I came to the sticks of Ecuador to get away from civilization; I opened a little bar out in the middle of nowhere and adjusted to scratching out a subsistence living where things were simpler.
Then they built the spaceport.
I get it: you want it somewhere near the equator, in a politically stable country, in a politically stable region. I understand the economics and the politics and even, just barely, the physics.
But now I have to keep hundreds of things in stock that none of the locals would ever order, and that’s just for the transient humans. The stuff the aliens order is expensive, often revolting, and in some cases even poisonous or toxic to my staff. I have to keep a special cooler just for the live reebt the Plogonree order, and I have to keep a net handy if they happen to get loose from the table before the Plogs can stun them for cooking. One of them bit Sheila once. And then there’s the per-booth climate control, and the translation computer rental fees. It’s a headache on any number of levels. And the insurance…
Maybe going back to Wall Street lawyering would reduce my stress.