I gulp my coffee and fairly skip down the hill. It’s after eleven, but it’s not like I’m going to McDonalds. The bar doesn’t really stop serving breakfast, mostly because technically they never start. I’m pretty sure the bar doesn’t even open until mid-afternoon, but I’m not the only solo guy in the neighborhood made welcome by Milton’s mom with a section of yesterday’s Panama City newspaper and a plate of whatever’s left from the family’s breakfast. The bar seems to function as something of a salon for the neighborhood, where men and women gather to gossip over local goings-on and analyze the world’s problems. I occasionally chime in, and am called upon as something of an expert witness if shenanigans involving the U.S. make the front page, but for the most part I sit, enjoy a home-fried
