try this:

http://cs.bluffton.edu/~scoffman/trick.html

It took me twice to figger it out; it's kind neat. I leavefor Costa Rica tomorrow and I;m all packed, so I'm just waseting time.

(Private message to Helen only - are you still planning to sneak away and meet up with me in the hotel bar? It's the old Gran Hotel de Costa Rica, and I'll be in the back corner, wearing a fake mustache, a lilac Hawaiian shirt, and a green golf hat, so I won't be noticeable. I'll probably be smoking a Cuban ceegar - they're legal there. Just wink at me so I'll know it's you.)

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), April 02, 2002

Answers

to the new answers page, Phil, and step on it!

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), April 02, 2002.

Hey helen, if you read this, please email me. Your addy in my address book is no longer correct. Have you ever read the thingy below about "don't use a fake email address"?

-- gene (ekbaker@essex1.com), April 02, 2002.

Lon, the mule wants to come with me. I can't make him understand this is a tryst made in ... made in ... well, heaven would be stretching the truth, but anyway he insists on coming.

Do you know where I can get a floatie in extra-extra-extra large?

Gene, check your email in a few minutes.

-- helen (all@my.trysts.get.trashed), April 02, 2002.

Lon, have a wonderful trip!

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), April 03, 2002.

"Leavin', on a jet plane, don't know.........."

"Do you know the way to San Jose? I'm goin' there to....."

"Sail on silver bird, sail on by, your time has come........"

"Wastin' away again in Margaritaville........."

Play it agian, Sam, and this time, use the piano...

Adios, amigos and amigettes! I'll bring each of you back a nice gordo cucaracha, or some such delicacy. Except for Gayla- she want's me to smuggle in one of those Cuban ceegars. If I get the chance, I'll find an on-line cafe and post all the juicy details of my top secret mule-nage-a-troi with you-know-who from the farm. (just as soon as I can make them up)

Be safe, hug Granny and kiss the kids for me, I'll see you when I get back. Just one favor, if you will- from time to time, while I'm gone, post some fishing stories for Katy to read. Poor darlin'; we're gonna miss the crappie runs altogether.

Oh, waiter! Two more of these, por favor.............

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), April 03, 2002.

Hey Lon, I hope this finds you in a cyber cafe smokin them thar famous ceegars, and soothing your throat with the local vintage of whatever suits yer fancy there friend! Next time invite the rest of us, and not just helen, ok? I know ya wanna keep her to yerself, but maybe you kin talk to the missus about a cyber/IRL hug someday, down in the bayou!

I'm plannin on a cyber/IRL trip soon, meself! Up and cross country and back again! I'm not as good as you are at the postcard thingy, but ifn I get me a new laptop, at least I kin give ya'll a skeleton, ifn ya know what I mean!

I do hope yer havin the time of yer life there friend, and ifn ya see a mermaid on the water...perhaps she will show her tail, I mean form, somewheres near the beaver damn in the next story...just a thought!

Safe and happy journey there friend! We'll wait to hear from ya!

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), April 04, 2002.

And now, driect from the Copa Cabana Room, of the Cyber Cafe (and laundramat), we present, live for your entertainment pleasure, ....you know him, we love him, Ole Lon (Gringo Gordo)

_

Hola! Muchachos! So far my trip can be only described by one word: absolutely fabulous! Everyone is feeling fine, eating good, and generally being laid back, which is rare indeed for a bunch of men our age. Our rooms have large double windows that open to the plaza shared with the turn or the century facade of the Teatro Nacional, which is the old Opera House. Next door is the PreColumbian gold museum, and we're surrounded by small cafes. Of course, there is no air conditioning, as San Jose is situated in a high mountain valley on the Contental Ddevide, in an Alpine ecosystem. The weather is always perfect, in a way which is unconprehensible to anyone who lives on the Gulf coast like I do.

However, today is the runoff election for President, and the center of the city has been really noisy with music, blaring traffic as everyone supports thier party, and just general merrymaking. Of course, my two sons, 21 & 26, believe they are in paradise.

Like most Latin American cities, San Jose is absolutely throbbing with life all day and most of the night. It is a wonderful place for a sedentary people-watcher like me.

I love the serridipitous events that always seem to happen to me as I travel. We heard purely by acident that the old passenger train has been revived to the west coast town of Puntarenas. We got tickets (for $25 each, no less) and took the trip in a restored 1941 coach car. We five were the only ones aboard that weren't Ticos (native Costa Ricans), so we were treated like very special guests. We were offered food constantly, from little sandwiches to ripe mangos homemade torillas. A group of highschool seniors were aboard, whose assignment was to write about the train and how to improve its tourist appeal. They discovered my son, who is fluent in Spanish, and desended on him in a pack. Mostly they were 16 and 17 year old girls, each one gorgeous. So its safe to say my boys enfoyed the trip.

I've agreed to write a travel article for the guy who runs the little train line, so we are invited back today to tour the old engines in the sheds, take pictures, and get a little more history of the train itself. It was the best value I've ever gotten, and the whole experience was so good, it was unreal.

My 50 cents worth of time is almost up, but I will try to post again in a day or so. We leave the city tomorro for the higher mountain country, where we will do a canopy tour, a wild cave tour, and stay at the hot springs at the foot of Arenal volcano.

Aunt Bee, I'll also tell you all the sordid details of my liason with the mule and his mistress. (I'm working on it now)

Be well, water the plants, and don't forget to feed the cats. Adios for now.................

-- Senior ole' Lon (lgal@exp.net), April 07, 2002.

More details!

MOre detales..... (Of the mule.)

-- R. A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (racookpe@earthlink.net), April 07, 2002.

Lon, it sounds awesome! I'm jealous!!!

So glad to hear everyone's OK and enjoying themselves. Have a pina colada for me. :-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), April 07, 2002.

Lon, if you get to the Hot Springs, be sure to take a dip in the healing waters. They can take your imagination and muscles to places heretofore unknown! An experience of a lifetime, you're having!

Sounds like you were in the right place at the right time, for the train piece! Meant to be, if you know what I mean! And not a mule in sight, I'll bet!

Oh, and watch out for the local firewater! But if you partake, be sure to keep pen and paper handy, so you can pen your experiences to share with the rest of us later!

Is that Helen I see in the back of the train? Hmmm....

Keep us posted, and I'll send ya an extra 50 cents for the next post!

The climate sounds so beautiful, and the town homey! Glad your son is fluent in spanish so you can communicate clearly!

No need to hurry back to the bayou. The mudbugs will still be there when ya return!

Waiting for a Costa Rican update now....

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), April 07, 2002.

Lon

Thank you so much for sharing some of the details of your trip. It made my day. I just had my worst ever day at work, but it really gave me a lift to think of you and your family having such a great time together. I hope you enjoy every minute of it, especially the hot springs. Who knows, maybe you'll go home with a tattoo of a mule on your butt. Cheers and thanks.

-- Carol (wtw@oz.com.au), April 08, 2002.

He lurked incognito, blending in with the hot, sticky crowds in the street. Drifting with no apparent goal in mind, he sighted his target: a pink, naked, old, fat man. Lilac shirt. A beverage in each hand, likely alcoholic.

Something warm, heavy, and unbearably stinky grabbed one of his legs. In suprised shock he drew back suddenly and shook his leg hard. The disengaged attacker was a toddler, and now a screaming toddler was calling undue attention to the silent stalker.

He stepped back into the shelter of an outdoor beverage stand. It had likely provided the very alcoholic beverages the pink, naked, old, fat man was imbibing. He snorted derisively. Let his target get stinking drunk first. It would be easier that way.

He lurked behind the beverage stand until he was sure his target had moved out of sight. He had time.

The mule had a mango while he waited.

-- helen (my@two.cents), April 08, 2002.

Waiting behind a mango tree ....
Just my little muley and me .... (Can't sing .... tune continues off-key.)

-- R. A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (racookpe@earthlink.net), April 08, 2002.

She waited in the bar at the old Gran Hotel de Costa Rica. She nervously winked at every man with a lilac shirt, fake mustache, and a green golf hat, but none of them responded.

Her pancake makeup could not hide the bad wax job on her upper lip. The brashy color on her hair -- the box had promised "Auburn Delight" -- the color was a deep, bloody crimson. The tanning liquid she had selected from the bargain bin two years before had turned her whole body an orangy brown.

When she caught pitying glances from the local hookers, she knew her mirror hadn't lied.

She had a mango and contemplated throwing herself into the volcano. If the volcano would have her.

-- helen (three@sided.story), April 09, 2002.

I know how rude it is to lurk for weeks and then jump in. However....

Helen, how does a pink, naked, old man have a lilac shirt?

Lon, sounds like you're having a wonderful trip. Did I mention that my eldest daughter spent a month in Costa Rica in 1996 with her godfather, doing Spanish immersion? She had a wonderful time and was only a tiny bit homesick (she was in grade 5 at the time, 10? years old). That was her second best year for grades at school. She beat it in grade 8 when she missed 6 weeks of the fall semester because of appendicitis. Normally she gets bored and turns off sometime around March... which reminds me, time to go nag again. Sigh.

-- Tricia teh Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), April 09, 2002.

Welcome back Tricia! I'm still waiting on more vacation stories. :-)

Helen! Please don't jump in the volcano! I'm going to be up your way again soon and I'd like to meet you before you kill yourself. I'll even buy your lunch. One should never die on an empty stomach. Haven't you seen all those old movies with the final meal request? ;-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), April 10, 2002.

The brashy color on her hair -- the box had promised "Auburn Delight" -- the color was a deep, bloody crimson. ...

Hmmmmmn. A bloody crimson, eh?

Sounds like those guys in Birmingham at UA got to the Pat Dye works down in Opelicowki....

-- R. A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (racookpe@earthlink.net), April 11, 2002.

The target disappeared on a train. The mule considered his options and decided to check out the target's hotel room before he got back. He had to think up a reason for a mule to be seen on the second floor. As luck would have it, a traveling clown show needed a mule for the finale. They were admitted backstage without a weapons check. He was beginning to love Costa Rico. He waited for his cue while a sweet, buxom girl clown fed him a mango.

-- helen (lurking@in.the.corners.of.life), April 11, 2002.

She twiddled her napkin as she finished the last of her last mango. The clown act was next. She hated clowns. It was time to find her volcano. She hailed a waiter and asked for her check. Unfortunately, he spoke no English. It was difficult to make him understand what she wanted in sign language, because he avoided looking at her as much as possible.

While she struggled with international communications, the clown act began. A beribboned mule clopped onto the stage.

The other patrons hushed her in exicited anticipation. She considered hushing them all permanently, but something about the mule caught her eye...

-- helen (beating@lon.to.the.punch.line.one.wild.swing.at.a.time), April 13, 2002.

(Pulls up chair, watches closely from the barstool at the side ....)

-- R. A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (racookpe@earthlink.net), April 13, 2002.

Hang on to that barstool tightly, Robert. Sounds like things are getting exciting around here!

BTW, it sounds like I may be going to Atlanta next Sept, or Oct for a conference. Maybe we could have supper one evening?

Keep up the good work, Helen! Italics and everything, wow!

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), April 13, 2002.

Dear FRL People:

It is with sad trepidation that I write to you today. Three days ago, our agency recieved information that your friend and comic mentor, Old Lon, has disappeared misteriously while visiting in this tropical hotbed of covert anti-clownism. Upon verification of this information, we set out to re-trace Ole Lon's travels, in hopes of discovering his current whereabouts.

We picked up his trail at the caldera of Poas Volcano, where he obviously enjoyed the bright livid green of the mineraly laden lake before leasurely strolling through the bromiliad gardens. A solitary clue, the band from a Cuban cigar, pointed us in the direction of the popular butterfly farm and waterfall gardens. We interrogated a local muhere bonita, who recalled a singular, "rotund gringo" wadling into the ravine where he reveled in the spray from the five waterfalls of the Rio Poas. Strangely, though, she also reported a large, hairy creature lurking in the shadows of the monkeytail fern trees, and slowly following the old guy toward the darkness at the depth of the canyon.

We unfortunately lost his trail for a day, as he evidently spent every waking moment in the cafe of a mountain lodge, consuming large quanties of French cuisine prepared by the buxom lodge owner. Our investigator questioned the woman about a rumored liason Old Lon may have had with a misterious woman of obvious intent (if you follow my meaning). As we left the grounds of the lodge, we couldn't help but take notice of the large quantity of brown hair in the pool, and the strange horseshoe-like prints in the hybiscus beds.

Our tean of covert trackers felt they had made a breakthrough when they learned from the drink girl at the Gran Casino that the old gentleman had boarded a bus just the morning previously, bound for the spectacular wildlife preserve of Tortugero, on the Carribean coast. We even found the remnants of a quantity of fresh fruit, where he boarded the river boat for the two hour trip to Mawamba Lodge. Once at the rustic resort of Mawamba, we lost h is trail amid the blooming wild ginger and masssive Madegascar palms.

A young woman handing out towels poolside informed us that he had stayed in the bungalow nearest the ocean, a mear 100 meters from the pounding surf. Appearently, he had tried unsucessfully to arrange for her to provide a private "guided tour" of the beach at aproximately 1 a m. Appearently she was still laughing at the thought. However, we did find footprints of size 47 clown shoes where someone had waddled out onto the beach before sunfise that morning and found the tracks of a large leatherback turtle, where she had heaved herself up on the blsck volcanic sand to lay her small clutch of eggs before laboriously dragging her 600 pound bulk once again to the the Carribean. Unfortunately, the evidence had been partially obliterated by what appeared to an area where a large creature had wallowed in the sand, drying itself after a quick surfing interlude. A mound of mango seeds were piled nearby, as was an empty bottle of cheap hair color, labled "Autumn" something.

I'm very sorry to report that this is all the information we have been able to discover at this time, but will keep you abreast of future developments.

Yours in sympathy,

-- Perry Longstreet Culvert III (Amnesia International@(I.forget)), April 14, 2002.

!!!!!!!!EXTRA EXTRA!!!!!!!!!!

----------EXCLUSIVE TO THE BAYOU SENTINAL GLOBE SUN--------

OLD LON LOST IN PARADISE.

DATELINE, COSTA RICA..

Today this reporter has discovered that the renouned humorist and international spitting-distance champion, Old Lon, has been abducted while on a top secet mission to the terriorist hotspot of Costa Rica. I have, on my own investigation, discovered that he has been kidnapped by a mysterious tribe of Amazon-like women deep in the virginal rainforest. Although iformation is expensive to obtain (almost three samoleans already, including rum punches), I can confirm that the exquisitely handsome older gentleman is confined to a small hidden village where he is being worshiped as a living god by the understandably slightly overwrought, totally female and near-nude population.

This reporter's latest contact with the unfortunate celebrity-turned- boy-toy was a message smuggled out of his confinement by a sympathetic cult member and part-time blackjack dealer. Written on the back of a Cuban ceegar lable was a plantive plea for assistance. It seems that although his captors are feeding him his accustomed six meals daily, they occasionally serve the cervasa at near-room tempature. It makes this reporter shudder to think of such inhuman treatment imposed upon such a beloved institution of the bayou country.

Rest assured that I am preparing a covert rescue mission, involving an unusually knowlegable local (very local!) woman who has access to a large mule who has Special Ops training. Just hope that we are not too late.

Keeping my head in, uh, to the sand.......

-- Skippy, Investigative Reporter Extraodinare (Bayou Sentinal Globe Sun@muddy.water), April 14, 2002.

She sank into her chair, studying the mule carefully. She stirred her drink with her finger and wondered how on earth she was supposed to get on with the story when a roving reporter was obviously a WHOLE WEEK ahead of her...

-- helen (clowns@mules.and.skippy.dudes), April 14, 2002.

Well, well, well! Perhaps the story was a bit misleading! I suspect it was not as stated, but more like:

he was trapped by the virginal women in the Amazon-like rainforest, (thus the reference to the "exquisitely handsome older gentleman is confined to a small hidden village where he is being worshiped as a living god by the understandably slightly overwrought, totally female and near-nude population." Not that he isn't um, studly!

Such anguish poor Lon must be in! How can he continue to keep his present direction, in pursuit of the ever elusive truth of the jungle? With a mere 6 meals a day, replete with lucious ripe mangoes, albeit seeds everywhere his path goes, how will he manage to make it back to the magical bayou of old? And yet there is the hope of the mule and the wise one who brings him. We must watch, wait and listen as the tail unfurls, our breath and being, captivated, yet anxious for one wrong move from...

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), April 14, 2002.

She confronted the mule on the second floor of the hotel just as he was nosing his way into his target's room.

"Why lurkest THOU here?" she hissed.

Badly startled by this kitchen witch version of his formerly beloved mistress -- er, lady who fed him -- the mule let out a frightened bray.

"I'm ... I'm trying to get a book deal," the mule confessed.

"Foul imitator! Twas mine own idea first!" The woman was shocked and confused. "Wherefore art this man, anyway? I failed utterly to find him. And what dost thou mean, THOU wantest a book deal? Thou art a mule!"

"So I've noticed, and more importantly, the rest of the world has noticed." The mule drew himself up proudly. "I'm going to start with a line of children's stories. Then a calendar. Coffee mugs. Bedside books of wise sayings. The works. I'm quite a hit, thank you, and I can do this on my own. Sort of. If I can find the guy."

"What need of coin hast Thou, Mule?" asked the woman.

"To buy my freedom, of course," said the mule. "That's how this whole thing got started."

-- helen (working@diligently.at.getting.caught.up.with.skippy), April 15, 2002.

(tag!)

-- helen (oops@sorry.sorry), April 15, 2002.

Boy toy? LOL! I love it!

Poor Lon, he sounds SO mistreated. Do you think he really WANTS to be rescued? Sounds like he's having the time of his life! :-)

Hey, if I'd known Skippy was going, I could have gone as a journalist as well. Business write off ya know. ;-)

I want to see the waterfall!!! I'm jealous again!!!

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), April 16, 2002.

They gazed at the starry sky, the woman and her mule, side by side on the sand. Though they were still damp from their frolic in the waves, the night air was warm enough to keep them comfortable.

She tickled his lips with a mango. He nibbled lightly on her fingers. She smoothed his forlock back and looked deeply into his nearest eye.

"Mule," she whispered, "what color doth my hair be now?"

"It's too dark to tell," he answered, "but it can't be any worse. Seawater could only improve it. Don't worry about it. Hair grows back. While this has been a pleasant interlude, Lady, we must return to our search for the man. I've got at least three books in my head as it is, and I need the cash."

The woman sighed deeply and sat up. "Wither thou goest, I follow. But thou'lt split the cash half and half. To wit, I am easy, but not entirely without cost."

They left a pile of mango seeds on an orange-stained patch of beach.

-- helen (striving@mightily.to.catch.up.to.skippy), April 17, 2002.

The mule stood in a grove of mango trees, eyes bugged out and mouth agape. The woman put an orange finger under his bottom lip and gently closed his mouth.

"Disgusting," she sniffed. "Kidnapped indeed! He lieth in slothful abandon whilst honest writers trampeth about half the island. Yon hussies worship him as a king! Something must be done about it!" she added with feminine logic.

The mule merely groaned while he continued to stare at the spectacle before them.

****************************

(Out of decency, the next twelve hours of hostage negotiations have been omitted.)

****************************

The man sulked in his seat on the flight home. His orange female companion ignored him until they were safely over water, far too late for the man to escape.

"Let's get down to business," she said. "You agree to function as our agent for the next ten years. You get 25% of the net profit. We never mention the island incident to ... other interested parties. Sign here." She shoved a contract into his hands.

The man moaned. "They traded me for a mule!"

"Stop whining! You were rescued from a desperate band of kidnappers. Keep your story straight or else!" the woman snarled at him. "I've got permanent chigger scars on my ... anyway, it's all your fault!"

"They traded a lifetime with me for two weeks with a mule!" The man whined again. "He's so CUTE!" he squealed in a high voice. "He's so DARLING!" he squealed even louder. "I'm humiliated for life, and you want a contract? I'm supposed to just forget about it and go on to a contract? A contract for a ghostwriter for a MULE?"

People were staring at them. The woman motioned for a stewardess. "He's gone off his medication," she whispered, "and he needs something to calm him down before he ... before he..."

The stewardess glanced at the man and whispered, "I'll be back with a drink."

"Make it two," the woman said. "It's going to be a long flight."

-- helen (NOW@skippy.can.take.over), April 19, 2002.

Airline seats are definately not made to fit an accumulation of anatomy such as was crammed into his. His kneecaps were numb from the seat in front and his shoulders hit the ingenious little head thing which hunched him over like a comic mountain troll. The woman had consumed both drinks without even a glance at him. It was going to be a long flight indeed. But that was the least of his worries now, as his razor sharp mental facilities struggled with the situation:

(think think think -- I gotta find a way out of this. Oh, mercy, traded for a mule, no less. A four-footed hay-burner with more ear hair than Gabby Hayes, fer cryin out loud! think THINK - If Iggie and the boys down at Ledue’s Bait N Gas find out about this, I’m done for, that’s what. I mean Brad Pitt I could unnerstan’, or even that Aussie guy, Mel Whatsisface, but a MULE - oh momma, I gotta think. Or maybe, I just better play along with this pushy broad for a while, maybe go ahead a do what she says. She just better not ask for anything “extra” if you know what I mean. She’s been lookin’ at me outta the corner of her eye when she don’t think I see, and the last time I saw that look was on a junkyard dog lookin’ at a chicken leg. But, I gotta admit, I kinda like the hair..............)

-----------------------------------

THE CULTURAL PERSPECTIVE OF TRAVEL

by Mike Mule

Often when I travel, I find that the entire personality of a place boils down to a single moment or an isolated incident. While in San Jose, Costa Rica, I witnessed a scene which gave eloquent testimony to the tolerance and graciousness of these wonderful people.

My second-floor hotel window looked out on a pedestrian intersection where the old streets were bricked over to form wide walkways. This particular corner had a fountain and was the gathering place for many strollers on the pleasant afternoons. Almost everyday, I had a balcony seat to a small troupe of street performers; actors playing out folk stories in animated enthusiasm to make up for the lack of stage and props.

On this particular afternoon, the troupe was only two performers, a man and a woman, and they performed a tale in Spanish, which I could not follow. But they were wonderful to watch as they portrayed wild animals and children, their faces and voices in exaggerated fear or joy. About half-way through the performance, they were joined by another young woman. Now, Costa Ricans are very style conscious people, usually dressed immaculately in the latest international fashion. However, this girl was dressed in a blue checkered shirt with an orange striped blouse which immediately set her apart from the crowd of spectators. I thought for a while that she was the typical, and almost universal comic element of Latin entertainment.

She played to the crowd, who laughed and clapped. She interacted with the performers, who struggled to deal with her slightly off-beat interjections. I began to notice that something was not exactly right, something was going on which was altogether unplanned. Then I realized that the gaudily dressed player wasn’t a cast member at all; she was a mentally retarded person who just happened to be on the walkway, and invited herself into the scene.

And then the whole culture of these wonderful people boiled down for me. No one asked her to move. No one took her gently aside. No one tried to quietly explain to her that she was interrupting the performance. Instead, she was immediately accepted for who she was, the spectators smiled their encouragement, the actors tried to include her and guide her in her role, and she loved every minute of it - almost as much as I. Viva La Costa Rica - and the people who make it what it is.

-- Indentured Ghostwriter (down@the.bayou), April 20, 2002.

An excellent story!

-- helen (the@woman.approves), April 20, 2002.

The hotel is an aging diva, the remembrances of beauty still evident in her elegant structure, the whispers of past romance repeated by the creak of her stairs. She greeted us with a gentle graciousness, perfected over half a century of welcoming travelers into her rooms. On one side the open air cafe spread into a little plaza, shared by the old opera house. It was here I would sit, sipping potent cafe con leche, the Costa Rican way to drink coffee, and watch the pageant of people beginning their day.

------------

Wearing the mini skirted blue suite and stocking of the urban professional, she strides confidently across the long shadows of morning, her high heels clicking on the ancient bricks of the plaza. She stops abruptly and retrieves a small paper sack from her stylishly jeweled handbag. Emptying it’s contents into her palm, she tosses a handful of seeds to the waiting pigeons, then hurries along her way, a private smile lingering at the corners of her mouth.

--------------

On Saturday morning the plaza is populated by shoeshine boys. They wear baseball caps backwards in silent salute to preadolescence, and snap their shine-rags at laughing girls who protest their delight at being the target of attention.

__________

Two men set up wooden xylophones and begin to play for the cafe patrons on the edge of the courtyard. The mellow tones of the music seem to become part of the architecture as they echo among the buildings, its rhythm, the cadence call for pedestrians and taxicabs hurrying along in the morning stream. A kid approaches one of the tables and silently holds out an open palm to a young woman dressed in khaki shorts and expensive walking shoes. His dingy clothes and unkempt hair identify him as a newly arrived Nicaraguan. The hotel security man hurries towards them, but she waves him away as she pulls out an empty chair and orders the boy a breakfast with orange juice and bacon.

-- keyboard slave (ghostwriter@mikemule.publishing), May 09, 2002.