The Places We Look for Sky

It was like that, in Ecuador, I lifted my eyes to where I thought the horizon should be and found the jagged line of the next ridge. Mountains. I miss the mountains of Ecuador.

I had water from the tap this morning. After two months of agua purificada, it was a pleasure to drop my vigilance. But I missed my morning spread of mango, papaya and orlitas.

I’ve been talkative on my return, lubricated by the ease of communication in my native tongue. But I was surprised to find, as I purchased my train ticket at Grand Central for the journey north and home, and as I ordered tea and a muffin that the Spanish came out first, a buenos dias escaping my lips before I realized what I’d said.

The streets and stations are clean. The “Give a Hoot and Don’t Pollute” campaign having trained us well. The abundance of trash and recycling containers offer an alternative to tossing our trash on the street. And the travel is quieter. There’s no movie playing at the front of the train car, and no folklorico spilling out of speakers between flicks. But I’ll miss that too, the music, the sound track of Andean pipes, Latin Pop, and 1980s Top 40 that flavored our days.

Perhaps it was because we were tourists, our clothes, skin and luggage marking us as extranjeros, but when we stopped, confused, help was always on hand. The Ecuadorianos we met were proud to have us visiting their country, and concerned that we should like it. There was time for a friendly greeting on the street, a handshake. I have, too, left my traveling companion in Ecuador to spin out his own adventures for a time. And I miss both the camaraderie of the culture and of my partner. But I’m ready for the community of home. Ready to trade email for the more intimate interactions of phone and in-person visits.

So as the train rolls north along the Hudson, brown and gray-banked with the dormancy of winter, and under the steel sky that signals snow, I lift my eyes to the far bank and find there softly rolling hills. And I know that I am home.