But I have missed the mountains terribly.
I didn’t know it until I came back here, but it’s absolutely undeniable. Today, we drove for a few hours to some Northern beaches in Dani’s car. Dani is Chilean, and Jacey’s newly appointed beau.
I can’t explain why, but I feel such a sense of longing as we speed through the valleys. I think of my Chilean friend whom I met one summer night in New York, how we fed a homeless woman who had fallen asleep on a stoop. He looked at her and said New York had no heart. I think of the tour guide I had a fling with in Peru last year, secret glances as we meandered through the pathways of Machu Picchu. Such succinct encounters. In these mountains, I wonder what any of it amounts to.
In Valparaíso, we drove up a steep street to Pablo Neruda’s house. It was colorful and overlooked the Pacific. I didn’t go in, simply because Neruda was supposed to be an egoist and I won’t indulge his posthumous self. If that makes any sense. But is it ironic that I remember his words? “Do to me what spring does to cherry blossoms.”
Later in the afternoon, we crossed into a neighboring town, Viña Del Mar. Jacey and Dani walked hand in hand along the shore. I sat down and dug my feet into the sand to warm to my toes.
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