NaomiT

But at the convent, located piously on the next corner, no one notices. Its windows are striped with heavy bars and spikes, as if to protect the cloistered nuns from the bull bar’s hedonism. Popping into the dimly lit foyer, I push the buzzer and the creaky lazy Susan spins, revealing a bag of freshly baked cookies for sale. When I spin back the cookies with a “no, gracias,” she surprises me with a few words of English—countering, in a Monty Python-esque voice, “We have cupcakes as well.” I buy a bag of cupcakes to support the mission work of the convent. I glimpse—through the not-quite one-way mirror—the not-meant-to-be-seen sister in her flowing robe and habit momentarily appear and disappear.