North Meets South

It came and went. The Day of the Woman. Dia de la Mujere. With nary a clue, dropping into unassuming Cochabamba led, subsequently, right into one very agreeable holiday. Night. ¨What are you two doing back here?¨ says the toadfaced hostel deskman. ¨--Everyone is out tonight.¨ Shoo, fly. It´s true. The narrow, craggy sidewalks are swarming with vigor so we duck into the first joint we can find, one crowd to the next, if only to avoid spilling into the streets. The light is deep streetlight orange with matching dank tobacco-smoke air to boot. Anyone tending bar has three orders at once. Teenagers are trying to sell roses to anyone, everyone. And there´s the whitenoise acoustics of thirty conversations prattling on at once. We take a table against the wall for something to lean against and watch the spectacle. Right across the aisle? A bouquet of Cochabambinas nattering on and -- every so often -- glancing over at a pair of outtatowners. Andy gives the waitress a tap and a quick whisper in her ear. Moments pass, smiles continue to meet and ho!--the stunned masks cast across the entire table when -- voila! -- they´re assailed a round of drinks compliments from across the way. The waitress coyly points from whence they came. The jig is up. A boisterous hoist, ¨¡A Dia de la Mujere!¨ ¨To the Day of the Woman,¨ the tables braid together, and North meets South. Ah, surprise, surprise.