2025-02-12, 01:08 PM - Word count: 479
Every step I take, the dust I kick up sticks to the sweat on my legs. It was a walk of half an hour to the bus stop, and after another 30 minutes of waiting for my bus. A middle aged man gets up from the plastic chair he's sitting on outside of the bar next to bus station. His face is red, his walk uneven and I can smell the beer on his breath. I know the smell all too well from back home. For all the stereotypes about Ireland, the love for Guinness is probably the most truthful one of the bunch. It's a pretty standard thing to get accosted by someone that's totally plastered while you're walking home. I've learnt the hard way not to engage with them too much. Even though I would love to help with whatever issue they're dealing with, an addict will lie about any and everything to help them get their next fix. I see the color on his nose, and it's closer to purple than it is to red. The burst veins in his eyes tell me the rest. This man is a true drinker. I've learnt some Spanish in the weeks I've been here, but I'm far from fluent. With how much he's slurring his words I've got a better chance of understanding the birds that are singing in the treetops above me. I tell him "no gracias" what feels like a hundred times. He keeps trying to tell me something and beckons to his friend, who calls out to someone inside the bar. "Great", i say in my head, here come more people I can't understand. To my surprise, a teenager that must be 14 years old at most comes out of the bar. He's got an apron tied around his waist, and from the fact that it's wet and greasy I figure he's doing the dishes in the back. To my surprise, I don't hear more Spanish I can't understand, but a heavily accented English sentence instead. "Mister... bus no come for two hour.... sorry". I look down at my feet, and say thank you. I'm so ashamed for assuming the older man was asking for something. Two hours, my goodness. I didn't bring my phone, or anything else to entertain me. I hesitate a while in the bus stop, but figure I should go to the bar anyway. As a token of my appreciation, I order a round for the man and his friends, and leave a note of 20,000 Colombian Pesos and tell the woman behind the bar that it's for the "chico". I get on the bus and when I close my eyes, I see the face of the drunk man again.
