Yesterday the stomach dragons officially disapparated out to neverland, and so thus in celebration we assayed forth into the walled city to eat food. Not feeling particularly adventurous just yet, we elected to pop into the gringoesque Pizza and Pasta. On the way there, we saw a group of gringos striding past speaking American, and they all looked kind of like frat boys. It was a little strange. Then, seated in the restaurant next to us were a group of estadounidense guys, 2 of whom we were quite certain were our convivial midnight neighbors from the pleasant night we spent in Hotel Las Vegas. These kids were ghetto. My girlfriend and I debated how some kids from the ghetto ended up wandering the streets of Cartagena. After sipping on some zapote and maracuyá juices, we elected to order a medium pizza—I know, in direct contradiction to Andrea’s sage advice on what not to eat after a stomach dragon visit—which turned out to be not only gigantic, but also doubly greasy due to the addition of bastante butter. We ate as much as we could (2 slices each) without vomiting immediately, and there was still half of the pizza left. Not wanting to let all of that grease and fat go to waste, my girlfriend charitably offered it to another table of gringo men seated behind us, who somewhat hesitantly agreed to take it into their stomachs. She first unsettled them by asking them loudly, “¿Habla Ingles?” (even though she knew they were gringos), and they looked at her strangely until they caught onto the word “Ingles”, and then they eagerly nodded yes. They didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. She asked them where they were from, and one lad was from Florida, another from New Jersey, and one from Georgia. Something suddenly clicked in my mind, especially when we saw the ghetto kids attempting to pay their bill with American dollars. These were military brats! Suddenly it all made sense—the frat-type guys we saw on the way there, the prostitutes, the ghetto youth, the boys from random parts of the United States all seated together in a Pizza and Pasta place . . . They were docked in Cartagena, couldn’t speak any Spanish, didn’t even have Colombian pesos, and were just out to get some ass and pizza and get drunk. Good ol´Navy lads. My girlfriend was proud to have fed some of the boys some grease-laden pizza.