I met David Mathisen in November of 1962, in Tela, Honduras. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, fresh out of both college and PC Training, far away from home in a country I only knew academically. I had just moved into a tiny place behind an 8-foot wall that opened directly onto the street.
On this particular day my attention was focused completely on the daily struggle with the key that never quite wanted to open the lock on the solid wooden door. Suddenly I was startled to hear a deep, gruff voice right at my elbow say "Da man wan' to see you."
My heart thudding, I turned to see a small, wiry, muscular very black woman on a bicycle. With her chin, she indicated that I should look across the street behind me. This was a typical Honduran gesture foreign to me at the time, but which I soon adopted as one of my own.
My fright dissolved in relief when I saw a small man with a big smile waving at me. The man was David, and the woman was his dear friend Ruby, now also sporting a broad smile with impossibly white teeth; a double warm welcome to my new world.
I gave up the fight with the recalcitrant key and went across the street. David invited me inside for a cup of coffee, which marked the beginning of a 35-year friendship. I still remember it. It was a tiny cup of horribly strong bitter coffee that David had learned to like and to make in the Honduran way. We sat on straight wooden chairs facing each other across a plain little kitchen table, and we became friends.
David left Honduras only a few months later, but our friendship survived, later being physically separated by the entire country, he living in DC, and I on the coast of California. We visited back and forth a few times, and were always in touch by mail and then by e-mail, living through each other's joys of friends, jobs and activities, and sharing our separate sorrows of losing so many beloved friends to AIDS.
In October of 1996 I went to DC to be a volunteer again, this time for the last AIDS Quilt showing in the Mall. I stayed with David, and every morning we sat across his small kitchen table drinking coffee and reminiscing about our lives. In all those years, only the coffee changed, becoming regular old American instant.
But I believe friendship is forever, and we will meet again. I just wonder what the next cup of coffee will be like!
On this particular day my attention was focused completely on the daily struggle with the key that never quite wanted to open the lock on the solid wooden door. Suddenly I was startled to hear a deep, gruff voice right at my elbow say "Da man wan' to see you."
My heart thudding, I turned to see a small, wiry, muscular very black woman on a bicycle. With her chin, she indicated that I should look across the street behind me. This was a typical Honduran gesture foreign to me at the time, but which I soon adopted as one of my own.
My fright dissolved in relief when I saw a small man with a big smile waving at me. The man was David, and the woman was his dear friend Ruby, now also sporting a broad smile with impossibly white teeth; a double warm welcome to my new world.
I gave up the fight with the recalcitrant key and went across the street. David invited me inside for a cup of coffee, which marked the beginning of a 35-year friendship. I still remember it. It was a tiny cup of horribly strong bitter coffee that David had learned to like and to make in the Honduran way. We sat on straight wooden chairs facing each other across a plain little kitchen table, and we became friends.
David left Honduras only a few months later, but our friendship survived, later being physically separated by the entire country, he living in DC, and I on the coast of California. We visited back and forth a few times, and were always in touch by mail and then by e-mail, living through each other's joys of friends, jobs and activities, and sharing our separate sorrows of losing so many beloved friends to AIDS.
In October of 1996 I went to DC to be a volunteer again, this time for the last AIDS Quilt showing in the Mall. I stayed with David, and every morning we sat across his small kitchen table drinking coffee and reminiscing about our lives. In all those years, only the coffee changed, becoming regular old American instant.
But I believe friendship is forever, and we will meet again. I just wonder what the next cup of coffee will be like!
I met David Mathisen in November of 1962, in Tela, Honduras. I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, fresh out of both college and PC Training, far away from home in a country I only knew academically. I had just moved into a tiny place behind an 8-foot wall that opened directly onto the street.
On this particular day my attention was focused completely on the daily struggle with the key that never quite wanted to open the lock on the solid wooden door. Suddenly I was startled to hear a deep, gruff voice right at my elbow say "Da man wan' to see you."
My heart thudding, I turned to see a small, wiry, muscular very black woman on a bicycle. With her chin, she indicated that I should look across the street behind me. This was a typical Honduran gesture foreign to me at the time, but which I soon adopted as one of my own.
My fright dissolved in relief when I saw a small man with a big smile waving at me. The man was David, and the woman was his dear friend Ruby, now also sporting a broad smile with impossibly white teeth; a double warm welcome to my new world.
I gave up the fight with the recalcitrant key and went across the street. David invited me inside for a cup of coffee, which marked the beginning of a 35-year friendship. I still remember it. It was a tiny cup of horribly strong bitter coffee that David had learned to like and to make in the Honduran way. We sat on straight wooden chairs facing each other across a plain little kitchen table, and we became friends.
David left Honduras only a few months later, but our friendship survived, later being physically separated by the entire country, he living in DC, and I on the coast of California. We visited back and forth a few times, and were always in touch by mail and then by e-mail, living through each other's joys of friends, jobs and activities, and sharing our separate sorrows of losing so many beloved friends to AIDS.
In October of 1996 I went to DC to be a volunteer again, this time for the last AIDS Quilt showing in the Mall. I stayed with David, and every morning we sat across his small kitchen table drinking coffee and reminiscing about our lives. In all those years, only the coffee changed, becoming regular old American instant.
But I believe friendship is forever, and we will meet again. I just wonder what the next cup of coffee will be like!
On this particular day my attention was focused completely on the daily struggle with the key that never quite wanted to open the lock on the solid wooden door. Suddenly I was startled to hear a deep, gruff voice right at my elbow say "Da man wan' to see you."
My heart thudding, I turned to see a small, wiry, muscular very black woman on a bicycle. With her chin, she indicated that I should look across the street behind me. This was a typical Honduran gesture foreign to me at the time, but which I soon adopted as one of my own.
My fright dissolved in relief when I saw a small man with a big smile waving at me. The man was David, and the woman was his dear friend Ruby, now also sporting a broad smile with impossibly white teeth; a double warm welcome to my new world.
I gave up the fight with the recalcitrant key and went across the street. David invited me inside for a cup of coffee, which marked the beginning of a 35-year friendship. I still remember it. It was a tiny cup of horribly strong bitter coffee that David had learned to like and to make in the Honduran way. We sat on straight wooden chairs facing each other across a plain little kitchen table, and we became friends.
David left Honduras only a few months later, but our friendship survived, later being physically separated by the entire country, he living in DC, and I on the coast of California. We visited back and forth a few times, and were always in touch by mail and then by e-mail, living through each other's joys of friends, jobs and activities, and sharing our separate sorrows of losing so many beloved friends to AIDS.
In October of 1996 I went to DC to be a volunteer again, this time for the last AIDS Quilt showing in the Mall. I stayed with David, and every morning we sat across his small kitchen table drinking coffee and reminiscing about our lives. In all those years, only the coffee changed, becoming regular old American instant.
But I believe friendship is forever, and we will meet again. I just wonder what the next cup of coffee will be like!
Sponsored by Ancestry
Advertisement
Advertisement
