Last night I stumbled upon a wonderful little restaurant called, "The Garden Cafe," on the relatively quiet street of Cuadra Pasos. The cafe had big bright white doors, shelves lined with books, original local art work, and an open courtyard where I spent most of the night. If I ever opened a cafe it would look and feel exactly like this, I thought.
After a light dinner I sat at my table writing for the next few hours as the tunes of Philippe Jaroussky played in my ear. Then, as if on cue, a light rain began to fall. The sound of rain drops dancing on bright green plants was accompanied only by the faint dins of forks against porcelain. It was one of those truly blissful moments where the frenzied mind came to a stop sign and let a calm pass before it.
After dinner, I took the long way home as the same evening drizzle tagged along.