken softly. I sat for a time, reading, waiting, anticipating strong coffee, warm bread, eggs mixed with onions and sausage. I was famished. The morning light grew sharper, the sun now well above the horizon, already dominating the day. Across the street a dog came around a corner, moving slowly, pausing to stretch first one hind leg then the other, the walked stiffly over to a bush and sniffed. Finally, unsteadily, the dog lifted its hind leg. Looking around the cafe' I noticed there were no menus, no napkins or flatware. But this was Colombia, and nothing was as it seemed.