A boy begged pitifully at the door of the café. He was ushered off by the waitress who served the two women an unfamiliar corn dish.

“Let’s get it, ” Joyce exclaimed.

I was full of American fear. Every book reads and every health pamphlet wanrs the travelor to heat hot, freshly prepared foods. They write of all the nasty organisms that will grown inside of local foods. I knew that the fried foods would be safe. I didn’t want to spend my first trip to Cape Verde in the bathroom.

“Let’s not.”
“Oh, c’mon, it will be fine. How are you going to survive when you come to visit me in Guinea?”
“I don’t know. I think that’s Cachupa. My grandmother used to make it, but I’d never eat it.”
“Let’s. What are you hear for?”
“Fine. Desculpe, uma Cachupa por favour.”

The cachupa arrived. It was rich man’s Cachupa because it was served with meat. The meat was a sausage that looked like the Linguica I had grown up with in New England. I picked through, as Joyce clearly enjoyed it more than I did. The flavor was effected by my fear it would sicken me like all non-hotel prepared local foods. Joyce didn’t have that fear, so she enjoyed it.>>>