"Really?" I asked. "I guess it is a heavily Catholic country, so that makes some sense. Have you tried a grocery store?"
"I've tried that, too, but I can't just ask anyone when I'm with my parents. I have to sneak off. I don't have any fucking idea where they sell condoms. And all I wanna do is fuck my girlfriend. We've been here for two weeks."
"Well," I said, "you're in luck."
I slid my worn, camouflage backpack off my shoulder and unzipped it to fish out a quart-sized plastic bag. It contained BAND-AIDs, butt wipes, and Scott's Holy Grail.
"No fucking way, mate," he said.
Scott shook my hand like a guy who was gonna get laid for the first time in two weeks.
Our conversation drifted off. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Scott nudging his girlfriend. He flashed the condom at her, and she smiled.
I joked and drank more with Henri and Paul, with whom I'd established the most rapport. Henri gave me his card, and we agreed to exchange trade secrets when we had big successes at work. We ordered churrasco skewers off the street grill, watching as they were dipped in chimichurri, grilled, then rolled in breadcrumbs.