Anybody got change for a sand dollar?

If asked to choose between Team Beach or Team Mountain, there's no contest: I'd be in a swimsuit faster than you can say SPF 75.

So I'm embarrassed to admit that, until a few weekends ago, I could count the times I'd been to the beach here on one finger. In my defense, it's not particularly inviting at first glance. Maputo is located on a bay, and four different rivers drain into it, thus the water is quite murky. And a boat ride to Xefina Island (site of a former Portuguese prison located about 3 miles offshore) showed me that it's teeming with jellyfish. If that wasn't enough of a deterrent, there are still remnants of giant columns where, during colonial times, the Portuguese strung nets in an effort to keep swimmers safe from sharks. So, yeah, I get my ocean fix a few hours north. Where, by the way, the beaches are absolutely stunning.

But Astrid stressed the importance of timing Maputo beach walks with low tide, so I decided to give it another shot. We went together last Saturday, and now I'm absolutely hooked. It's amazing! You can walk, literally, for miles. And the trash-strewn sand and maladorous air I remembered from my earlier venture were nowhere to be found.

On the weekends, the beach is a bit of a scene with vendors selling food, soccer matches, families on picnics, beach volleyball games, wedding photo shoots, and the occasional religious ceremony. But during the week, it's practically deserted.

Yesterday, I borrowed my friend Joanna's Portuguese Water Dog (hereafter known as The Fabulous Pedro) and went back. It was completely empty, save for the occasional fisherman and a few kite surfers, and the weather was perfect. We are heading into winter here, so the temperature was a breezy 70-something instead of the sweltering 100-plus degrees combined with 80% humidity we've had for last the five months.

I'm still a little leery of venturing too far out by myself, so it was nice to have TFP as company. Of course, in the event that I would actually be accosted by a band of evil-doers, it's unlikely that he would do much more than exhaust them via a relentless game of fetch. Regardless, he is splendid company!

When I was growing up, finding even a fraction of a sand dollar on a Texas beach was cause for great joy. So imagine my delight when happening upon a perfectly intact specimen while casually strolling along the sand on my very first outing. Then spotting an even bigger one a few feet further. And then another. And yet another. My hands became so full that I couldn't carry my sandals, so I started filling my pockets. I also came across a few intense violet sand dollars that I assumed were some exotic variety found only in the Indian Ocean. Turns out, I'm the idiot who didn't recognize what a live sand dollar looked like. I figured it out after my beautiful violet collectibles died a slow, grisly, and slightly smelly death on my balcony.

I now have more sand dollars than I know what to do with, but I still can't resist picking another up whenever I spy a particularly perfect one. The locals see me carrying them back to my car, and look at me like I've spent too much time out in the sun.

Fortunately, TFP doesn't mind.

Feliz Natal!

It's 1 p.m. my time on Christmas Eve. And instead of working on a travel article about Cape Town - due to the editor of O Pais Today on Monday morning - I'm procrastinating. In my defense, this is a particularly difficult assignment in that I've never actually been to Cape Town, thus have no first-hand recommendations on lodging, transportation, restaurants, or shopping. Apparently, my ignorance is not considered a hindrance in the world of Mozambican journalism.

In addition to dawdling, I'm disappointed in myself for not making any effort to come up with some sort of special plan for Doug and myself. As this is our first Christmas as a married couple, you would think I could have developed some unexpected take on tradition that might prove memorable and fun or, at the very least, result in an interesting anecdote. (Some of you more enlightened folks might be asking, "Why is planning your holiday celebration entirely your responsibility, Amy?" but anyone who knows my husband well knows his default approach to any special occasion is asking me where I want to go to dinner.)

I think part of the problem is that, truly, I wish I could be home for the holidays. I miss hosting my annual champagne-fueled office party. I miss my family's spell-and-interpret gift exchange. I miss the holiday auction at Neiman Marcus. I miss my sister Julie's cheese grits casserole on Christmas morning. I miss all the beautiful decorations in Dallas. I miss wearing cashmere and fur. I miss my dad. And, rather than dwelling on any of those things, I over-compensated by ignoring the fact that it is Christmas time. Until now.

Before you start feeling too sorry for me, please know that Doug and I have been invited to join two other American couples and their children for Christmas dinner tomorrow. We love hanging out with Kathryn, Andrew, Laura, and Chad (a fellow Texan), and I know it's going to be a great meal made even better by the fact that someone else will be preparing it for me. (I guess me and my non-cooking self managed to uphold one of my family's traditions!) Seriously, I know it's going to be a fabulous time.

So instead of moping around this morning, I braved the heat and humidity here and took some photos so that my friends and family can think of me in context this holiday season.

For starters, the above photo is a laser-cut Christmas tree made out of particle board that is currently sitting on my coffee table. I found it at a cool little design shop in Johannesburg. I simply couldn't make myself buy an artificial tree or one of the weird Charlie-Brown-meets-the-Apocalypse pines being sold on the side of the road.

Truly, there aren't a lot of visual Christmas cues here in Maputo. Granted, some of the local grocery stores have merchandise for sale and there are a few street vendors wearing Santa hats and hawking cheap decorations but, for the most part, that's it. The only places that look Christmas-y are the insides of my friends' houses!

This is where I live. Scaffolding = exterior painting project that has been going on for a month.

These two photos are taken at the jardim across the street. There are giant weddings here every weekend. Mozambicans love a party!

Balcony and view from our balcony. That's Maputo Bay above the trees.

Our living room...yes, I lost the a-giant-television-does-not-qualify-as-home-decor battle.

Entrance. Camera flash has obscured the wood-cut prints from artist Matias Ntundo. I love them!

Dining area. We are still waiting for delivery of our dining room table. But isn't the ebony tree cool? Matumbe, one of the artists at the wood market, made it for me.

Now you've seen where I live and you have no excuse not to visit. I promise to straighten the prints on the wall in the entrance before you arrive.

Merry Christmas!

Still Feeling Thankful

It may not have been celebrated in a Pilgrim-worthy fashion, but my first Thanksgiving here in Mozambique was certainly memorable!

Our friends Andrea and Grant invited Doug and me to Bilene (a beach town about two and a half hours north of Maputo) for the weekend. Since Doug wanted to check out a few potential mobile bank locations en route, he suggested we drive up on Wednesday afternoon. The two of us would stay at a nearby resort for a few nights, then join our friends at their home on Friday.

This seemed like a fine idea until Wednesday morning came along. The weather had turned lousy, and the idea that I would spend the next two days on a beach reading a novel was no longer a reality. Plus, I had just received a writing assignment from a local English-language newspaper that I wanted to work on...and I was going to miss my weekly bridge lesson.

So I broached the sensible idea of me driving up on Friday with the Liversages. Doug, to put it mildly, was not on board with this suggestion. He gave me the big song and dance about all the time he had spent sourcing a great place for us to stay in Bilene. This had its intended effect of making me feel guilty. So, six hours later, we were loading things into our Land Cruiser and hitting the road.

By the time we pulled into Praia do Sol, it was dusk. I was initially suspicious of the resort's rustic appearance, but assumed it would be charming on the inside. We checked in, and followed the porter down a sandy path to a thatched-roof structure. The porter took a key and unlocked a door secured with a padlock. He gestured us inside, where I was hit with the fact that my husband had booked us two nights in Hell.

I was initially too busy registering the hideousness of my surroundings to realize there was something critical missing: a bathroom. At that point, the porter left our room, crossed a small vestibule, and unlocked another door secured with yet another padlock. Voila! Our bathroom, complete with a commode, a sink, and a small depression in the cement floor with a shower nozzle above it.

The only thing that kept me from running back to the car was the look on Doug's face: a previously unseen combination of appalled, horrified, and apologetic. At this point, there was nothing to do but laugh or, in my husband's case, start drinking heavily.

About 3 a.m., however, it was no longer funny. The heat, the swarm of mosquitos safely ensconced INSIDE the mosquito net with me, and the foam pad I was attempting to sleep upon had conspired to turn me into a machete-waving maniac, if only a machete had been handy.

By 6 a.m. the next morning, Doug was in the car and looking for a new place to stay. He secured us a room at The Aquarius (a motel about half a mile away). Under normal circumstances, I might have made fun of the consciousness-expanding mural on its outside wall and the 70s-era furnishings, but these were not normal circumstances. I was just thrilled to be staying in a room with air conditioning and a mattress purchased in the last 40 years.

Doug helped me get settled into our new digs, then hit the road. So now it's Thanksgiving day and I'm all alone. I don't have internet access and, since the weather is lousy, I'm stuck inside a motel room decorated in shades of pistachio green with Portuguese-language music videos playing in the background. And I know my family is in Austin, sitting around my sister Julie's dining room table, eating a Greenberg turkey. It was the first time I've felt homesick since I came back to Mozambique in September.

But within 24 hours, everything changed. The two of us joined Andrea, Grant, their children Raymond and Sophie, plus our friends Kathryn and Andrew and their boys Drew and Bradley for two days of pure bliss. The weather was gorgeous, the house was spectacular, and the beaches in Bilene reminded me of The Caribbean: sugar white sand and crystal clear water in shades of blue, turquoise, aquamarine, jade, and glass green. It was magical!

We spent most of our time in the Liversage's boat. The lagoon in Bilene is perfect for waterskiing and wake boarding, and I can proudly say that I actually got up on skis for the first time in probably 20 years. It wasn't pretty, but it was certainly fun! We all wound up a little sunburned, a little exhausted, and a lot happy.

I had previously wondered how I would handle being away from my friends and family this holiday season. And, let's face it, there are so many things I miss about the US! But even without my mother's inimitable cornbread dressing, I wouldn't change one thing about this past weekend...well, okay, except for my 12 hours at Praia do Sol.

Talking Shop

I've always been a fan of Saturday mornings, and never more so than here in Maputo. There's a craft market next to the Fortaleza (fort built by the Portuguese in the mid-19th century) that I love to explore. It's got that whole seedy carnival vibe - dirt, music, dancing, and hucksters galore.

While I'm certainly not as talented at uncovering flea market treasures as my sister Jill, I do fancy myself skilled in the art of recognizing that which is special. Where I falter, however, is when it comes time to start bargaining.

Dealing in the market is not for the faint of heart. What I've learned the hard way is that you don't casually ask the price of anything you aren't seriously considering buying, you don't smile at anyone unless you are prepared to have them follow you for thirty minutes saying "Senhora! Senhora!" while demonstrating the effectiveness of, say, their refrigerator magnets, and you must be willing to walk away from an item that is exactly and precisely perfect for the empty space in your living room. Your ultimate goal is for the seller to send someone to chase you down the street holding the item you wanted, then offering it for the price that, only minutes ago, was met with a gasp and look that implied you had insulted not only the vendor, but every one of his living relatives and deceased ancestors. (Granted, the aforementioned exchange has only happened to me once, but the memory still fills me with pride. That said, I don't kid myself for a second that I got the better of anyone. To paraphrase Matt Damon in the movie Rounders, if you can't spot the sucker in the first thirty minutes, then you're the sucker.)

You also have to have the patience and persistence to wade through some less-than-desirable items, as witnessed by the five-foot-tall wooden miner, second from left. Does anyone need a gag gift for their upcoming office Christmas party? Seriously, I am considering hosting a Marketing 101 workshop where I explain that if no one is interested in purchasing your hand-painted and -carved sculptures of beer bottles, it is best to stop producing them in bulk. Same with the wood animal sculptures. While I have no problem with hippos per se, being confronted with an entire herd of them makes their appeal wane somewhat. Displaying one or two at a time might up their allure.

Of course, this mass-produced mentality to handmade goods makes the unique easier to spot. I love these dolls! Many of the sellers in the market are simply dealers. But some of the people actually sell their own wares, like this woman here.

I'm also a huge fan of George (see below). He's from Zimbabwe and creates these painstakingly beaded wire sculptures. Can't you just see a bunch of different animals hung on the wall of a child's bedroom? It's definitely a fresh take on taxidermy.

As with many of my experiences here in Mozambique, fun times (a la shopping in the market) are often tinged with sadness. While it is well and good for me to snicker at something I deem tasteless, the reality is that someone has spent a good deal of time making it in hopes that its sale will help them feed, shelter, and clothe their family. I realize that is the objective of practically every business enterprise, but a lack of success seems especially poignant here.

This past Saturday, I was approached by a painfully thin woman with a baby strapped to her back. She was selling moldy peanuts from a basket, and I'm still feeling guilty for shaking my head and walking briskly away from her. The capitalist in me has tried to justify my behavior by telling myself that buying her moldy peanuts would encourage the misguided notion that there is a market for moldy peanuts. The selfish jerk in me believed that slipping her money would make me a prime target for all the panhandlers, peddlers, and pickpockets staked between the market and my car.

But it's the me sitting here in the dark that's having trouble sleeping.

Let The Countdown Begin!

I cannot believe that I'll be boarding a plane and heading back to Texas a week from tomorrow! I've been gone a little over four months, and it seems like it's only been a couple of weeks.

I'm loving it here in Maputo, but I'm totally jazzed at the prospect of seeing my family, friends, and beloved Boxer Kishka. That said, dwelling on the people (and pet) I've missed would make for a fairly emotional blog post, and I think I'm due something superficial.

So, in no particular order, here are a few things I'm most looking forward to experiencing when I get back home.

1. Two words: Tex Mex. I'm craving fajitas, chips and hot sauce, refried beans, and tequila! The beverage that tries to pass itself off as a margarita 'round these parts is an affront to anyone who has ever had a real one. The only thing I haven't missed is guacamole since the avocados here are the size of cantaloupes and beyond delicious.

2. Fret-free mosquitos. Don't get me wrong - I hate those blood-sucking insects! But at least I don't have to schedule a malaria test after getting bit in Texas.

3. Getting my hair cut by Patrick O'Hara.

I am unreasonably particular about who does my tresses, thus I've spent the last four-plus months eschewing salons and watching my hair slowly start to resemble something best described as a rat's nest. There's a hairdresser here that many of my friends recommend, and their hair looks great. But I've long maintained that one should never have their hair cut by a professional with a bad hair cut and, boy, does she qualify. Plus, she's got those magenta highlights that brunettes sometimes get, so I've been afraid to let her try color on me. This means I've had to attempt to pass off the gray follicles glistening across my hairline as highlights, and I don't think Doug is falling for it any more.

4. Stocking up on cinnamon-flavored Crest, the best toothpaste in the history of the world. I just finished my last tube and my overdue shipment containing my replacement stash won't be arriving until mid- to late August.

5. Being someplace where I can make myself understood without having to resort to pantomime. Instead of answering questions with a simple yes or no when I get back home, I plan on crafting long-winded responses simply because I know lots of words in English and want to show them all off. Unlike here when the only time I can correctly answer a question is if someone asks me if I speak Portuguese. (That would be "nao.")

6. Drinking water straight from the tap.

7. Dressing up. Maputo is extremely casual, and there are very few places where you wouldn't be comfortable wearing jeans. (This has been a bit of a godsend, since my wardrobe is limited to the things I brought over in my luggage, which was primarily shorts, jeans, T-shirts, and workout clothes.) That said, I'm looking forward to "making an effort," as my mother would say.

8. Taking yoga classes at all my favorite places: Tsada, Uptown Yoga, and with Bruce Boyd.

9. Voice mail. Seriously! For some reason, no one here - including myself - has access to voice mail on their cell phones. Texts, yes, voice mail, nao. So don't be surprised if I leave you a lengthy voice mail message simply because I can. You better do the same for me.

See you soon!

Finding Myself Amongst Beautiful Things

Leaving my job at Neiman Marcus was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I worked with some of the coolest people on the planet and was responsible for a project that made me proud. Even when the workload got crazy and deadlines felt impossible, I always remained inspired by the beautiful things that surrounded me every time I walked into the store.

That said, after 19 years there, I was looking forward to a new chapter where beautiful things might not be my only catalyst for creativity. But old habits die hard. And when I first arrived in Maputo and everything became too much to bear, I would escape to the Kulungwana Art Gallery. This gallery is located inside the pistachio-green train station downtown, which may or may not have been designed by Gustave Eiffel (of the tower fame), depending on your tour guide. An added plus: If you park outside the station, you can find someone who will wash your car by hand for less than $3.

This gallery changes out its exhibits at a rapid pace. But the one constant was a glassed-in case housing some of the most breathtaking cow horn jewelry I had ever seen–and I've seen some gorgeous jewelry in my time. Just looking at it reassured me that there was beauty to be found amongst the poverty here in Mozambique.

About a month ago, I came to the realization that unemployment doesn't suit me so well. I certainly know how to keep myself busy, but I missed the satisfaction that accompanies a sense of career accomplishment. The problem was that my skill set wasn't much in demand here, and the type of work available didn't exactly fill me with enthusiasm. I actually started thinking about returning to The States, looking for a job, and doing the long-distance marriage thing. In the meantime, I began sending out a few half-hearted emails explaining my background and experience to some Maputo-based contacts Doug had given me.

Within 24 hours, I heard from a consultant whose partner was a jewelry designer named Astrid Sulger...the same jewelry designer whose work I so admired!

I quickly contacted her and we made plans to meet for coffee. This meeting went from me commissioning a necklace to me trying to figure out how to work for her. (I'm not sure if it's Astrid's beauty, immense talent, or experiences she's had while living in Africa the last 14 years, but being around this woman makes me feel about as exotic and interesting as a slice of white bread.)

She invited me to her atelier, located in a nearby township. I was happy to have my friend Andrea in the car with me, because I might have been afraid if I had gone alone. The environment wasn't particularly menacing, but the poor conditions were overwhelming. I felt extremely conspicuous as we drove down a narrow, rutted dirt road, parting groups of adults walking to work and young children on their way to school. All looked at us like "What are you doing here?"

We turned right at the grocery store (an old shipping container about the size of a walk-in closet) and pulled into the workshop. At first glance, it was hard to believe that something as beautiful as Astrid's jewelry was created outside a two-room concrete building without running water. But after spending some time amongst the artisans, I began noticing small details such as the way the sun warmed the cement, the soft hum of the workers chatting amongst themselves in Shangaan, the mandevilla climbing up a wire fence, and a man across the path sweeping the dirt smooth outside his front door. Even the pile of cow horn in the corner of the yard looked like an art installation. It wasn't scary at all. It was a neighborhood, and Astrid was part of it.

She's been at this for five years, and employs a team of 15 young men and women that she has trained. Watching her in action, it's apparent that she's equal parts businesswomen and benefactress. Not only does she offer fair wages, she pays the workers' social security and provides meals. And I don't think her generous spirit only applies to her team: I get the sense that anyone in need who knocks outside her gate is offered assistance. Her patience and third-world acumen sets a wonderful example, since something as inconsequential as an hour-long water outage or absence of internet access can still make me froth at the mouth. Somehow, navigating through the labyrinth that is business in Mozambique, she manages to keep her cool. And the jewelry? I've written the words "wearable sculpture" for ads many times in the past, but this may be the only time I felt it really applied. Everything is made entirely by hand, and the attention to detail is so lovingly rendered that it borders on obsession. I may have been a million miles away from my office at NM, but looking at the jewelry while sitting outside on a folding chair, I had never felt closer. The design integrity, coupled with the heart and soul that went into its production, made me feel like I was home. Honestly, these photos don't do it justice.

I went back to my apartment and immediately started working on a sales/marketing plan. From there, Astrid and I met to discuss ways that I could help grow the business. I've never considered myself much of a salesperson but, turns out, when I'm passionate about something I can give Zig Ziglar a run for his money.

I went by the atelier yesterday to check on some additional inventory that Astrid had on hand. On a previous visit, I had seen an adorable little boy pulling a "truck" (an empty plastic carton) by a string. Yesterday, he was running around poking things with a stick. Apparently, this is an activity best done without pants, since he had shucked his someplace and commenced to playing while wearing bright blue underwear. And while I don't understand Shangaan, I'm pretty sure this little imp talked his toddler sister into hopping into a mud puddle. I guess the power of older siblings is universal.

I had placed a large order of jewelry - the company's largest to date! - to promote and sell while I'm back in The States. Since that time, the artisans have been working long days and weekends in order to meet my deadline. So I told Astrid that I wanted to do something special for them before I left for Texas.

Astrid thought for awhile and told me that they would really like some meat. Not more money. Not time off. Meat. As I mentioned before, she provides meals for them during the work day, but an additional piece of meat is a real luxury. I started thinking about how my energy lags and my attitude slips when I skip a single breakfast, and was embarrassed by my insensitivity.

I can't wait to share the efforts of this talented team with my friends, and hopefully some stores, while I'm home. I've spent the last two weeks working on press kits, ordering labels, trying to make store appointments, and planning private trunk shows. I'm confident that others will find this jewelry as compelling as I do.

But my most important assignment now is finding a way to bring chicken and French fries to some men and women who have shown me that beautiful things are everywhere. And when you find them, they can take you home.

Driven to Distraction

Prior to my actual move to Mozambique, I was plagued with insomnia. This sleeplessness wasn't motivated by fear of living in a Third World Country, however. Quite honestly, I didn't give much thought to potential problems associated with, say, lack of quality healthcare, the threat of malaria, crime, the language barrier, or the fact that, aside from my husband, I wouldn't know a soul.

What kept me close to hyperventilation was the thought of driving. And this was extremely out of character because, whether bravado is deserved or not, I have always been an extremely confident driver. But in an effort to prepare me for the worst, Doug had told me way too many scary stories about fatal accidents. Violent car-jackings. Horrific road conditions. Constant police harassment. Incomprehensible traffic laws. And to top it off, instead of the small two-door convertible I was used to driving, I would be navigating a 1980s-era Land Cruiser (with a right-hand steering wheel) down the left-hand side of streets.

Doug has oodles of wonderful qualities, but he is not someone you want to have in the passenger seat while you are attempting to navigate a strange city in an oversized SUV. Thus, upon arrival, I was determined to get a driver. I posted a classified ad, asked every person I encountered for recommendations, and did everything but wear a sandwich board emblazoned with the words, "I will pay a ridiculous sum of $$$ for a driver." Needless to say, I wound up walking lots of places.

Until the day that Doug started experiencing heart problems. The only thing scarier than having my husband checked into the Instituto do Coracao in Maputo was knowing I would have to drive home from the hospital by myself. As I crept along the side of the road, I chanted, "Stay on the left. Stay on the left. Stay on the left." I'm not sure if I exhaled the entire drive, but as I was pulling through the gate into our complex, I was paralyzed by the thought of another hurdle: Our miniscule parking garage. I was now responsible for placing a vehicle the size of a Winnebago into a designated spot that, I kid you not, would be a tight squeeze for a couple of bicycles.

Parking has always been my Achilles' heel. I blame this shortcoming on my poor depth perception, which was also clearly responsible for the C+ I made in Analytic Geometry during high school. I have side-swiped so many poles over the course of my driving career that I have become a family joke. Seriously, the money I've spent repairing the right quarter panel of various cars could pave all of Mozambique.

So, back to my predicament: While I don't generally try to bother a Higher Power with requests of the non-life-threatening variety, I found myself praying that both the neighbor who parks his car in front of ours would be out to dinner. Preferably with the neighbor who parks her car next to ours. And that they had both taken separate vehicles.

No such luck in that regard. But Fortune was definitely smiling down upon me as I bravely put the car into reverse . I've accomplished one or two things over the course of my lifetime but nothing felt quite as momentous as sliding that Land Cruiser between a cement pillar and another car.

Fast forward three months later: Doug now tells me to slow down on the Marginal for fear that I will flip the car while taking a turn. And instead of silent self-monologues reminding myself to breathe and remain on the left hand side of the road, I now find myself giving helpful advice to others such as, "Get those #$% goats out of my way!" or "Pick a lane, you idiot!"

So, yeah, the wise reader knows exactly where all of this is heading...I got pulled over by a cop earlier this week. And unlike two weeks ago, this time there was no good samaritan to run interference for me. I was alone.

According to the unsmiling official with the AK-47 strapped to his back, I made an illegal right-hand turn. Which may or may not be true. Who knows? There was no sign posted nearby, but that doesn't exactly matter here in Maputo. The sign could have been placed one mile up the road. Or it could have been hidden behind foliage. Or maybe I was just a foreigner who unluckily drove by at the same time some guy in a uniform decided he needed some extra cash.

So I smiled. I tried to speak Portuguese. I apologized. I told him I didn't see the sign. I told him I was new to Maputo. I told him I wouldn't do it again. But this guy wasn't having any of it. So I gave up.

Me: "How much is the fine?"

Crooked Cop: "How much do you want to pay?"

Me: "Nothing."

CC (clearly getting mad): "You have to pay something. You made an illegal turn. Give me 300 metical."

Me (fumbling in my handbag and only finding two 1000 met bills and two 50 met bills): "I only have 100 metical."

The CC looked annoyed, then clearly decided that accepting 100 met (less than $3) and getting rid of me was better than wasting valuable time watching me rummage through grocery store receipts, loose Tic-Tacs, and various lipsticks.

As I drove away, I'm not sure which one of us felt luckier at that moment. Him for being able to extort a little extra money. Or me for being able to experience something that I had previously dreaded and feared, and walk away only a teensy bit poorer.

We both probably felt that the other one was the sucker. And I'm okay with that.