My day begins as I go to slam the snooze button on my alarm for the third time that morning at 5:30 am. About this time my responsibility kicks in and I peel myself out of bed and inch like a Honduran slug down my stairs to make some coffee - "Cafe Rey," to be exact, which I generously dump in a sock like contraption that dangles inside a can of boiling water. I will never complain about prepping a coffee machine again. After scrounging around for leftovers and soaking my apple in Chlorox water, I make a mad dash out the door. No need for a shower - I look and feel as if I just crushed the Boston Marathon record time about 30 minutes later.
In Honduras, everything has its place. The first corner I pass every morning, I am greeted with a "Que le vaya bien!" by an elderly couple enjoying the "fresco" atmosphere in only their underwear. Walking up the cobblestone fourth avenue I can glance through the iron and cement house fronts into their simple and tiled homes - kids swinging around in hammocks, abuelas beating tortillas, young mothers hushing their babies. I'm almost swiped by mopeds and taxis as I weave through all of the bipedal commuters on thin sidewalks. I tip toe past the leashed boxer/doeberman mix, who I'm very confident will break free one of these days. Leaping over permanent puddles, I hurdle past the old man in the white cowboy hat carefuly and efficiently peeling breakfast oranges. One more turn past the grimey and oily autoshop littered with smirking hombres, and I have arrived at last....DAY-STAR SCHOOL.
Despite my body odor bursting through my deodorant like Orcs tearing through the walls of Gondor, I tell myself it will be a fantastic day with a big plastic smile, and wait patiently for my hellians...oops, I mean children, to arrive.
To be continued....
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