We stick to the chairs of the San Blas bus station, flicking through our guide books in the manner of teenagers before GSCEs. Our last minute revision, as always, comes to nothing but a head full of possibilities. City or beach? Jungle or mountain? I throw a peso and prostrate to the fates. Eva catches it and flips it onto the back of her hand.
A giant finger reaches from the sky and pushes us towards the City.
Decision made, we relax into our benches and eat glistening Mexican cheesecake.
Three dirty children play in a patch of sunlight on the tiles, dust motes hanging above them in the light. One of the girls is tiny, about half the width you'd expect for her height, with legs thinner than my wrist and a slightly deformed face. She looks like she might break if she moves too fast.
I smile at her.
The bigger girl comes up to me and stands very close, holding a pink balloon in front of my face.
I dutifully blow it up.
Every breath is monitored by pairs of shining eyes. I finish and she holds out a sticky hand.
Instead of giving it to her I pull the mouth of the balloon apart so it makes a extended, high pitched squeak.
The energy of their reaction takes even me by surprise.
The kids are besides themselves with laughter; abandoned, hysterical laughter, that rings out and incites involuntary bubbles of mirth from deep inside me and those around. The noise breaks the staleness of the bus station air with sweet, cheesecake smiles.
She makes me do it again and again. Each time the reaction is the same, gleeful abandon.
By the time my bus pulls up, no one in the waiting room has been able to repress the urge to laugh. I wave goodbye to twinkling eyes and everywhere I look I see joy.
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