Shhhh! Speakeasy, please
We arrived at the door and stared blankly at it.
“Is this the place?” Peter asked, doubt and worry in his voice. He stepped up to the darkened windows and tried to peer in.
I fidgeted on the doorstep. Was this the address? Were we on the wrong street? It’s an easy mistake to make when you depend on Bogota’s notoriously bizarre street numbering system.
I looked for a doorbell but there wasn’t one, and the door was firmly shut against the world.
Just then the door swung open and a thin-faced man with serious eyes and heavy stubble looked at us. He didn’t say a word.
What was I supposed to do? What should I say? Was there a password we should recite, or would he simply recognize my name?
He swung the door open wide. “Come on in.”
