Walter – (Mysterious Happening #1) – A tale of YAG

 Family secrets and secret family – all revealed in God’s time!

OK so this didn’t begin as a YAG story.  It began on the same day of the YAG and was one of the two mysterious happenings that changed the faces of my present and of my future.  I invite you to pray for me that it be a change that stays with me forever.

This first mysterious happening began with an invitation.  Our church, the Cayman Islands Baptist Church, hosted over 30 pastors from Honduras and Cuba for a weekend of continued education and training.  It was a retreat and the visitors were hosted by church families and went to full days of training by American and Caymanian pastors (translated to Spanish) and the pastor of our sister church in Cuba (translated into English).  Two of these gentlemen were hosted by my parents and I shared a few memorable meals with them, sharpening iron with iron and refining my own language skills.  In church on Sunday the whole contingent treated us to a heavy baritone rendition of a well-known praise song in spanish and Pastor Randy introduced a few of them by name.

Enter Walter.  Or should I say, THE WalterS.  Walter Bush Snr. and Walter Bush Jr. from the First Baptist Church of La Ceiba.  The name Bush hit me like a cold water drop from an a/c unit and I turned with eyes lit up to my mom.  She was smiling and wiggled her eyebrows at me.  After service ended and our church family gathered together to catch up I walked up to a YAGgie girlfriend of mine speaking to two vaguely familiar men.  As I came into earshot I heard one of them say to her “Our roots are in Cayman but we wouldn’t have a clue as to where to look to find our family here”.  On approach the older man lifted eyes identical to mine – a rare mix of hazel and green – and I said “You must be the Bushes”.

Thus began an animated conversation with my cousins.  Mr. Walter Snr. is the image of what I have always imagined my grandfather to look like.  My mom confirmed it to me – his height, his eyes, his aura of calm is much like her father.  Walter Jr. and I spoke at length of what it is to be a Bush – the satellite ears, our unique battle as a family with compulsiveness, the addictions that our compulsiveness can drag us into, our family attachment to mutton peppers, our family recipe for our famous pepper sauce (IMAGINE!), the power of our personalities.  We were invited to visit them and exchanged email addresses and parted ways with smiles deep down in our hearts.

And now the Walters have called… on the day that I dream of handing out cupcakes in La Ceiba.

Goodbyes and the Eagle

And the little Monkey shall lead me…

This morning as I wake to bread and guava jelly made by Nena and black coffee I rise with a grateful heart and the knowledge that I am truly privileged.  I am blessed with the love of an aunt in Myce and a cousin in Monkey and I am honoured with the friendship of their amazing family.  I must say THANK YOU to each of them for touching my life.

First there are the sipotes, Fiore, quiet and efficient little gallina, and Christian – “No soy ‘Christian’, soy ‘Krristiang’.  Soy hondureño, no me gusta como dicen ‘Christian’ en inglés!” (He hates how his name sounds in English so I got pronunciation instructions.)  He is funny and stubborn with little man ways in his young form about to burst into adolescence.
And then there is Bo, already a man at 19 with a gentl espirit and a will of iron.  It is fascinating to see his will meet the will of Monkey’s in confrontation!  She has her little fingers around his heart but he is her match when she steps out of line.  His companionship during this trip has reminded me of my own brother, another gentle man of iron, and I am honoured to be his friend.
But the center of this family and the rock on which they lean is Nena.  “Ab’ela Nena” Monkey calls her, over and over in a slow chant, but she is Nena to all her friends.  A woman of colourful intensity and passion, spirit and integrity, a cancer survivor and a warrior soul, she has been my hostess and my guide, my sage and my joy.  And these have been an inspiring four days with her.  Her family is blessed to have a lifetime of Nena and everything and everyone in her orbit benefits for her fairness and her gracious generosity.
Monkey and Myce remain in Honduras while I make my way home to my usual life.  They will rest in the womb of their family awhile longer and I will miss them very much.  Nena has packed me up with her homemade wine and cocoa powder, stories of La Ceiba and treats for my family.
I am sorry to leave these loved ones but will return to my daily life the better for having been with them.
Goodbyes are always difficult with people you love.  Today I felt tears tickle the back of my eyes as Fiore hugged me goodbye and Kristiang told me to make sure I took everything with a cheeky little tilt to his head.  The morning went quickly – breakfast on the patio and the drive to town to buy queso to take home to my mom.  All packed and ready to go, I settled with my Myce on the porch.  Monkey took me for a walk in the garden, Fiore climbed the guava tree and Bo cleaned the glass on the truck for our journey… just another afternoon in Honduras.  But today I must say goodbye.
The heart-wrenching parting over, I found myself sitting in the waiting room in Aeropuerto Internacional Golosón with a panoramic v iew ofthe mountains.  The clouds hung in tendrils over the peaks and slid mysteriously over like a seal sliding into a pool.  My goodbyes lingered bittersweet as my bird, Cayman Airways, taxied in.
Only an hour ago I was sat on Nena’s porch looking at another beauty fly toward me.  This one was born to fly and with respect I realized I could never have a claim on it.  The eagle circled, looking for prey in the lowlands off Nena’s porch.  My breath caught as it dipped out of sight only to soar again, likely with something wriggling for its life in its strong beak.  The wildness was breathtaking and there was a quickening of our blood as we all stood, eyes to the sky, watching.  My camera was packed and I didn’t want to miss a second of the sight of this untamable bird.
But its presence, its wild glory, will stay with me in a place in my heart right next to Nena, Bo, Myce, Monkey and the sipotes.  I leave them in the hands of God, La Ceiba and the Eagle.

No more rain… no more pain…

That last night as I stood looking over the night sky a sense that this moment would be special came to me.  There are defining moments in life that we do not recognize at the outset, so cloaked are they in the veil of the ordinary.   But their flavour lingers and their perfume settles on your soul to become a part of you, an enrichment of you, and a turning point for you.  This time with Nena sat out over the rain-washed garden and looking up into the stars of La Ceiba with un tragito is one of the memories I treasure most from my short time in Honduras.

We spoke of life, of the love of country, of the power of womanhood.  She asked me what was happening in my life and sat waiting as I spoke of my love of work.  I do love my job and throw myself in.  When that topic was exhausted she sat waiting some more, looking at me gently.  Sensing no escape I went on, told her of my troubles, my struggle to recover from a few heavy blows in swift succession.  I didn’t belabour or expand and in a few short sentences cut to the core.  There was no need to embellish – Nena feels it as I do.  “Trraicionera” she swore under her breath and as I finished she spat out “Mentiroso!”

Aiii m’hija…” her advice to me was priceless and matter of fact.  No need for dramatics.  The power of her feelings came across without the theatre of flowery words.  “Mejor soltera que mal acompañada, m’hija.  Hay mujeres tracioneras en esta vida… y hombres mentirosos… interesadas en cada calle… ”  She advised me for some time on the management of my friendships, the balance of my personal life and my work, and the part I can play in my family life.

She went on to tell me of her life, of her own deep love and the devastation of betrayal.  She told me of her suffering, of her passion for her family and her city.  I listened to the beautiful melody of her spanish and felt my own battery recharging as she continued on, great peace in her voice together with the quick-blood of life.

In life there are defining moments brought about by powerful colourful people.  Not for my Nena the essence of insipid pastel yellow and baby blue.  She is a woman of pulsing blood-red like her ginger lilies, the lush green of the life of her mountains, and the sharp, clear lightning of her intelligent mind.

Across Latin America there are peaks and valleys, love and pain, people of dominance and people of passion.  My Nena is a mountain, plain as day.  Never again will I apologise for feeling deeply, for speaking powerfully, for being all of me at full intensity.  Never will I feel shame at being too much or too scary or too bold or too strong.  There is a whole continent of people who feel as deeply as I do and do not fear to show it.  It makes us dangerous when we want to be, strong when we need to be, and an ocean-depth full of love when the time comes for us to be.

This is who I am.  And thank you Nena for encouraging me to be.  To be me.

Porvenir

True to Sod’s Law, my last morning in Honduras is beautiful.  There is no rain and no clouds cover the sky.  The blue beyond is startling today after so much rain and the air is clear from the inordinate amount of water flowing over the past few days.  Finches are dancing in the grape-vine and from limb to limb in the guava tree.

Monkey is fast asleep even now.  She didn’t get to nap yesterday at all but was up playing all day.  She may have caught five minutes in my lap on the way from Porvenir.

Yesterday afternoon Nena loaded us up into her four-wheel-drive and took us to see Myce’s property in a town outside of La Ceiba.  The rains had already let up and the path to the property was slick with mud.  At one point, Christian stopped and pointed out the hormigas.   A line of leaves marched in constant succession and had me squatting down and squinting to see the busy red ants below.  It was a long line of walking leaves and I took a picture to show my naturalist brother at the next opportunity.

The young man who cares for the property was in the door of the little hut when I caught up with three little children all under the age of four with dirty faces and curious eyes.  Mahogany trees and a tree with a flower much like a frangipani and almost as tall as a Ceiba tower over the property with cooling shade.  Below them, nature thrives in all its rainforest glory – plantains in a worshipful circle and coffee trees, starchy roots and pregnant vines.  It is a living bread basket.

Next we were off to the beach at Porvenir.  The Rio Porvenir was swollen and beautiful, flowing beneath the glassy surface with fierce determination to the sea.  It wasn’t muddy at all but clear giving the view of the river rock below.  This junction of two powerful waters is a tranquil tourist destination, quiet now in the slow season.  Thatch roofed huts line the riverside and the sand is the colour of ash.  Nena described for me the scene in the summer, of tents and a great crowd of campers who cover the beach like ants, of vendors selling all sorts of food and wares.

But on this day it was quiet, shared only with us, a father and with his child out on the point, and three fishermen in bright coloured windbreakers, rods and reels up in the air.  A canoe, a Honduran dory, slid down the calm river and completed the idyllic picture.

My spanish is improving with every day that I pass here.  Nena des not speak english to me but is patient with me as I process.  Last night I dreamed in spanish and woke to thoughts in Spanish!  Immersion really works!  The children and I understand each other much better now as well and Christian teases me as he teases Fiore.  As for Fiore, she is my little gallina and gives as good as she gets.

From Porvenir we strolled around the mall, had a meal, and bustled home.  Everyone readied for bed and Bo and I sat up late with a movie while Nena took in the night air with a final cigarette.  Coming to the door she invited me to join her with un tragito de ron (a little drink of rum) and see the rain-free sky of La Ceiba.

Where the Rio Porvenir meets the Caribbean Sea

A tear for your love… a tear I will forever cry…

So many bolero, so many tears.  The latin world is awash with them and each one has its home in truth.

Today I met two little boys.  One is two years old and silent, his brown hair cut like a bowl and his eyes big and rich cups of café con leche.  Monkey tried to draw him out to play with her blocks and her toys but he wouldn’t move.  He wouldn’t come to me when I tried to tempt him from his grandmother’s knees into my warm jacket despite obviously being quite cold there in Nena’s living room.  His older brother is four years old, protective and independent.  His will be a very big job and already he has assumed some of the manhood he has inherited in tragedy.

Four weeks ago these little boys bore witness to their father’s murder.

He was twenty-seven years old and a hard worker.  He was so hard a worker in fact that he had begun to taste the illusive flavours of success.  He drove a new car and bought property out in the country in a town where a sister of his lived.  She was warned to tell him not to come out to the land but he didn’t get the message in time.  His mother recounts to me the story of her grief.

On the day he died he took his wife and two children together with his father and cousin to the land.  They worked from early in the morning until about 3 o’clock in the afternoon.  Bunches of bananas were cut and crops of all kinds readied to load into the vehicle.  The family was sat on a blanket spread in the field eating when one by one men appeared from out of the brush surrounding them.  They numbered around 30 and the first to speak said “we mean you no harm”.

“No, no, no, no, NO” protested a man from the outer edge of the circle.  He elbowed his way in toward the family and the woman would remember that his eyes were red with blood.  “You are ALL going to die today.  Because I am huuunngrry to kill.”

The woman held her children to her tight and the men were trapped where they had been sitting, more than twenty automatic weapons trained on them.  The killers wrested the little boys from their mothers’ arms and held her back.  Their father went ballistic, struggling to his feet screaming “Leave my children alone!”

The man of the red eyes said to him with a nasty smile “Because you cannot behave yourself, you will be the first to die.”

The killing began and three men lay dead when it was over.   The father died in horror and fear believing his family too would be killed.  When the shooting stopped suddenly there was an eerie silence and the deafness of guns shot too close.  The returning birds, skittish with their own fright, would behold the sight of two boys, aged two and four, clinging to the bloody corpse of their father as their mother held him in her arms helpless.  Finding no fun in the prey of a distraught mother and two young children, the killers moved on to the car, sitting in it, opening the hood and going over it like a prospective purchase, their laughter ringing out to meet the hesitant renewed birdsong.  Weapons slung easily over shoulders now, AK47s and pistols.  The dead man’s gun was propped, useless, against a tree far away from the killing circle, where it would be found later by investigators.

“Una lágrima por tu amor… Una lágrima lloraré” ~A random bolero on the radio the day I was told this story.

When the police arrived to collect the bodies, they were met with enemy fire.  One officer fell that day, leaving another woman widowed and more boys orphaned.  It would take seven truck loads of police and security officers to reclaim the bodies of the four men who had only hours been fathers, loving and hot-blooded, the fierce protectors of their children.

As the grief-stricken grandmother recounted these atrocities in Spanish, repeating parts I did not understand in English, Nena wept, her own tragedies forgotten.  The youngest boy with the coffee eyes would not leave the grandmother’s familiar knees.  I looked on the beautiful child and saw a story too often true.

Just Friday night a young doctor was killed outside a discotheque in Tegucigalpa.  He was from La Ceiba and visiting for the graduation of his younger sister in the nation’s capital.  In San Pedro that same night a friend of my family too was gunned down.  Then there was the cousin a few years ago who was kidnapped by the gardener and murdered, another who was assassinated on the highway, and still another that was murdered on his boat on the high seas.

This is a land where tears are shed and moments of life are treasured, guns are in pretty handbags and waistbands and life taken for cheap.  It is the land of beautiful orchids, fierce faith and delicious food, the power of friendship and the orphans of tragedy.

The four year-old with a growing gravity to his carriage told his grandmother days before our visit “Nana, I know my Daddy isn’t coming back.  I know where he is sleeping.  Don’t worry Nana, I understand that his body is here asleep but his heart is with God.”

…y La Mañana de Dolorfín!

Never enough cafe negro!

Monkey woke me with her startled cry when her mummy disappeared AGAIN – this time to the bathroom.  There were smiles and hugs when she reemerged.  This little girl is amazing – she wakes up laughing!

Nena asked me before I rolled over “tienes goma?”  At first I didn’t feel the hangover but in the shaking of my head the Flor de Caña woke up and my brain screamed in answer to its call.

Breakfast has never been more welcome.  Cafe negro with pan de la muerte.  Black coffee and the ‘bread of the dead’.  Halloween is near and here and there Catholic traditions shine through in this latin land.  The orange and lemon zest in this cake-like bread is a perfect match to my coffee.  Today I need two cups and a painkiller.  And Bo, fast becoming a new brother to me, presented me with a little foil package.  Myce has taken a panadol that isn’t even touching her goma.  But Bo swears by Dolorfín.  “Dolorfín, el fin del dolor” laughs Myce by way of explanation.

I remember as a child the stories from Honduras of the “Mejoral”.  It was the magic drug for some time and had something like panadol and codeine in it.  People were taking it for everything that ailed them – headache, cancer, gunshot wounds, indigestion.  Mejor – better, Mejoral – to get you better.  But today it is Dolorfín.  And Dolorfín is WORKING.

This morning I’ll take anything to get rid of my gummy goma and enjoy my last full day and full night in La Ceiba.

Cleansing Flood

There is nothing like sleeping in the rain.  And rain has not failed to fall for me.  Every time I lay my head down in Honduras to rest the rain meets the gurgle of the stream outside the window and makes for a beautiful sleep.  The windows are louvered and allow a fresh breeze in to sweeten the night and the stream is blood-red with the drain of the earth into it.  Always there is the sound of water.

Yesterday I bought two works of art to hang in my home.  One was a metal-worked thicket of leaves for my porch.  The other was a cross also of metal.  It is beautifully woven and will be put in a place of prominence in my home to remind me of my Father’s love.  Tonight the cross is wrapped for my journey home, tight in cardboard and masking tape.  But there are reminders everywhere.  The constant flow of water is music calling to mind the only never-ending grace.

No matter what I have done in my day, no matter where I have gone, how I have felt and what I have said His grace meets me like rainfall when I lay my head down to rest.

Isn’t it strange how it is the imperfect among us who forgive with the most difficulty?  It is also very amazing to find that imperfection in myself and feel grace rise to meet it.  I am forgiven – not necessarily by men and women around me and not necessarily by myself, but by the only person whose opinion is worth anything at all.  I am loved best of all by my God.

Rain of grace that washes away all imperfection...

Compras en la lluvia… Shopping in the rain.

The rain hasn’t stopped but it hasn’t stopped us either.  We stepped over the gutter and into the taxi early in the day and went shopping.

La Ceiba is a city of great contradictions.  The city streets vary from well maintained two-lane highways to torn up roads that enter the suburbs.  There is green, there is wealth, there are modern signs, there is squalor, and there is always danger.

A month ago today gunmen entered Nena’s home.  They held her up with Fiore.  Bo was at home and heard her pleading outside and came at them gun blazing, shooting her attacker.

There has been an effort to secure the compound ever since.  Gates are reinforced and serpentina being put around the top of the walls.  The weapon that came to her aid is now at her side at all times and in the trips to town for her compras she is always looking over her shoulder.

Today as we walked between street stalls and shop entrances in narrow corridors rain water sloshed up from the flooded street.  Nena was very nervous.  Always in the back of her mind she remembers her fear of that day.  There is someone out there who once tried to kill her and there are bullet holes in the walls of her home.

But life must go on.  And Nena refuses to leave her home.  I love my home she repeats to me over and over.  Amo a mi tierra, a La Ceiba.  And so we found ourselves in the cafe of Lena, a family friend.

The pastelitos de pollo and cafe de oro (negro, fuerte y sin azucar) were excellent!  The soup on the stove promised to be just as good.  Lena kissed Monkey and caught up with Myce as she arranged food on plates for us and black coffee.  Monkey ate the “chick-chix” out of the pastelito and threw the flour shell back into her mummy’s hand.  Thanking Lena we set off to look at clothing in the second-hand stores and get our nails done before coming back for soup.

The shopping surprised me.  There is a thriving industry for second-hand clothing in La Ceiba!  We walked through, looking through shelf after shelf and I couldn’t help but wonder how many of my own donations ended up on these shelves and how many were actually given free to the poor.  Leafing through clothing discarded by people as fortunate as we are I remember my mother packing up and bundling clothing my brother and I had outgrown as children and giving them to our Tía to take to Honduras for the less fortunate.  I always felt honoured as a little girl to help a little girl who needed my favourite jeans but couldn’t afford them for herself from the stores.  It was only in my adulthood with veils of worshipful blinders stripped away that a little voice in my head suggested that they were probably sold in the end for handsome profit.  I put the thought from me, disappointed at the mercenary image it presented.

But today the image came alive.  I saw it for myself.

The rain fell, the road flooded and we came back damp and ready for soup.  Monkey fought sleep enough to eat and we made it to the supermarket.  Tortilla vendors, tamale vendors, lychee vendors, banana vendors, and plaintain vendors all clamoured around the front of the modern supermarket with rows of metal carts.  Inside, neatly stacked shelves boasted pastas of various shapes and Boyardee sauces, Ruffles potato chips and french onion dip, queso in full display of local varieties and anything you would expect from a modern supermarket.  I picked up snacks for the children, a razor for my neglected skin, and coffee to take home to Cayman.  Nena did her compras for the house.  It was an altogether successful trip.

The difference in what life would have been had our forefathers made different choices struck me, as it always does on trips to Jamaica.  But it hit me in a different place this time.  There is a different kind of danger to La Ceiba, a more raw and direct threat to life with each passing moment.  The land is more hostile, the parasites more violent, and the people more… more something I cannot put my finger on.  Jamaica has a vibrancy, a determined fighting spirit.  It is violently passionate but almost forcibly so.  Honduras does not have to force anything at all.  Siestas are sweet, music is romantic, and love is real but the violence that is so raw and brutal and so very near the surface makes it all so much… more.  Moments spent alive and together with loved ones and with sweet breath are savoured like pastelitos.

We came across many friends of the family who greeted Nena and welcomed back Myce, joyful at how well she looks.  Monkey was showered with kisses and fussed over and remarks made on her white skin.  I was welcomed to Honduras for my first time and wished a pleasant trip.  We filled a taxi boot with bags and groceries and souvenirs and drove home with nails done and an accomplished tiredness from compras en la lluvia.

Cafe negro... fuerte y rico...

Pastelitos

Intoxicating Simplicity – The morning after

“Cincuenta guineos por veinticinco lempiras!”

Nena's stream

Everything is sold door to door.  Tortillas, ice, green bananas, cheese, a Ceiba woman can do all her grocery shopping from her front door.  This morning I am sat once again on the patio watching the rain reclaim the city that was once her worshiping forest.  The loudspeakers from well worn pickup trucks have passed twice now since I sat down.  The green bananas (guineos) were the last to leave and the truck was filled to bursting with stiff, milky fruit tight in their leather-tough green skin.  I was sure he must be confused – fifty guineos for twenty-five lempiras?  That’s just over a dollar for the fruit of several trees!

It has rained all night and shows no sign of letting up.  Today I was to go to the islands and to my Uncle and hundreds of unmet cousins.  But the catamaran that would take me over is likely parked in safe harbour right now.  There is bad weather between us and Cayman and the islands in between are getting a good taste of it.  Only the most seasoned islander would take to the ocean today.

But it is just as well.  Coffee is on the stove and semitas are coming with it.  I am rested and comfortable on the adirondack two-seater on the porch.

Nena is still asleep, her baby Monkey up close to her for warmth.  I slept in another bed under a heavy blanket with the image of a galloping stallion.  I had teased little Fiore that he would likely wake me up galloping in my sleep in my broken spanish the night before.  Still shy, or perhaps not understanding my torn up attempt, she smiled and nodded.  The breeze was cool with rain and I snuggled deep under the covers.

My orchids would love this place.  In fact, the orchidia brasavola is the national flower of Honduras!  There must be magic in the mountains for an orchid hunter here!  All around the garden and in the trees in the surrounding hills raindrops fall like diamonds and hang languid to the leaves until sliding slowly to the leaf below.  Each drop makes its way slowly to the stream that runs through the property to the left below the garden.  It is an aching beauty, an untamable wildness pretending to be domesticated, and an intoxicating simplicity.

Puentecito Nena - The Bridge Nena Built

Under my blanket I dreamed of love and believed it possible.  There is so much more space in ones being when messy clumps of the material life are stripped away.  Bills are gone, corporate struggles forgotten, conflict does not exist and all that is left are the basics of being.  The eating, the drinking, the laughing, the loving, the remembering of a childhood and reliving the things that made it great.

I realized today just how Honduran I have been all my life.  My family has always congregated on broken chairs and hammocks under the tamarind and mahogany trees sharing stories and laughter, jokes and pepsis, catamales and fried fish.  Much of what I always believed to be Caymanian is in fact Honduran.  The two are similar, don’t get me wrong, but there is a rawness and a boiling intensity to the Honduran that is missing in the other parts of my blood.

My hostess is an amazing woman.  Known as Nena to her community, she is a Chona – a follower of Visitacion Padilla, a feminist famous for the way she changed Honduras.  In her early 50s or late 40s (I wouldn’t dare guess which on this blog), my Nena is completing her qualification process to be an Abogada here in La Ceiba, a lawyer licensed to practice in a year’s time.  Bo, her son, is studying the foundation courses that will take him into medical school.  The little bridge that crosses the stream before we get to her house is called the Puentecito Nena.  There was a bridge before that washed away in a hurricane many years ago and she worked hard to get it rebuilt, lobbying local government, supervising the workmen and feeding them daily.  She is a woman of great passion, rosy cheeks and a huge laugh that fills her home and tickles everything in her orbit into laughter as well.  No one would believe the things she has survived.

Love is possible here...

Two children join her and Bo in her home, her neice and nephew.  Christian is in the early stages of his fight to manhood, a spicy boy of 13 with the makings of a man of power.  Fiore is tiny, doll-like, with flawless skin and beautiful brown eyes shining from an angellic face that bellies any suggestion of the mischief she can make.  She will be a knockout in no time.

The story of the Honduran home is evident everywhere you look outside these walls but Nena is an exception.  Not for her family the division of roles along sexual lines.  Life has taught her that she is capable of successes well beyond the imaginations of others.  Her family is a well oiled machine, her children capable and efficient, and her home powered by respect.  In other families the girl will run the home but the boy will need a wife to run his.

But love is possible here.  To my surprise today I see far less wrong with the lean of our culture, here in its natural element.  I see it as neither a lean toward man nor toward woman but toward an era that has passed by in my home and in Nena’s home but is the present tense with distinct heartbeat in most homes in this rainy land.

Barista de San Jose