We had taken a bus down the mountainside that morning, from beautiful, comfortable Xalapa to Veracruz. It was very hot and very humid there down by the coast, shirt-sticking-to-my-body-soaked-in-sweat-weather, as we slowly trawled the downtown of the city in search of a café I’d heard tales of, and near the docks this tiny restaurant was open to the street, and tempted us with a ceiling fan and seafood — it wasn’t the café we were looking for, but it was refuge from the climate, shade and breeze and spicy food and cold drinks to cool us down.
It was exciting to be in Veracruz, because Veracruz has a special ring to it that tickles me with expectations of exotic adventure, and I had fantasized for a long time to be here, a fantasy I conjured almost entirely from listening in my mind to the ring of the name — Veracruz, Veracruz. And now we were here, and we sat in this restaurant and nursed our ice cold drinks while we waited for our food and I listened to the sounds of the street, and the chatter of the waiter and the chef, and the TV behind the counter, and the squawking of seagulls from outside. My son was absorbed with his glass bottle of Coca-Cola, which he drank from with a straw. And then, just then, the colors on those walls — mustard yellow and rusty red — were perfect. My spirit soared.