(This is my first attempt at writing in the Gonzo style. How did I do?)
I walked up the crumbling sidewalk outside a wall-less cafe on a busy corner of bright shops by a St. Maarten beach. Sprigs of grass jumping between the cracks of the sidewalk mimicked skinny black trees jutting through the clay roof of the cafe. I sat as a small white metal table. A distracted waitress with a Dutch accent brought “a coffe,” and calamari, hot and oily, and wrapped in wax paper in an orange waffle basket. I squirted thick dollop of peppery tomato sauce to one side.
