I opened the door to the small shop.

The distinct aroma of

coffee, chocolate, and cigarettes

tugged at my sleeve.

People piled into ever decreasing space,

packed together like gumballs in a machine,

and if someone had opened that door,

one person would have fallen out.

I squeezed through a crowd of

nicotine addicts and caffeine dependents,

and to the man behind the counter I requested,

"Churros y chocolate, por favor."

He turned back to the kitchen and started speaking,

his tongue rolling over his r's,

massaging his language through his silent h's.

The clutter of people around me,

women in short skirts,

men in tight, black jeans,

all were speaking,

and I felt lost in the foggy haze

of cigarette smoke and foreign language.

The man behind the counter called to me.

My treat was ready.

"Thank you, I mean, Gracias," I said.

With a smile,

and an accent as thick

as the chocolate in my mug he said,

"No problem."

I swirled the steaming dough

in the bittersweet chocolate,

and it dripped off my hot churro,

as I lifted it to my mouth.

I took a bite and thought,

I love this country.