I would like to pretend there is no reason why I went. There was no financial gain involved. The third time I almost died. No exaggeration there. Peru almost killed me. I suppose that there was that afternoon in Honduras where I should have been killed. The afternoon I went out alone to find a new shirt. No grand and glorious expedition was planned. I just needed a clean shirt. I wandered the streets of San Pedro Sul until I found a shop. I was too exhausted to understand exchange rates or number in Spanish. The woman wrote the cost of the shirt on my hand. I tried to calculate lempiras and centavos into dollars and cents to no avail. The kind woman asked me in broken English “what are you do here?” I said I was going to buy the shirt. She grabbed my arm and pointed behind me. “Those men, they want kill you.” I looked at her and looked behind me to the group of men sizing me up and staring me down. I gave them a look, I don’t know what look it was. I hope it is a look I have in reserve for the next group of men that want me dead. I looked however I looked. I gave them a “you want to kill me, but I want to buy a shirt” kind of look. I turned back around and thanked the woman and bought a shirt. I probably should have been killed that day. In Peru, it was a kitten that nearly did me in. I don’t think anyone in the Dominican Republic tried to end things for me. A man standing on the first road built in the new world did ask me if I “wanted a fiancee for the evening. Real cheap.” I declined. I took some photos instead.