On a summer trip to a small agricultural village in southern Mexico, my friend and I spent 48 hours in the throes of Montezuma’s Revenge. In retrospect, we agreed that our adventure was still worth every minute en el bano or la cama. But in the midst of the misery, we were not as confident. After a particularly terrible night, I remember wondering if we’d make it to the next day when the arrival of physical reprieve (and a 5 am dose of Cipro) paralleled the growing glow of sunrise. As hints of morning slid through our sheer curtains, we got up to stare at the stunning beauty of what (we recently learned) was called ‘amanecer.’ After a dark night, dawn had finally come. And with it, hope.