A few months back during a trip to Central America, I stumbled upon a little restaurant called, The Garden Cafe.
The cafe had big bright white doors, shelves lined with books, original local art work, and an open courtyard where I spent most of the night.
After a light dinner, I sat at my table writing for the next few hours. Almost on cue, a light rain began to fall. The sound of water dancing on bright green plants was accompanied by the faint dins of forks against porcelain.
It was one of those rare moments that bring a kind of clarity to life; you somehow know what to do about everything in your frenzied world.
After dinner, I decided to take the long way home. The same evening drizzle guided me home.
If I ever opened a restaurant of my own it would be exactly like The Garden Cafe, I thought.
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