There's something tangibly reassuring about these plastic chairs, this purple tablecloth, this bright green cement floor, and this dimly lit room with its open side facing the quiet street behind me. The girl that's minding the grill squats comfortably against the wall, joining the matron of the little eatery in staring idly at the television where busty Latin women in red dresses compete at dance. The TV flickers multicolored light harmlessly across the floor from its perch on a wooden crate in the corner.

Outside, the sun is sinking purple behind the humble mountain that's crowded close to the deep green sea. Men lean their bicycles gently against walls, and sit quietly on cement curbs or wooden benches to let the night make its unhurried entrance. There are distant honks of trucks, the occasional shout, and the murmur of confident conversations between the lips and ears of passers-by.

An old man leaves the kitchen to place a plate of beans and rice in front of me. I thank him and he nods smilingly before taking a seat in front of the television. A man with a large, gutted fish walks up behind me and holds his prize up inquiringly.

"Fish?" He asks simply, looking first at the unmoving matron, then the old man.

The old man breaks his gaze from the chattering television and looks studiously down his nose at the fish, eyebrows furrowed and holding back his reply one, then two seconds.

"No. Not today," he says, "maybe tomorrow."

The night creeps unnoticed into the warm, dim room, splashed with the cheap glow of weeknight game shows. I chew slowly on the earthy red beans and rice, and sip at my cool water. I wonder about the girl minding the grill. Taking a long, steady look at the glowing coals there, I wonder about what her future holds and what she wishes for.

Distractedly, unexpectedly, I feel uncommonly at home. Uncommonly contented.