following out some wanton passion. While grateful for a strong social conscience and work and a life that addressed that, I was wrestling with its juxtaposition to decadence, which, from this exposure, had a certain allure. Central America in 1981-83 became my Paris of the ‘30s. Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration but nonetheless I began looking at Reinhard as the obvious mechanism to carry me back. In other words, I conveniently forgot why I left him in the first place. I think it had to do with my conviction that he was a drug addict. He did go six weeks without anything but heavy doses of marijuana to prove me wrong. I wasn’t convinced. I think it also had to do with those Soldier of Fortune magazines he got monthly and his attraction to guns. It made me uncomfortable. It also had to do with me being tired of my work and disenchanted with the country and missing USA culture and realizing that to stay was to stay for him. That gave me a rather microscopic vision of him and all his faults (which are none to subtle). I was sure I would give him my best years and then he would drop dead from lung cancer and all I would have left would be a lifetime supply of unroasted coffee beans and a lot of good stories. There would be good stories... impromptu flights to Costa Rica to lie long weekends on the beaches. Reinhard bribing late night policemen with bottles of aguardiente to ward off a ticket for reckless driving. Cocaine and conversations into the late hours by candlelight in his outdoor glorieta with visiting journalists found downtown. Self importance is not a trait restricted to German businessmen. We first worlders in the third world have tremendous liberties: freedom to travel, unheard of regular salaries that make us tokenly generous and full of mystique to the locals around us. No amount of good will and intentions can keep it from going to one’s head to some degree. It is not easy to live in the third world. Or maybe it is too easy. It was easy enough to leave. A relief initially. Over the two years we had suffered many misunderstandings that we conveniently chalked up to cultural differences. Mutual infidelity was a trait of our union. It fit in with the decadence of our lifestyle. My leaving was dramatic. Reinhard followed me to the States weeks later to renegotiate. But he came “pilled,” and that reinforced my backbone reason for leaving him. It was convenient not to recall those days as day two ended with us meandering into a sleaze hotel bar. John, the drunk Irishman we sat down next to, told us immediately that everyone knew everyone there and proceeded to introduce us to at least his side of the bar. Another John, a huge black man with I personally think that growing up with incredible sums of old money makes one never consider that people don’t like you. Lot’s of people don’t like Reinhard. crazy eyes was from Jamaica. He bought us drinks immediately but as soon as Reinhard tried to negotiate a friendship he turned hostile and sullen. Around the rest of the circular bar were inebriated losers from almost every continent. One of only three women there, I clung tight to my bar stool, nursed Club Soda and listened to Irish John talk congenially on and on. It took me quite awhile to realize all of his conversation focused on women in sets of three. I slowly began thinking of him as some creepy, sexually-depraved, ready-to-pounce pervert, and I was immediately and suddenly ready to leave. Good timing as Jamaican John was steaming. He gave one the clear message that Reinhard should die, and he, if it behooved him, would take on the role of killer without batting an eye. Iwondered if when we left the bar broke out in a gale of laughter. . . two more successfully chased out of their terrain. I think the light of day never hits that bar. The next day we moved to Miami Beach. By outward appearances it is another world. The beach stretches long, the streets wide, the shop keepers friendly, and the hotels abundant, less cockroached and reasonably priced. Our hotel clerk was Cuban (finally a Cuban), our bus boy Jamaican, the tour adviser Israeli. In fact, half of South Miami Beach is Israeli. Take all those earlier downtown stereo-travelling iron shops, tuck them in between middle-class (as opposed to gutter-level) peep shows, porno movies and hotels, paint everything art deco cream and pink, and what you have is South Miami Beach. Don’t forget the ocean crashing in the not-too-far distance. I got a rash from swimming in it. It came as no surprise. Reinhard, who has a penchant for taxi drivers, had befriended Jose, a young, idealistic Venezuelan who was learning electronics by day and driving his car around as a cab at night. Jose was probably the single most innocent person we met on our trip. There was not a hint of secret, clandestine activity about him (other than illegally driving his car as a cab) and he genuinely just wanted to be an electrician. He appreciated Reinhard’s generosity and gladly picked us up for the airport on our last day. He stopped at a Japanese market not exactly on the way so Reinhard could buy enough dried miso soup to stock a fallout shelter, and dropped us in front of Tan- Sahsa Airlines (a rumored acronym for Stay At Home, Stay Alive). As he was a secret cab driver we (“we”—ha! —Reinhard) paid clandestinely and we shook hands as friends goodbye. Reinhard put me rather unceremoniously on my plane, which left before his. He was anxious to get to the duty-free shop before his plane took off. Our goodbye was brief and as always he said, “Come visit soon. You are always welcome.” He means it. He says it to everyone he likes. I chuckled as I waited for my plane imagining a Fellini-like parade of Miamians boarding Tan-Sahsa flights south, clutching his business card in their hands. I also smiled at my decision to see Miami, even though better judgement had begged that I leave it alone. I watched Reinhard fade away into the crowd. Two-and-a-half days of cocaine, alcohol and enough cigarettes to raise the per capita income of Virginia had left my brain scrambled. I looked forward to getting home to my bedroom and that pile of waiting mail. Then I realized that I would have all of two days worth. I thought of calling friends to tell them I was back. I remembered that no one knew I had left. Ithought of Reinhard who by now had disappeared into the maze of duty-free shops. Reinhard, who flies around the world like I go to Safeway. Reinhard, whose jet lags and hangovers are like a persistent allergic itch that one learns to ignore. Reinhard, who strews his business cards around a town like confetti, never quite gets beaten up or notices when he’s being threatened. He is so damn skinny. Has a weak chin also. Not to mention he smokes too much. His English was getting worse and I began to wonder if I ought to get off the plane. Off the plane... to what? Miami? Miami. . . a middle world he invited me to where that big cheese culture he happily swims in in Central America is also the dominant one. How different it would have been if he’d flown north to grey Seattle. Teri Hein is a teacher and writer living in Seattle. Fay Jones is an artist and frequent contributor to CSQ who resides in Seattle. Discover the Fine Art of American Craft Presenting a collection of recent work by Dave & Boni Deal A Shop & Gallery The Real Mother Goose S.W. Ninth & Yamhill 223-9510 ‘ Washington Square 620-2243 Tell our advertisers you saw it in CSQ! 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