A soft fog covered the brightening day, revealing a mountain
that approached in the distance as the moon retreated. Odd shapes in the distance separating the
mountain from the airport windows lurked and arched. The Chilean morning seemed fresh and
rejuvenating, but that could only be a guess through the windows.
The monetary unit here numbers in the thousands, and I pass
by the encroaching restaurants and coffee shops of US origin, bucks and
Tuesdays obviously are very important.
Havanna is also apparently the expert in dulce de leche, a little
different from the single ‘n’ that I associate with cigars. My stomach churns with anxiety as the
collision settles uneasily. There’s
nothing to do but wait now, wait for my flight, wait for my return, wait for
the sun to rise brighter, wait for what Argentina brings, wait for
tranformations in life.
The nice lady I sat next to on my flight over lives near my
old high school, and she warned me of the dangers of Buenos Aires, especially
if they smell my foreign stank. I don’t
think much of it as I’ve grown up enveloped in my own shroud of foreign mystique,
a foreignness as different as the plague that continues to deplete the
Americas. Plague.
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