It was a hot night, so I decided to eat on the street—one of those places that had an outside barbecue with all the meats, potato, and salad for a whopping dollar. I sat at a table that faced a gothic looking church. It looked bigger against the dark sky. The food was good. I ate with ease and watched the action of the street unfold. A motorcycle went by with the boy in front driving, the father behind him and the mother in the way back riding side-saddle, her hands folded in her lap. How she managed to stay on is beyond me, but I think it is a genetic ability for all the women of Latin America can perform this feat. An old Fiat came to a stalling rest in front of me, the driver trying the starter a few times before coming out, opening the trunk, pulling out a stick and sticking it in the gas tank. Now I can relate to that little number. He then calmly took out a gas can, told the two women who were riding with him the news. They got out laughing and stood by the car calmly talking while he walked down the road with his gas can. A young girl was sweeping the street around me. This is a country of sweepers and moppers. Now I have always considered myself pretty handy operating the old broom, but this girl had the moves, pure poetry of the broom. I was entranced with her magic. The clopping of the horse hooves took me away from it. A man driving the horse and cart, standing up and screaming at the taxis that were trying to force him off the road. The women cooking at the grills were laughing at it all. The walls of time divided by the old and new. The man with the gas can returned, giving the hungry tank a little something to drink. The ladies climbed back in and off they went, you got to love it.