With the organ music filling the air, offering auditory bookends to the verbal calls for more jumps and movements where she threw one leg high into the air, the ballerina climbed back up onto the ledge of the fountain and pirouetted her way closer to the steps. The closer she danced to the doors, the more obvious it became that she was listening to music that none of the rest of us heard and dancing to a beat we couldn’t follow.

A short distance from the entrance to the fountain, she dove back into the water, spun on the surface, and then performed handstand after handstand, which worked the crowd in a foaming frenzy. As more and more churchgoers walked up the steps, I began to notice that the entirety of her dance was serving to move her closer to the front of the cathedral and something about her timing was, either purposefully or not, structured to land her on the front steps about the time the Mass started.

Which begged the question, What were the priests going to do when that naked woman walked into their church?

I didn’t have the answer but I was going to find out. My waiter returned with my check and didn’t seem too interested in the dance, suggesting that he’d either seen it before or he’d been sufficiently warned by his mother not to let his eyes wander. Either way, unlike half the police force of León, he went about his business, busing tables. I paid my tab and stood as the ballerina danced herself out of the fountain and onto the first step. She then performed a rather awkward approach toward the door. Had anyone in their right mind attempted her movements, it would have been described as “erotic,” but when added to the disconnected look on her face and her disjointed movements, my overriding emotion was not excitement or titillation, but sadness.

She danced herself up the stairs to the front door. We heard singing and prompted recitation echoing from the inside. She continued to dance between the doors, kicking her legs here, throwing her arms there. Then, just as quickly as she’d appeared, she disappeared through the front door of the cathedral. Disappointed that the show had come to a close, the crowd began to disperse. I crossed the street, went up the steps, and through the giant wooden doors some twenty-plus feet tall. Inside, I found that most of the congregation had already filed down the center aisle for Communion. Many knelt or prayed, both at the altar or back at their pews. The priest stood center stage, bread and wine in his hands. Offering to all takers.

Including the ballerina.

I arrived in time to witness her finish her dance down the center aisle directly in front of the priest who, to his credit, was staring into her eyes. I leaned against a column wanting to see how this would play out. Just how would “the church” deal with someone like her?

Standing at an angle to the priest, she genuflected and stuck out her tongue. He dipped the bread in the wine and placed it on her tongue, prompting a second genuflection. About this time, two more priests appeared from the left with a long red robe, which they quietly wrapped around her shoulders as she moved to the altar. While she knelt, eyes closed, lips moving, they stood silently by her side, offering prayers of their own.

Standing there scratching my head, a priest tapped me on the shoulder and ushered me forward in his best broken English. “You?” He motioned toward the railing. “Go.”

I shook my head. “No.”

He smiled. “You welcome. We welcome you.”

Another shake. “You don’t have enough bread.”

“You hungry?” He smiled, but his eyes told me that the question he asked wasn’t the question he was asking.

I shook my head.

He pointed toward the altar and nodded excitedly. “Redención.”

I stepped aside; he smiled, nodded, and walked around me toward some other folks standing in the rear of the church.

Dark had fallen outside as I returned to the hotel. I stood in the shower, smelling of clean soap and thinking back to that bread. The woman in the church was naked. That’s all. I was dirty. The water turned cold as I listened to the echo of the priest’s voice.

I had my doubts.

For whatever reason, I hadn’t eaten in almost forty-eight hours so I stepped out into the streets and followed my nose to a roadside café. The owner was round; wiping her head with a towel, she smiled and handed me a menu printed in both English and Spanish. When I worked for Marshall, I’d learned to order only cooked food and not drink anything that doesn’t come in a can, which you see opened, and never anything with ice. I pointed at items on the menu. Beans, rice, and some cooked meat. She nodded, punched numbers into the cash register, and motioned to a table where I sat waiting, sipping from a water bottle. The food appeared a few minutes later. The smell was intoxicating, and the meal hot and delicious. I ordered a second plate and ate until I was thoroughly stuffed.

The young guy working the desk at the hotel didn’t know of any parties of note, but he told me that the nightlife of León occurred about seven blocks “da’ way.”

I had parked the bike behind the hotel in a locked area where guests kept their cars. The area was very small and crowded bumper to bumper with cars. In order to get my bike, which was jammed into the far corner, my young friend would have had to move the five cars in its way. When I saw what was required, I waved him off. “I’ll walk.”

*  *  *

I had walked three blocks away when the first wave hit me. The nausea came, followed with little warning by projectile. I had enough time to turn my face toward the street before the contents of my stomach exited my mouth. This occurred several times, dropping me to my knees. Once my stomach was empty, the urge reversed course and hit my bowels with the impact of a train. Had I been in my own home, I would not have had time to get to the bathroom. This expulsion was also projectile, and I was powerless to control it.

Seconds later, I found myself kneeling in the road, both hurling and soiling myself. I don’t know how long this lasted, but my guess is several hours. The result left me exhausted and teetering on delirium next to the curb. I do know that several people walked around me, holding their noses and speaking in hushed tones. I held out as long as I could but finally collapsed next to an old building, a trail behind me. I could control no aspect of my bodily functions and curled up in complete weakness and a foggy semiconsciousness.

Some time later, a man with a broom poked me and said something in Spanish. I had no idea what he said, but his tone told me it was not positive. With his broom in my ribs, I crawled a block and up next to an even dirtier old building. Somewhere in the middle of the night, I felt a hand tugging on my arm and another rifling through my pocket. I grabbed it and tried to hold on but was unable.

Daylight bore through my eyelids and warmed the air around me, stimulating the unbearable smell of myself. I was weak. Could not stand. Could barely open my eyes and the cramping pain in my stomach was excruciating. The only relief came in those moments when my body relinquished control of itself. I was aware that people were walking around me and probably talking about me, but I did not care.

The only thing I knew for certain was that I was unable to help myself.

I passed out again. Above me, church bells rang and woke me. When I opened my eyes, my vision was blurry, but I could detect two people walking from my left to my right. One was smaller than the other. I think they were holding hands.

I reached out my hand and they circled around me. From one of the figures, I heard a small, quiet voice. The voice spoke in Spanish. I heard the word “borracho.” Then a pause. Then another voice responded in Spanish. I don’t know what they said and I didn’t know if they spoke English, but I’d been around enough to know what borracho meant. As the voices and the feet that moved them shuffled by me, I extended my hand and said, “I’m not drunk.” They slowed but didn’t stop. I whispered again, “I’m not drunk.”