He couldn\’t have been over six years old. Dirty face, barefooted, torn T-shirt, matted hair. He wasn\’t too different from the other hundred thousand or so street orphans that roam Rio de Janeiro.
I was walking to get a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe when he came up behind me. With my thoughts somewhere between the task I had just finished and the class I was about to teach, I scarcely felt the tap, tap, tap on my hand. I stopped and turned. Seeing no one, I continued on my way. I\’d only taken a few steps, however, when I felt another insistent tap, tap, tap. This time I stopped and looked downward. There he stood. His eyes were whiter because of his grubby cheeks and coal-black hair.
\”Pao, senhor?\” (Bread, sir?)
Living in Brazil, one has daily opportunities to buy a candy ...