The next (and final) stop is a coffee plantation. That word—plantation—makes me uneasy and wonder about the situation of the people who worked there, both in the past and now. White guilt at its finest, I guess. I wonder, but don’t ask about it. Then the tour guide—a woman who’s employed by the plantation, not Kahoni—explains that in this case the word means “a place where trees have been planted,” because obviously she gets that question sometimes.

But that gets me thinking about the nature of words. Sure, the word plantation has a dictionary meaning that has nothing to do with the word slavery. But the two words are connected now. It’s impossible to totally untangle them.

Like the word sex and the word affair.

Sigh. If things were going normally, I’d hang out with Afton at the coffee place. If there is one thing that bonds us as sisters, it’s our mutual love for coffee. But she avoids me after we get off the bus. Michael also lags behind in the back of the group, sticking close to his mom, who seems on edge herself.

For all of my never-ending love of coffee, I find I didn’t know that it starts out as a bright red berry that grows in a bunch on the branch of a tall, leafy bush. Inside each berry, like magic, are two pale little beans, which are roasted in huge drums and dried and then ground and turned into sweet, sweet coffee—also known as the nectar of life.

They give out samples of the different roasts. I try them all. Abby is hot and bored and predictably hungry, but I am in coffee heaven.

Then heaven hits a bit of a snag after the official tour of the plantation is over, because there’s no lunch.

“What do you mean, there’s no lunch?” Marjorie asks the tour guide in a huff. She pulls out the STS trip itinerary and waves it under the coffee lady’s nose. “It says, right here, ‘lunch will be provided.’”

“There’s been some kind of mix-up, I’m afraid,” says the coffee lady coolly. “The restaurant’s not open today. We’d be happy to provide you all with free mugs instead.”

“It says lunch will be provided,” repeats Marjorie.

The coffee lady wants to sigh, I can tell. But she says, “I’ll see what can be done,” and disappears into the building.

The group congregates on the back patio area and on the lawn, which has a spectacular view: coffee bushes as far as the eye can see, stretching all the way down to the hazy blue ocean in the distance.

My fingers close around an imaginary paintbrush. I wish I’d thought to bring my watercolors and some paper, but I assumed that we were going to be on the move all morning.