It was barely noon, and I was bathing in little beads of sweat as I entered the cramped dining room of Las Juquileñas. After a week in Puerto Escondido, a coastal surf town in the Mexican state of Oaxaca, I began to accept that sun, heat, and heavy air were simply a way of life here. If it wasn’t the humid salty sea air it was the smoke from the open-fire cooking in restaurant kitchens around the city affecting my physical comfort. There was no escape, so the best course was a welcome embrace. Besides, after years of Covid lockdowns, I was thrilled to be out and exposed to the world of travel. To connect with humans after living behind masks and plexiglass dividers.

My husband and I ventured to Las Juquileñas for local Oaxacan fare. The restaurant was in the central commercial district of the city, close to Mercado Benito Juárez, the main open-air market where farmers from the countryside sell their produce and local city dwellers go about daily life. Stepping inside Las Juquileñas was like traveling back to 2019. Rows of communal mess hall-style tables filled the room. Friends and families sat on bright wooden chairs underneath the colorful papel picado that hung from the ceiling–their combined vibrancy starkly contrasted with the drab gray cement walls. Towards the back of the building, a performer armed with a guitar and a mic serenaded diners with acoustic Mexican folk songs. No plexiglass in sight. A few months ago, I would have designated this environment a superspreader hazard zone. Clearly, I was still adjusting.

The hostess escorted us past the smoky open kitchen, where masked cooks in hair nets zipped around, attending to handmade masa memelas toasting on the wood-fired comal and plump Roma tomatoes on the charcoal grill. Alongside the charred tomatoes, I spotted a tlayuda grilling underneath a flat round stone. This colossal cousin of the quesadilla was the reason for our trip to Las Juquileñas.

We sat towards the restaurant's center and looked over the wooden menu, eager to order a cheese, bean, and squash blossom-filled tlayuda. Still uneasy, my eyes wandered around the room as we waited for our waitress to return. I locked eyes with the older couple sitting by our side, silently enjoying a coffee and dipping small pieces of bread into their cups. The four of us smiled at each other, and I was grateful the social boundaries created by the pandemic had come down. I pointed at their bread and tried to ask in broken Spanish whether it was savory or sweet, but words failed me. Then, in an act that went against nearly every COVID protocol I’d been abiding by for the past two years, our tablemate broke off a piece of his bread and enthusiastically placed it in my hand.

I paused. Should I go against my instincts and taste this stranger’s bread? After years of sterilized human interaction, eating this gift felt like playing a game of Covid-Russian roulette. But then again, how could I reject this gesture of goodwill? This invitation back into the folds of human connection after years of social distancing and dining alone. I went against my COVID training and risked it all on what turned out to be a completely unremarkable piece of bread. And when I smiled back at our tablemates, I realized the risk was worth it. There was still a long way to go before the world would be back to pre-pandemic normal, but maybe breaking bread with strangers could help expedite the journey.