On speaking and small towns

For sure the worst part about only kind of speaking another language is messing up the punch lines. I'm funny, you know. Especially in other languages where humor is often more slapstick. But I've got no timing, and no one is really sure if they're sure I'm making a joke or telling a funny story. I told an entire story about how my mom's college boyfriend bought her a sewing machine IN PORTUGUESE all for nothing as I fumbled over the whole point- that the broke up and he stuck her with the payments.

But whatevs.

Creoza and her husband, with a name I don't remember, were the ultimate hosts. We mostly just ate, and cooked, and ate, and recovered from eating by walking around the town in the best temperature ever (warm with a cool breeze, not so your bones are cold, or even your skin, but so just every once in a while when the wind blows longer or harder than usual, you notice the cold and are grateful for the warm when it returns in a moment), checking out what many regional hub towns are: a main drag with markets and shops full of people, surrounded by homes in varying degrees of finished. This particular town had a tendency to advertise whatever their business was with painted cartoons. Maybe signs are expensive, who knows. But I sure hope brightly painted human or animal mascots for grocers, auto salesmen, and sex shops become a trend everywhere else. We also talked love and missionary service with Brenda, a girl Porter baptized when she was a pre-teen, but is now very much an adult. There's nothing quite as exciting as seeing someone you taught make the gospel a priority in their life. Nada.

Photos to come!