It was a rainy day in Galway. Nothing new—Galway and rain are synonymous, along with fog, mist, hailstones, slippery footpaths, pneumonia . . .
I felt like God, even though I must’ve been the palest lady on Vía Argentina. I was one lone gringita standing outside a bar full of red lights and Don Omar music, watching people use the tens and twenties tucked in their fingers for cab fare or a bottle of rum to mix with Coca-Cola. I was just a dirt-broke chick who sprinted out of the States like a scalded rat, hoping I’d never see certain people again . . .