Angie, the Canadian tourist, had sprouted new eyes.  She followed us outside, blinking incessantly to get accustomed to them.  It was exhilarating to observe the world for the first time, but disconcerting to know that she had never had a sense of sight before.  Mexico ceased to be an exotic playground where play money circulated as if real and small quantities sufficed to buy the hedonistic pleasure that no one needed but always craved.  There was something in the reuniting of the child to its mother that reminded her that Mexico is people and not just a territory defined by boundaries.  They lived and suffered here and didn’t give a damn that the cappuccino wasn’t any good, because they weren’t on vacation.  They were living and striving for positive results, even occasionally, succeeding.  In her former way of thinking, Angie would have calculated a low probability of success, assuming, as she always had, that wealth equates happiness, but even in her brief experience of transformation from working class to relative prosperity in a third world country, Angie had discovered that the bonds of humanity fill the void of unhappiness more effectively than money.  Abandoning her job in Winnipeg and having access to a lifestyle of leisure on a sunny beach were not enough to satisfy her slumping spirit.  It wasn’t just adventure that had brought her to Chiapas but also the desire for companionship.  The man she had met while her friend Betty was still with her was unkempt, uncouth and in many ways unappealing, but he was company.  He had been attentive during their conversation, listening close, and trying to glean nuggets of commonality, no matter how remote.  Though his eagerness was improperly transparent, it was flattering to be admired.  Later, she made the acquaintance of other travelers that passed through her beach side hang-out, but she maintained a special affection for the memory of Hogie Anderson: the man for whom she felt responsibility.  It had been so easy to push him towards the idea of teaching.  She decided to look for him and evaluate his progress.
     It gave her pride to know that his character had been uplifted by his new profession, even if he wasn’t thriving in his classroom activities.  Furthermore, it was a joy to witness the reunion of Catalina and her baby boy.  Hadn’t the side trip to Chiapas been worth it?

     “What a beautiful child,” she complimented as we all walked along together.
     “Thank You,” answered Catalina.
     “He’s happy with you.”
     “It’s wonderful to be here with him.  I haven’t seen him for eight months.”
     We found a small field of grass in the city and Catalina set the baby down to watch him walk.  He wasn’t walking yet the last time she had seen him.  While mother and child were joyfully reacquainting themselves, Angie invited me to have some coffee.  She probably thought Catalina wanted time alone with her son, though truthfully we were not disturbing them.  They were oblivious to the outside world.
     There was a tiny storefront that roasted and sold fresh Chiapas coffee beans across the street from the urban field where mother and child were playing.  Angie and I sat at the only table while the proprietor made a new pot for us on her drip coffee maker.  The aroma of coffee was strong and reminded me of the Bohemia House in Tempe which, of course, made me think of Lydia.  Yes, I was needing a good flavorful cup of fresh-brewed.  They used instant coffee at work--clearly a sub par beverage.  It seemed a crime not to partake of the sensational local beans.  What if Maria could set aside some of her secretarial duties each day to operate an espresso machine?
     “I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk,” apologized my hostess.
     With the imminent service of free coffee, I wasn’t about to sustain any grudges and I told her as such.
     “Is it money?” she asked.  “Is that why she hasn’t come to see him before now?”
     “Money is always a problem, but that’s not the main one.”  I told Angie about the unjust legal proceedings that had separated the baby from his mother.  “She’s authorized to visit him on weekends, but she doesn’t.  They’ve intimidated her.  But, frankly, I don’t understand it.  Catalina is so strong.  There’s no reason she can’t stand up to her mother-in-law.”
     “They belong together,” Angie stated dreamily, watching the pair laughing and falling on the ground together.
     “You’re right.  It’s an empty feeling to be away from the person who fits naturally at your side.”
     Ceramic mugs of potent beverage were set down in front of us.
     “You’re thinking about your girlfriend.”
     Judging the hour from the position of the sun outside, I said, “She must be drinking coffee right now.”
     “Why do you miss her?  Is it love?”  Her voice did not transmit a tone of jealousy, rather, it conveyed an invitation to strengthen the bonds of friendship through disclosure.  Despite her overt attitude of romantic disinterest, however, I detected in her body language a secret yearning for me.  Yet, there was no chance that I would jump on her.  I was thinking about someone special, who was physically far away, but emotionally, in close proximity to my heart.  Still, I found it hard to say I was in love with her.
     “She’s very special to me,” I answered rather blandly.
    Angie rested her hand on my knee and asked me to tell her how Lydia and I had met.
     “You don’t seem very much in love to me,” she said, placing her lips close to mine.  “Your story must be pretty average.”