I instantly fell in love with the folks at the St. Joseph's Home for Boys. Walnes, the man in charge of hospitality and the assistant director of the facility, greeted me warmly and instantly took me around the complex to met the chef (from Cap-Haitien) and Bill, the director of the home, and wIthin 30 minutes of my arrival, I was whisked away in a van with a few of the boys so the could show me where I could take a bus the next morning to the Dominican Republic. Once we found the station, a fifteen minute walk from St. Joseph's, we were off to the store to refill the empty dozen or so 5 gallon water jugs filling the front two rows of our blue passenger van. Our destination, the Caribbean supermarket, looked more at home in Iowa, the aisles contained the most white people I had seen since arriving to Haiti. Once the water jugs were refilled and other provision acquired, we weaved our way back through Petion-Ville, stopping several times to push out the van's side door to negotiate the price of eggs, fruits and vegetables with several sidewalk vendors. With each stop one of the boys would help me with my Haitiian Creole. I remember "water" is "dlo", the rest will have to be translated through Google Translate. By the time we returned home I was carrying a watermelon in my lap, and all the other available seats were taken up by eggs, mangos, pumpkins, and other fresh things. It was awesome. I helped carry in the goods before retreating to the guest only roof top terrace to write these words.

People died here during the Port-au-Prince earthquake; in the quake, the St. Joseph's Home for Boys was turned to rubble. The six story guest house, with the amazing roof top terrace overlooking the surrounding neighborhood was built on the foundations of the original. The new structure was built of reinforce steel but I could still see the surrounding houses below were being rebuilt again in cement blocks. Fortunately, the area of Petion-ville is built on a rocky hillside, unlike Port-au-Prince which was built along the coast on piles of sand. A plaque near the door to my room honored a 29 year old American father and missionary who died in the quake. It knotted my stomach every time I returned to my quarters on the fifth floor.

Dinner at St. Joseph's was with another missionary group from South Carolina. We dined on pumpkin carrot soup fresh from our street vendor earlier, grilled cheese sandwiches, salad and fried plantains. My guests were in Haiti to help paint another "Wings of Hope" facility, in a town about an hours drive from Port-au-Prince. I kept thinking to myself in a country with 50% unemployment does Haiti need more imported paint crews? Hopefully, they were bringing more than brushes. Welnas explained to me that there were other homes within Wings of Hope, similar to St. Joseph's but in different areas, some were for women and another for people with disabilities. Welnas grew up at St. Joseph's, and when he was 21 they hired him. Now 29, he was the home's assistant director, ran a dance studio, taught painting, and other handicrafts like jewelry making. After dinner we all bought jewelry made by the girls equivalent to St. Joseph's.