It's Sunday morning and we're sitting at an outside table at the Cafe de la Gran Parroquia in Veracruz. The cafe is easily the size of a city block and it's clearly the place to be--every table inside and out is occupied. Musical groups advertise their repertoires, written in little pocket-sized notebooks, ready to pitter-pat on the marimba if you'll pony up 30 pesos.

We've ordered a round of coffee. Chilaquiles for Francisco. Enfrijoladas for Carmen. Enchiladas rojas for me. As we wait, street vendors buzz around like flies. Do we want sunglasses? Coconut shell jewelry? Hand-stitched blouses or dresses? Butter in a can, imported from New Zealand? Watches that are, as one vendor tells us, "almost brand-name"? Candy? Gum? Cigarettes or Cohibas? No, no, no, and gracias, pero no. There's little that irritates me more quickly than aggressive peddling, even though, as one vendor tells me, "it's better than stealing," which is true.

And then the palm reader shows up. Though I'm not sure why, I find myself saying "yes" to her offer to tell me my past and my future for 20 pesos.

She starts with my lifeline, my palm rested in the cup of her warm, soft hand. She traces the line's arc and relieves my long-held, deep-seated fear of dying young. I'm not sitting next to Francisco, and if you were to take a snapshot of us at this moment, it wouldn't be evident that we're in love. Still, she knows for sure I've found my other half. She knows that despite profound happiness and luck in love and in work, envy is a problem. She doesn't elaborate, and I don't want her to. Though I'm quick to help others, she says, people aren't so quick to help me. I often feel alone.

There's a part of my heart, she says, which is always sad.

She looks deep into my eyes, so deep that I'm uncomfortable. I want to tell her everything. Want to confirm what she's read in the palm of my hand or what she's made up. I want to say, "Maybe that's why I love Mexico like I do." In this country, I see myself: happy and sad at the same time. Capable of living with the questions and the contradictions. Able to still be worth loving. It's the moment when I really realize why I feel so at peace here.  

But I don't. I don't say any of it. I ask Francisco to give her a 50 and I drink my coffee.