Based on a True Tropico Story

"Ay dios mio," Susan Hill lamented to herself as she trudged up the steep dirt road to her cozy home after another weary day of work at the power plant. She had taken the employment agency's offer to use her engineering degree on this tropical island because she thought it would offer adventure, maybe even -- dare she think it -- a chance at love with a hot-blooded Latin man? London had certainly held nothing for her romantically.

Only Tropico hadn't been much of an improvement. It had been years since she moved here, and instead of life being an exotic, idyllic paradise, she spent every day trudging the same dusty hill, going back and forth to a 20-years-obsolete power plant, earning in a month what she used to spend on shoes.

At least the government allots me a nice house to live in, she thought as she pushed the door open and was greeted by its familiar creak.

What could be so wrong with me? she thought, as she caught her reflection in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. She wasn't at all bad looking for 34; in fact, she was quite proud of the way her body looked, even in the high-collared white shirt and dour navy skirt required by her employer. I'm too old, that's what. I've got more chance of being bitten by a tarantula than getting married for the first time at my age.

For the first time in 14 hours, she removed her white hardhat and shook her head as her long raven tresses unfurled.

"Someday, someone will love me," she said to the mirror.

She didn't believe it.

She awoke the next day and, after dressing and carefully pinning her luxuriant locks up under her helmet again, walked down the street, to the mercado across the street from the church. As she idly munched her taco and sipped her Hola Cola, she didn't notice the burly farmer dropping off a sack of papayas. Picking up some corn, pineapple, papayas and beef for later, she dropped her groceries off at home before walking back down the hill to the power plant on the island's rocky coast.

That evening after work, as her front door creaked open, a piece of paper that had been tucked into the jamb fluttered to the ground. Not another rent increase, she thought.

But it wasn't typewritten on the island's official stationery. This was handwritten on a piece of brown grocery sack -- in English. Her eyes widened as they scanned the neat script.

"Please forgive my presumptuousness. I saw you at the marketplace today and was immediately struck by your radiant beauty. I realize this method is unusual, but I had no time to stop and talk to you. If you would be interested in meeting me, come to the pub at the bottom of the hill tonight. I will be the one wearing a straw hat. If you do not come, I will understand."

To Be Continued