The man carried a cardboard sign. While the words were in Portuguese and I technically couldn’t read them, the message was clear. I need help. I am hungry. I am standing outside in the rain without a coat or an umbrella. From behind a restaurant window, I watched him pace fervently. The rain picked up, and I watched as he crossed himself and looked towards the sky. Passerby walked past, and he approached them with bowed head and cupped hands, eyes lowered as if praying. Over and over, the men and women hurried past and averted their gaze, leaving him alone in the rain. 

At this point, I thought back to all the times I too had done this to those in need, and I was suddenly embarrassed. I left my table, tea growing cold, and made my way to the restaurant’s front door clutching a five Euro note. The head waiter looked at me inquisitively. You haven’t finished eating, and you haven’t paid your  bill, he seemed to say. Chastened by his simple gaze, I headed back to my table, shamed by the thoughts now running through my head. He doesn’t need my money. He’s going to buy drugs, alcohol, he’s going to visit a prostitute. Looking back, why was I questioning this poor drenched man? He just wanted a bite to eat or a bit of shelter. Hell, even if he wanted a glass of port to cure the cold, who was I to judge? 

Instead, I just sat at my circle table next to the glass window, shoveling beans and rice into my mouth with abandon. I was one of those passerby, but worse, I had watched him for over an hour, contemplated his situation and still not helped in any way. Two days later, his face still resonates in my mind, and I wish I had done something, anything, to ease his pain.