Bridges, Greenhouses & Mountains
11:25 AM
The first day I felt I was really living in Quito, one of the pedestrian bridges collapsed. It was
early in the morning and thankfully no one was hurt, but the whole city heard about it.
When I asked where it happened, I realized I'd passed under that bridge just
a day or two before! These bridges were anchors, landmarks, to
me. To hear one fell shook me even though I wasn’t there.
Some of my friends ran late to meetings and appointments that day because of the traffic, or they had to leave early for work because
they heard about it on the news. Strangely, this “disaster” made me feel the city, its people. It made me a
participant in a way I wasn’t before.
Even though I felt more connected to Quito than ever, this suburban student started to feel antsy after so much time in the city. Since I needed a break, a
friend took me to a small village nearby called Nayón. It was a lazy
Sunday afternoon and we boarded a bus that took us through winding mountain
roads, slowly descending, until we reached our destination. The
elevation was a little lower; it was in the upper
70s and humid.
Nayón is a charming village, dedicated to plant nurseries, that fuels the lush gardens and parks of Quito. (No, I only almost drooled as I explored the greenhouses). We
perused exotic succulents, palms, lime trees, orchids, celosia, cacti…it was
the most beautiful day I spent in Ecuador. The village was quiet, with a small
city square and a modest but lovely colonial church. Families picnicked on the
grass, sweeping mountain vistas dimmed in the setting sun, and my friend’s
treat to me—Salcedo ice cream—awoke my taste buds with unknown tropical flavors
as it melted on its quirky popsicle stick. If I planned on staying longer, you
bet I’d have some houseplants.
When I came back to Quito, I saw the mountains
differently. I knew them. When a cold
wind came down from above, arctic in sensation, or when the crispness
disappeared in sticky descent down a slope, I felt I was learning the mountains’
personalities. They felt mystical, and the muse for the Andean pan
flute songs was becoming my muse, too. My Peruvian tour guide, Jessica, had
described an ancient Andean belief in apus,
or guardian mountain-spirits. I don’t follow any apu, but when I lived in the Andes, there was something in the
landscape I could only describe as otherworldly.
Bridges, mountains and greenhouses are a part of the geography, and a part of the people.
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