During my last travels I met a man who stood heads above my own and looked physically capable for the work he did, construction. His arms and legs were covered in eye catching colorful tattoos and wore clothing to insure their display. He had quit his job to see the world and expressed his confidence in not worrying where his next paycheck was coming from.

I first met him generously pouring tequila in the glasses of a few contented fellow travelers with the requisite salt and lime in tow. When the bottle was empty he pulled out another. He seemed to have no difficulty consuming large quantities of the potent liquid nor behaving relatively sober.  He encouraged a festive joyous atmosphere and laughter easily followed his tales.

We were both staying at the same posada  for about four days and our paths would cross on occasion.

One night I had stepped out of my room. He was sitting alone at a large table in a roofless courtyard, the air was warm and lovely; we began talking. He seemed pleased to chat before going off to bed and I wasn’t particularly tired.

He surprised me by opening up rather quickly and it didn’t require many specific details before I understood the extent of his pain and his therapeutic use of alcohol. His imposing presence took on an altered demeanor. We talked at length as one would with a close friend.

But the light of the day seemed to replenish his armor. When I greeted him that morning it was as if our discussion had never happened.