A Tony Life

After my Long Day's journey into an early evening, I knew I needed to get some food. Though Richard and his family stopped for lunch, I hadn't been very hungry. They introduced me to Fry Jack, which is a fried dough that basically reminds me of poori, and I had some refried beans with it, but I knew that wouldn't be enough until morning. I had to have further adventures, but I also needed a lot of decompression. I just needed to sit for a bit.
The country's kind of depressing. Traveling alone has me keeping my guard up, worrying what dangers might be coming and who's going to try to take advantage. I don't want to be a victim, but I don't want to shelter myself from danger, either. I'm feeling tense and anxious on this adventure. It's not torture, but I'm not writhing in anything close to pleasure. 
I'm not getting what I wanted out of this - not that I had well-planned goals. What am I doing here? What was I looking for? Why are you in Belize Jon Berger? 
I need to decompress. 
I don't really take vacations, because I don't live much of a life where I have anything to vacate from. I live frugally, so. I can afford not to have much in the way of jobs, but that means I can't justify going off and going away, even if I have the money to do so. Who knows how long I'll have to make due with pennies until the next windfall comes along? So enjoying myself while away is... not something I have experience with. Not while I'm paying. Not beyond borders. Not in a while. Not in Belize. 
It had gotten dark. I wasn't sure how far afield I wanted to wander tonight - so I decided to check the guidebooks in advance and look for a specific place (not the Celebrity) that could be local and open - and that I could GPS while on wifi, mapping out specifically.
Hour Bar & Grill got good marks Lonely Planet (I've got three print guidebooks and like three other digital ones, all from the city library system), so I put some cash in my pocket, some more in my sock, locked up my valuables in the safe, and headed out of my room.
The Hour is about a quarter mile from my place. I'm not worried for my safety. Not only is nobody out, but I'm aware of this particular parcel of land. It's near the expat community; not where the scoundrels would be hanging out. I feel safe.
When I arrive at the Hour, there are two or three other groups dining, by the open windows, looking out on the sea. There's a breeze and it's lovely, despite some trash blowing around. It's not like New York litter, but there's a little bit of crap everywhere.
The menu's kind of generic. They have little of everything, but none of the Caribbean specialities I've been reading about: no royal rat, no fry chicken. The closest I see to something I haven't tried that seems interesting is curry chicken. Nothing new to me, but new to me here. Maybe it's different.
The waitress tries to engage me after I take my order, but I'm really tired. I ask her which Caye I should consider in the next couple of days: Caulker or San Pedro. We agree San Pedro. I crack a couple of jokes; each time, I'm fairly certain they're not gonna go over. The language divide is small, but extant. Eventually she leaves me alone.
Wifi isn't everywhere, and my data plan is disengaged, so I've been disconnected from the world, except from when I'm at the hotel, so I can't go to the my phone with the same frequency as I do in my regular life. I can, however, in down times, play games on my phone. While waiting for food, this is the first time I do so in days.
More groups come to the restaurant. They have happy conversations. I can hear no english, though I'm certain everybody could accommodate me.
One of my firmer memories in Brazil was my weekend in Rio, where I lay out on a beach, recognizing some ridiculous sorority girls lounging about, having their dumb conversation. I just stayed in their presence for forty five minutes, soaking in the glorious unaccented English. I heard Spanish, and, I assumed Kriol. There are like four other active languages, beyond English. The Hour could've been filled with all of them.
There was a movie on the TV, something with Ed Burns and Paul Giamatti. I glanced at that while eating alone.

Yep: Flotsam. Jetsam. Me. That's about the size of it. 

Maybe I could have engaged the waitress better if I wasn't so tired, if I didn't feel kind of down, but I couldn't help but feel the strings of the interaction: her politeness as staff, looking for a tip, but politeness as an interloper, not quite knowing the island ways (though, I know, this was the mainland). I felt stupid and contagious, and unable to entertain.
I left the place, with half my food in a doggie bag.
On the way back to my hotel, there's a little park, with a mall of mostly shuttered food kiosks. It was my first stop, the first day, and I thought I'd look for a desert, before going back upstairs. I glanced at what was still open, but couldn't tell if they served any sweets.
"They got good food there," one of the few guys sitting said.
"LIke... what?" I asked.
"Curry. Good chicken curry."
I laughed, gestured to my bag. "Got that right here. You think they got desert?"
"They probably got desert."
"I'll go check it. Thanks."
They did have desert. Carrot Cake. They asked if I wanted icing with that. What kind of a crazy cultural divide question is that?
I pulled two spoons for the carrot cake, and went back to the guy who nudged me towards that place.
"You want some?" I asked.
He accepted.
I cut the piece in half, and we talked for a bit.
Turns out, dude had been in America for 36 years. Born in UK, but been on the shipping lines for lots of years before ending up in Chicago and LA. Tony has a heavy island accent, and strongly believes in god.
Everyone in Belize seems to believe in god. It looks like only half their churches have crosses on them, but they all got them some Jesus.
So Tony and me go into it on god for quite some time, and he's accepting of differing opinions - maybe because he's drunk, maybe because he's lived a very lucky life. If Tony's to be believed, the US arrested him over 360 times for a variety (obviously) of charges, and nothing ever stuck. He doesn't ever plan on coming back to the States, especially in the current climate, so he'll while away the rest of his years in the paradise his mother came from.
Tony and I talked for some hours. I was really punch drunk tired, so I don't know how much sense I was making, but I saw no reason to think he was trying to game me in any way. I was suspicious when he invited me across the street to the Nightclub that he lives in, as a custodian/night guard, but Tony's in his sixties. Even after I glanced at his knife, I figured I could take care of myself.
Dude said he killed a man, but he also said he saw a guy walk through concrete to go fuck his wife, so I dunno.
Tony made me feel a lot better about my day, a lot less lonely. There're freaks to talk to everywhere, even in English. Even in Belize.