Nearly two months ago, I celebrated my 21st birthday. I was awoken at 6am to a playlist repeating Feliz Cumpleaños with variations of the same arrangement of brass horns, apparently a Honduran tradition. Given that cakes seem to be the love language of Honduran mothers, my own host mother made a cake with typical elaborate frosting, which was promptly destroyed when I followed Honduran tradition and smashed my face into the side of the cake to take the first “bite”. Eggs were cracked upon my head, blessings were bestowed upon me, and I was given an edition of National Geographic en Español and two Snickers bars. Karaoke ensued. These are good people.
