My kitchen area has no circulation, is humid, hot, and stifling. Sweat drips off my nose as I finish making a cup of iced coffee in the morning.
Coffee in hand, I take my dog for his morning constitutional, a leisurely stroll in the sunshine around the block; he sniffs each familiar leaf and glares at the unintimidated roosters that puff up and strut like politicians ahead of him. As I stop at my outdoor trash can to dump his daily offering, I realize that my entire body and clothes are wet with sweat—it’s only 8:30 a.m.
I’m too hot! I’ll go to D’Frozz; it has air conditioning.
The line to place an order is long. Tourists have overrun the café. Someone forgot to tell them that tourist season ended last month. I set up at my favorite place and plug in my watch and AirPods. The rosary broadcast from California will start soon and I’ll catch it here while I wait for the line to shrink. I wipe my face with the washcloth I brought with me and scrub the back of my head to get most of the water out of my hair before it runs down my neck. I’ll be cool soon; a few deep breaths help.
By the time the hour-long rosary is over, I catch a break in the line at the counter, only two groups in front of me. I order my usual omelette with a salad instead of bread. The lineup of orders hung above the kitchen pass-through informs me it will be at least another half hour before I get my food. When it comes, I am involved in morning prayers and don’t hear my name called. Thanayra, the competent one with the crayon red hair, brings my food out to me.
Pablito has been picking fruit to sell and darts in to drop some free quenapas on the table in front of me. “They’re sweet,” he tells me. The ones I had purchased from him last week were not. Later, I walk out to where he sits in front of the café and give him a gratitude bead bracelet. I admire this man. He doesn’t beg; he offers to wash car windows; he climbs on roofs to get the fruit others can’t reach. He escorts pedestrians across the street through tangles of vehicles at the intersection, he keeps himself clean and neat, and he has a smile for everyone. When he touches the first bead on his new bracelet, he gives gratitude for Jesus Christ.
Manolin is here almost every morning. He always wears Hawaiian shirts, and I complimented him once on wearing beautiful colors, not just black and gray like everyone else. He told me colors are happier; he likes to make the world happier. Today, he has an instrument with him. It’s a—what is it? “Canjo,” he tells me, “like a banjo but made with a can.” He picks it up and starts strumming. As I gaze in appreciation, he sings to me; Amazing Grace is the song he has chosen. I give him one of my gratitude bead bracelets.
Another day, Thanayra pops up at my table to ask what size t-shirt I want. I guess it’s customer appreciation day. She takes my picture wearing it.
Francesca comes to Friday’s Craft Circle at D’Frozz. She drops her bags on the table, then walks around, drapes her arm across my shoulders, and kisses the top of my head. “Besitos,” she says—little kisses.
I started this craft group as a remedy for my two-dimensional life, the friends and students I contact on Zoom. Now, it meets each Friday. People crochet, knit, make things with gourds, work with beads, paint, do needlepoint, and sew. Sometimes they come only to sit and talk. We help each other with tangles and difficult stitches and patterns that have gone south, and with life—someone needs a good plumber, another a workman to install ceiling fans. They are my flesh and blood friends who can be touched and hugged, friends who interrupt each other, talk all at once, laugh and cry together, three-dimensional friends.
Come with me to D’Frozz. It has air conditioning.