You never know

Last week, on our way to meet some acquaintances for lunch, the friend with whom I was walking quietly suggested that we cross to the sunny side of the street, not our general practice at noon in Merida.  Further down the block, a seriously disheveled man was sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against one of the houses, hand extended for money. No doubt harmless, as every beggar either of us had encountered here has been, but sixty-something women, sad to say, have generally learned to be cautious around strange men.

So cross the street we did, planning to continue on our way, but the block is home to a quiche shop that I frequented last year. My friend stopped, having been struck with the idea of at least providing a good meal to the scruffy stranger. When she explained what she wanted to the shop owner, the young woman said, "Oh, no need. I take him quiche every day." At that point, she shared what she knew of his story.

"He is a neighbor," we were told. "He speaks five languages and was a professor, but something happened. He lost his mind, and now, he sits there. He does not use drugs, he hurts no one, and I feed him. If you have change, he can use a few pesos."

I did indeed have change, so we crossed back to the shady side of the street and placed it in the stranger's open hand. "God bless you," he said in unaccented English before nodding and dropping his gaze back to the sidewalk.

You never know what another person has gone through until you hear their story.