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Don Manuel is cutting the fruits, patiently, gracefully, with confidence and skill. Papaya, mango, bananas, pineapple: this is going to be a delightful feast. I watch him hypnotized, wondering how I could learn and transfer this art into the art of living. As he reaches for honey, a dozen bees follow him. “Buen provecho, mi hija” (Bon Appetite, my daughter), he smiles. I head back to the office, carrying with me these fresh fruits bursting with life infused by the tropical Sun. I am in Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. I am here on a volunteer assignment – helping to facilitate registering undocumented Dominicans, many of whom are children. Over the past month, we visited the local communities around the country, exploring how we could best work to empower thousands of vulnerable people, reclaiming their identity and their civil rights. We also visited los bateyes, where sugar cane workers lived with their families. I did not expect to discover these human settlements in the middle of the sugar cane fields; just as I found the biggest smiles and the most generous hearts in some of the most impoverished places; the airport full of ‘welcome’ signs and quotes by the famous writers; ‘Museum nights’ in the capital, arts centers opening their doors to share Dominican and Haitian culture and music; ‘Bonjé’ son concerts on Sunday nights at Las Ruinas de San Francisco; the beaches that seem to belong to a different world; Las Terrenas, Las Galeras, the mangroves and caves in the National park Los Haitises uncovering the drawings of los Tainos (indigenous people of the Caribbean); the stories of the sisters Mirabal, the heroins who opposed the dictator Rafael Trujillo in mid 20th century; Salomé Ureña, a Dominican poet and the founder of women's higher education in the Dominican Republic; my first merengue dance in El Sartén (The Frying Pan) and my first bachata in Parada 77 (Station 77); the February carnivals; the busy hair salons; the street vendors of fresh coconuts, zapote, batata, ñame, mamón, guayaba, guanábana, tayota, arepa, yuca, creole spices, cacao. My colleagues forming a circle and holding the hands of each other to say a prayer together at the end of one workshop, and the other group of colleagues dancing merengue without hesitation at the end of another one. I didn’t know I would get to feel the soft wind that steps in towards the end of the year, as a gentle reminder of the passage of time, of everything flowing and having to replenish. I did not expect to see the Moon that smiles just like the people it shines upon, wanting to get closer to feel and better understand this place full of contradictions, so wonderful yet so cruel, so rich and so poor. I did not expect to meet so many strong, humble, charismatic people who became my friends or to find a new home I would come back to… Yet, I did. Often, in my dreams, I get up and start the day with mangú (mashed plantains) garnished with onion in vinegar, grilled cheese, fresh avocado, a glass of juice made with pineapple skin and rice, and a pot of fresh coffee brewed with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg. "Buenos días Gladys, como está Usted?" (Good morning Gladys, how are you?). "Buenos días, mi hija, que Dios te bendiga, como dormiste esta noche?" (Good morning my daughter, God bless you, how did you sleep last night?), salutes Gladys. I head to the street and jump into la guagua o caro público, whatever comes first. From where we are, I cannot see the Caribbean sea, but I know it is near; it moves slowly, slower than the oceans; it is mesmerizing, eternally turquoise. I tell the driver: "Please drop me off at Caribe Tours". As I keep walking, I see the shoe cleaners waiting eagerly for their customers; street sweepers cleaning the pavement with huge palm tree leaves. A group of women in colorful dresses walk down the main street holding baskets of fruits on their heads. They sway with each step, as the island sways with their heartbeats. The smell of smog and peeled oranges fills the air.