A washed Pluma — bright, almost citric, like a morning that hasn’t decided yet whether to be cold or warm. The roaster brought it out in a small white cup the colour of nothing in particular, which is the right colour for a coffee like this, where the cup should disappear and leave you only the drink.

I drank it slowly because it’s the kind of coffee that punishes you for not paying attention. The first sip is just acid. The second is acid and lime. The third is acid, lime, and a far-off floral thing — jasmine, maybe, or whatever the local equivalent of jasmine is when you grow up at this altitude.

Outside, two dogs were arguing about a piece of bread. The roaster watched them with the patience of someone who has seen this argument before. I finished the cup, paid, and walked back through Santo Domingo before the bells started.