taxi driver, Roberto, makes good time rushing to the airport as I ride in the back contemplating reasons my mail can’t simply be delivered to my house. Observing anorexic cows with skin clinging to bony ribs grazing along the median strip, or tied to palapas made of palm leaves and tree branches on the sides of the road. A group of three cows cross the road leisurely, stopping

traffic with the same slow pace I’ve come to know all over El Salvador, oblivious to the horn honking of impatient drivers. I’m peering at the skin sagging off these animals’ bones, confident I’ll never eat another steak in El Salvador.