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We weren’t half a mile down the road when a man on a motorcycle rode up on us. Drugs, he wanted to know. Did we want any. What he really wanted—needed— was money. If I was in his situation and saw a young white man and his mixed girlfriend walking out of a multimillion dollar resort I would have done the same thing. We talk about putting ourselves in the shoes of others to make a better world. But can we really? Can we truly know what it’s like to be another? To breathe like them? Walk like them? Talk, smile, pray like them? It’s not pessimistic to say I don’t think so. It’s logical. Rational. Realistic. But we can find roads. Roads that connect us, bring us closer, and show us that though we are all different, we are also all very similar. Roads like the one me and Janelle were cruising along that stretched from our resort to Sosua Beach, a golden strip of sand that disregarded the false bravado, harmful, and unfulfilling nature of time. “No thanks,” I told him. “We’re actually just looking for food if you know somewhere good.” He cocked his head and rocked back onto his heels. His honest, unconsciously analytical eyes dropped, surprised, appreciative even that we weren’t scared of him and how he made his living. He could genuinely tell that we simply wanted to try the tasty, original, local cuisine his home had to offer. He pointed us down a road we soon learned many tourists don’t go down. We didn’t know he was pointing us to paradise. As we passed under the overhang of those dark green, dinosaur leaves and walked down those crooked, wooden steps steeped in the Caribbean allure of tropic colors and smells set a cloud under my feet. We had stepped into another world, a painless one, like a healthy child smiling, kicking a soccer ball with with his friends in a beautiful backyard on a golden summer day. As we walked along the coast, we didn’t receive nearly as many looks as the little me in my head figured we might. What we received instead were genuine smiles, friendly waves, hot plates of plantains and beans, and art so indescribably beautiful. But you know it’s crazy the things we remember most through this life we’re given. Because it’s not the food. And it’s not the speedboat that rocketed up onto the coast ten feet from unbothered village people, for whom that’s apparently a daily occurrence. Nor is it the majestic view of the sunset ricocheting off the water and onto the mountains so green you could breathe life from them a hundred miles away. What I remember most from that day was a dog. A stray dog sitting in the sand all alone, unaffected, unfazed by all. And as he sat there looking at me, we saw each other. He wasn’t as nearly as blind as he seemed; simply fearless, of time and death. Life is insane. If there’s a god, he’s bat-shit crazy. You can go snorkeling, you can take cable cars up to the top of Mountain Isabela De Torres, you can ride around Puerto Plata visiting cigar shops, rum factories and drink five Presidentes along the way. You can do all those things and have a great time learning the ins and outs of another culture. But at the end of the day, sometimes questions arise. Questions that dog had. Like... "If God’s real, then how can there be a multimillion dollar resort down the road from me, yet I lay here thirsty, unloved, and possibly dying?" Life isn’t guaranteed to be fair. But at the end of the day I’m with the dog. Because I know that a stray dog knows that you don’t have to step in someone else’s shoes to see them. By the end of our week we had made friends with the man on the motorcycle. We had found common ground. He made his living, and we ate food. Is that fair? Not even slightly. But we knew that had “God’s” dice bounced just a little bit differently, we’d be doing the same as the other.