In this hotel I can hear Nick coming from a mile away. His hiking boots clatter on the ancient cobblestones outside, and across the lobby’s handlaid masonry floor, and up the steep echoing stairwell, and finally down the hallway’s funky tile. I can picture him perfectly, a tall imperious gringo with icy blue eyes, backpack slung over one undulating shoulder, moving with rapid strides. I swear, he was born in a hurry. A line I once wrote in my secret notebook about him — Nick moves as if where he isn’t is always more interesting than where he is.

The key turns in the lock, the doorknob squeaks — and then the heavy oaken door almost flies off its hinges. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he announces, slamming it shut behind him.

“What?” I ask in alarm, propping myself up in bed.

Nick is hunched over his backpack in a corner. Without looking up he says, “There are no croissants in this goddamn city.”

“But that French bakery down the street is always open.”

“Not the day after Santa Anastasia’s Day, it’s not.”

My stomach is already growling in disappointment. “So what did you get me, then?”

“I was going to get you a real Mexican breakfast. Huevos rancheros or something like that.” His arms move violently in the backpack. “But then I remembered there’s a panaderia on Jardines del Moral, over by where Beto lives. So I hiked over there and discovered that, duh, it’s closed too.” More frantic rooting in his backpack. “Then I tried to find a supermercado that was open — but of course, this is the day after Santa Anastasia’s Day we’re talking about. All the supermercados are closed too.” He straightens up with a greasy bag in his fist. “Tah da! Your breakfast is a…croissandwich!”

“You got me Burger King?” I say stupidly.

“The King sends his regards.” Nick drops the bag on the bed. “I’ve never had a croissandwich before. So don’t bitch to me if it tastes like ass.”

I’m plundering the bag for its foil-wrapped croissandwich. Inside is a recognizable croissant with too-thick ham and Mexican cheese. “Well, it looks alright…” I take a tentative nibble. Then a bite. Mmmmm.

He watches me devour the croissandwich in three more bites, taking an involuntary step backwards. “Good, huh?”

“Yeah. Good.” I wipe my fingers and mouth on a napkin that says COMO TU QUIERAS. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“Mangoes and coffee. Street vendors are selling it outside all the churches. Must be some kind of hangover remedy. What have you been doing?”

“Uh, you mean…reading?” I follow his icy blue gaze to the most recent chapter of his dissertation, stacked next to a pillow.

“Wasting your time. That’s what I call it. You’re wasting your time on this shit.” He flings the pages into the air. For a moment it rains scholarship.

“Nick? What are you doing?” I giggle in delighted uncertainty, and yelp a little when he lunges at me. “Nick!”

He straddles my hips and looks down at me intently. “So anyway.”

“So anyway,” I echo beneath him, trying to keep a straight face. I’ve never seen him this silly before.

“I know something better than reading my dissertation. And sure as hell better than writing it.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?”

“Guess,” Nick says, stripping off his t-shirt.