My time in Madrid, although worthwhile, has not been socially satisfying. And I’ve missed the succor of nature. So when the owners, J&A, of my temporary home here, invited me to Extremadura for “vendimia (grape harvest)” I readily accepted. I didn’t know what to expect and only thought to ask “What clothes might be best?” “Clothes for the country.” was the response.

I briefly met J&A when I arrived at their apartment in Madrid and liked them immediately. I hadn’t seen them since.

I did ask my Spanish teacher, who came from Extremadura (the heart of old Spain as my guide book suggests), what one actually does at a vendimia. He said it was a great excuse for people to eat, drink, and party. (He’s twenty-eight years old.) I asked if there was work to do. His answer was an emphatic “No.”

I left Madrid by bus on Friday at 3:30pm and arrived in Trujillo nearly 7pm with the sun still high in the sky. J&A warmly greeted me at the station. We then drove twenty minutes to a quiet, small town which we quickly passed through, although we were not traveling fast, and soon came to a narrow, steep, dirt road which led up to their renovated stone “ruin.”

Their home had been constructed two-hundred years ago for workers to store harvested grapes and produce wine. Huge earthen vase-like containers still stood as proof. One room had a slanted cement floor and hole for drainage either for water or wine I do not recall. Another had a massive cement tub which drained off into a small pool. Yet the structure with high ceilings, exposed wooden beams, and fireplaces, now painstakingly converted into a home with eclectic furniture, art, and an endless array of books, exuded comfort and warmth. The home offered J&A, their many cats, and fortunate guests a place of tranquility and beauty. Their land extended for acres with olive trees, fig trees, almond trees, and an abundance of plants.

J&A had also invited for the weekend a Spanish/Argentinian couple who arrived late that evening with their children: a charming seven year-old girl and a two and one-half year old bruiser who made his desires clear with loud monosyllabic commands.

J&A said the vendimia would begin at 7:30am the following morning. At 1:30am I wished everyone goodnight. I slept soundly and at 7am I went to the kitchen. It was empty and I heard no one stirring. J. came in a short time later, alone, to prepare coffee and breakfast for us. Everyone else, having gone to bed at 3:30am remained sleeping.

J and I walked a short distance to the British neighbors John and C.’s vineyard/orchard where the vendimia would take place. They had invited their four British friends too.(My hope of practicing Spanish all weekend was quickly dashed.). The eight of us were soon equipped with gloves, small shears, and wide-rimmed straw hats. It was now apparent that the celebrating would have to wait. We were there to harvest grapes. J had lent me a pair of canvas shoes and cotton pants. I had brought only sandals and summer dresses for “the country festivities.”

John explained that two hail storms had done extensive damage to the vineyard, but grapes were still abundant. The bushes grew helter-skelter up a hillside and stretched over a fair distance. Our task -the harvesters- was to first remove the protective green nets around each grape-bush (they were grounded with stones), cut off bunches of grapes, remove any bright green, bitter or overly damaged grapes then place the dark red ones into a large plastic bucket we had each been allotted. We worked alone. Wrestling the net from the bush was time-consuming and gleaning the desired from the undesired grapes was slow going for my untrained eyes and hands. But it was pleasant to be in the fresh air amongst nature engaging in an ancient task. Buckets were eventually filled and John driving a tractor, collected, emptied, and returned them (I thought of Huck Finn and his scheme to paint a fence by enticing others with the notion of fun.). Hours went by. As the sun rose and with it the temperature, my sun hat could only do so much to keep me shaded and cool. The task became arduous.

I eventually took a rest inside John and C’s cool stone home. I thirstily drank a glass of water and chatted with C. while she prepared snacks and drink. Most of us took breaks while some toiled on outside non-stop. I thought of slaves and migrant workers who have toiled in fields for centuries without the option to rest when they were weary or slack their thirst.

Afterwards I returned outdoors, this time with a different task. I was to pick figs for a tart. Despite the eighty fig trees on their land the pickings were slim. Passerbys and birds had gotten there first. I managed to cover the bottom of a handbasket.

By two pm the vendimia was done for the day. We were then gathered to press the grapes. Our jobs were divided into several tasks. Mine, along with two other women, was to take the buckets of grapes after pressing and based on John’s orders dump the contents again into the pressing machine “arriba (up)” or walk a few strides to a shed and, pour the sufficiently pressed grapes into large metal vats “dentro (inside)”. The team work of all involved went smoothly and a camaraderie was ever-present. The seven year old girl-the only one of her family to participate in the chores-had her feet washed, then happily and enthusiastically stomped on a basketful of grapes keeping the tradition alive.

When the grape-filled sacks of our labor were all pressed, we hosed off the tools, machines and ourselves. We then all sat at a large outdoor table toasting, with last year’s vintage, to our accomplishments and dining on lamb, shrimp, salads, fresh vegetables, cheese, quiche, and fig tart.

The evening cooled, conversation and wine flowed.

I volunteered to join them in the same tasks the following day.

The harvest despite the hail had been successful. Now John would be tending to the production of wine on his own for the next several months.

My invitation to stay at J&A’s kept on extending, but by Tuesday evening I reluctantly took the bus back to Madrid.

I left Extremadura with memories of the vendimia, and my time to relax and read, enjoy the company of others, blanch almonds and peel grapes for a traditional cold soup, pick raspberries, beets and herbs-all from the local land, watch a full moon rise, and gaze at the constellations of a country sky.

Madrid may not have the same allure as Paris, perhaps it’s the lack of an iconic tower, or a river that flows through its center, or perhaps if Hemingway’s A Movable Feast took place here, however Madrid does have Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights, Picasso’s Guernica and Velásquez’s Las Meninas, vibrant cultural venues, lovely parks, fine cuisine, Cervantes’ home, and its share of tourists who are spotted easily (They are the ones dining before 10pm.).

Bellies can be filled day and night with classic tapas of tortilla or jamón (I doubt there are many nations that consume as much ham.) and thirsts quenched with cañas (draft beer poured into small glasses).

It is unusual to see a man or woman at a cafe or restaurant having a drink or dining alone, but I enjoy the tapas bars, outdoor cafes, and restaurants for sustenance and a glimpse of daily life.

I’ve attended several intercambios to meet people. Locals and tourists alike gather in bars to practice Spanish and English. A few are there to speak German and French.  Certain faces become familiar and sometimes conversations pick up where they left off.

I avoid the throngs of humanity on the boulevards and walk along the ancient backstreets whenever possible. There the balconied buildings are picturesque, quiet, and offer a reprieve from the scorching sun’s rays. Various odors fill the air, some are pleasant, most are ignored, yet the occasional potent waft of urine immediately alerts my senses.

Temperatures are frequently above 100 degrees. Fortunately shade, parks, and cooler nights offer a reprieve, as do the paper and filagreed plastic handheld fans. I was initially surprised to see men and boys flapping them too. It seemed incongruent with all the paintings I’d seen depicting only women’s hands.

Although nature has been tamed, wild green parrots are flourishing.

Gentrified, hip neighborhoods abound. Young, tattooed, pierced men and women populate these areas and are indistinguishable from the Brooklyn hipsters. Shops of stylish clothing, exotic flavored ice-cream pops, records, and organic produce nestle side by side with standard supermarkets pharmacies, laundromats, and Chinese grocerys that stock just about everything and never close. (I stood behind an Asian man in a supermarket buying six watermelons. The checkout woman asked without malice, “Are you going to sell those or eat them?” I had been wondering the same thing.)

Neighborhoods offer various means of employment. I’ve noticed women, mostly of a certain age, sit on chairs, cardboard boxes, and low windowsills, or stand along the narrow streets in sensible footwear chatting or alone, smoking languidly, wearing attire that belies their profession. Their negotiations are handled discretely while neighbors and shopowners go about their business. After a quick conversation a woman rings a buzzer, a door of the apartment building opens, a man follows her inside, and the door quickly closes behind them. Young women with very short shorts and very high heels, likely procuring different fees, linger in small groups along the main, wide, highly trafficked pedestrian malls. Police do not disrupt their technically illegal, but tolerated activities. The police do however keep the African men who hawk their wares from sheets with cords alert and ready for quick getaways.

I walk in neighborhoods with finely dressed men and women sipping cool cocktails in crisp shirts and dresses, despite the swelter. I sit alongside middle class families, couples young and old of same and different genders. I pass people begging or sleeping in the streets on makeshift beds accompanied by their dogs. Madrid too has a wide range of haves and have-nots-and its share of lost souls.

My Spanish (Castilian)  improves in small increments and attending classes has reminded me how little I know and how much more there is to learn. Sometimes my confidence falters, but this has not stopped me from speaking Spanish whenever I can, which is not as often as I would like.

Madrid has given me a chance to catch my breath, enjoy the plethora of cultural offerings, study Spanish, and get to know her.

The name Galicia has an allure, conjuring ancient tales and images of the sea.  Many villages and cities still rely on their waters as their primary economy. Harbors are busy with fisherman unloading fish, crustaceans and algae. Kids dive off the piers showing their prowess and stamina jumping and climbing back up over and over again.
I spent four days in the idyllic coastal town of O Barquiero where I watched the sea rise and recede.

The breathtaking coastal roads follow rocky terrain, wide empty beaches, harbors, lighthouses, and picturesque towns with delicious meals from the sea inhabited by proud and warm people.

The dry plains of the Castilla y León region of Spain offers splendid countryside, castles, medieval towns and some interesting driving experiences (Some roads seemed designed for two narrow horse carts to pass each other rather than two cars, but fortunately these roads have very sparse traffic.). Medinaceli, Santillana del Mar, and other ancient towns were stunning and ranged dramatically in their onslaught of tourists. Some, like Segovia, had remnants of their ancient Roman inhabitants on display.

The great civilization of Rome is recent however, when compared to those who drew in the caves of Altamira. I waited in line to see the remarkable replica of this prehistoric art. Computer analysis and painstaking efforts recreated the cave with its every facet and smudge. The original cave, just a moments walk away, is now open only one day each week for a few lucky lottery winners.  Looking at the reproductions of the drawings gave me much to ponder about humankind’s past and development. The technology used to create a copy is an extraordinary statement in itself. I found walking through the facsimile remarkable, yet soulless.

My intention to get to less touristy destinations on the northern coast was interrupted by a stop in the Picos of Europa- a region I had never heard of. And although I did not escape the tourists, I was distracted by its extraordinary beauty. Turquoise rivers flow into vibrant waterfalls. Jagged mountains rise high against blue skies and contrast with verdant pastures below. Incredibly picturesque villages set against startling peaks offer visual feasts of color and form. And hiking trails abound.

I drove along a windy scenic road to the Teleférico de Fuentes Dé not knowing what to expect, but it was listed among the “must dos”. I joined a line of people waiting to be jettisoned up in a cable car suspended by, what looked like a few flimsy cables, nearly 2500 feet to a sheer wall of mountain. There were some nervous tourists as we inched along, but no one backed off the line. When we arrived at the top the air seemed thinner and long horned goats lazed about. A dirt road led to open land and high rocky peaks where sheep, goats, and horses roamed freely. The quiet surroundings was punctuated with the clang of bells worn around the goats’ necks (One horse wore one too. I wondered what (s)he had done to warrant it.).

The trails, depending on one’s desire and ability, offer hours or days of mountain trekking, fresh air, and views. I was rewarded with a few hours of a steep but gorgeous hike. The path offered no concern, but a pack of massive herd dogs suddenly ran toward me, rightly protecting their flock of sheep, and had me scrounging quickly for a few hearty rocks just in case my aggressive don’t-mess-with-me-alpha-female shout and stance wasn’t enough to intimidate them- fortunately they were all bark, but quite the bark! They soon ambled back to blend in with their surroundings. As I continued along, despite clear skies offering views for miles- a fog quickly consumed me and my visibility was reduced to a few meters. I walked slowly not wishing to lose track of my direction. Within moments the fog lifted. Later I saw a park poster advising anyone caught in a fog to find the nearest shelter and wait there. If the fog persisted finding the shoes on my feet may have been a challenge.

Back on the road red tile-roofed stone houses from centuries past dotted the landscape. Some gathered in clusters forming communities at the end of winding narrow roads on hill tops. And then there is Bulnes. For centuries this village was only accessible by footpaths. Goods were carried or brought up by mules 5kms-until a funicular was built in 2000. Apparently the funicular which travels inside the mountain 2km (I took a ride expecting splendid views…but the engineering achievement is a marvel.) was built for the residents before the population, which at its height may have been a hundred or so, dwindled down to five. Now it is used primarily by tourists and locals from towns below who go up for a meal or drink and enjoy the calm and admire the view.

I had lunch by a river in one of the few charming outdoor cafes, then walked to the farthest end of town to the Mirador de Lallende cafe before the path drops into the valley. The owner of the cafe, who is one of the last original residents, was there with his wife and son. A photograph of the owner as a boy outside the cafe-then his home-photos of his parents, and a brief discussion on those who passed on or moved away conjured a way of life lost in time.

The hard cider flows freely in this region and there is a warmth to the people contrasting with its rigid peaks. Potes is a small, touristy, but delightful town in the Picos where I spent a few nights. Regional dishes and local delicacies of sausage and cheeses are sold in the shops and cafés and accompanied with the cider. When served in bars the cider is dramatically poured from arms length overhead or through a contraption to provide that added air. Only large bottles were sold and I was obliged to buy one.

Another “must do” in the Picos is the 12 km hike, Ruta del Cares. The man-made trail cut through rock follows a water way for hydraulic energy. And connects the tiny strip of a town, Poncebos, with the charming Caín. The path from Poncebos is mostly flat, except for the initial 3km climb. It offers extraordinary vistas and precipitous drops, but is wide enough for two or three ample bodies to pass each other. The landscape and engineering feats are extraordinary. Many hike or take a bus back from Caín the same day. I decided to find a room in one of the three small hotels and watched the crowds empty out as evening set in. There was just a handful of tourists left in this picturesque hamlet . A few older local men sat at the outdoor cafes, with their dogs, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Women were elsewhere. I walked the few cobbled streets savoring the beautiful sky, peaks, rivers and stone homes while noting the many cats in residence.

The hike back to Poncebos the following morning was cooler and overcast offering a different range of hues. It was no less impressive to see the sights again.

Before leaving I hiked up to Camarmeña to speak with a beekeeper I had met a few days prior, before setting off for the coast.

After three months in Ecuador, I landed in Madrid: from the land of the conquered to that of the conqueror. The architecture and plazas of the cities share the same vision, but the cultures remain distinct.Here in Spain I do not hear “Buen Provecho” said as someone passes a table of diners- there is less interaction between strangers. Security seems evident, yet I do not see a single police officer to enforce it. Supermarkets and shops are stocked with fresh enticing produce and high quality goods. Despite Spain’s recent economic crisis there is no comparing the richness of life. It’s roads are flawless and far exceed those of Ecuador’s despite the latter’s pride of the major improvements made.

The European way of life is familiar to me and I quickly adjust to the different accent upon people’s tongues, but they do not adjust to mine. In Ecuador no matter how many mistakes I made, I never heard a “Qué?” The people had an uncanny way of understanding everything I said. Here I have been met with several confused looks.

I will not forget the multitudes of kindness and beauty I left behind in Ecuador.

Undoubtedly I have found kindness in Spain too. At times it just seems less forthcoming.

I continue on a road trip to discover Spain’s history and great beauty.

I decided to make Cuenca my last full stop in Ecuador. My three-month visa was running out and I only heard wonderful things about this city. I had reserved a night at a hostal (a small hotel not to be confused with a hostel) made up of studio apts, but upon arrival found it too cold both aesthetically and physically so I spent that afternoon looking for another place to settle in for the week.

I found a lovely converted colonial house-yes, another one- to call home. The room cozy and warm overlooked an interior courtyard. One afternoon I was guided through the garden in the back by the long time housekeeper Teresa.  There were papaya, fig, avocado trees and so much more. Caged parakeets sang in the discordant way they do while the free birds fluttered around singing harmoniously. Sonia, the hostal owner’s mother, lived next door. Now in her eighties and recently widowed she had time to show me old photographs, heirlooms and her immaculate three story home. She spoke of a time that women stayed home with their children-she had eight. When I inquired if she might have liked to have a career- her daughters were lawyers. She said it had never occurred to her. “In those days children were not left alone to grow up to be criminals.”

The center of Cuenca was animated, but pleasant and having arrived at the beginning of the Corpus Christi festivities, I saw one stall after another line the streets overflowing with baked goods and candies. Women wearing white aprons and caps worked the stalls and most seemed to have sampled a fair share of their goods. Nighttime would bring food stalls and fireworks.
The main church with its stunning blue domes was the center of the activities, but the other churches-picturesque and seemingly on every block- were engaged too.

There is a large expat community in Cuenca. Quality of life is high and prices are low-although not as low as in other parts of the country. A fair percentage of these foreigners, many Americans, get by without learning Spanish adhering to the gringo establishments and social circles. From what I could tell the two worlds coexist amicably. For me it was nice to meander from the local market  and  shops to  an upscale restaurant for lunch or enjoy the terrace of  a Belgian bistro for a beer.
Wandering into the sparse Modern Art Museum, I met Robert an exuberant New York born, California based,  singer. He was working on a Frank Sinatra  tribute incorporating the talents of the neighborhood children. He had engaging anecdotes of Bob Dylan, David Bowie-once removed-and direct contact with Woody Allen and Keith Haring. He was chatting with Patricia from Cuenca who worked at the museum and soon we were all conversing like old friends. Patricia introduced me to the director of a Spanish language school where I worked with Monica, an enthusiastic and kind teacher,  reviewing verb tenses and conjugations for four days.
I found time to visit a tiny portion of El Cajas, a gorgeous national park with pristine lakes and landscape thirty minutes from town. Waiting for the bus, a vendor of homemade coconut sweets asked me where I was from. After sharing a few moments of our time he kindly offered me three of his sweets- I accepted one. It was delicious. He soon boarded the next bus to hawk his goods.

Getting to the park required taking one bus then another, but I wasn’t sure where to make the change. My inquiries on the first bus was overheard by a man getting off where I needed to. He offered to assist me. Moments later he signaled for me to get off and we descended. A bus was approaching. He whistled and the bus stopped. He walked away and I hopped aboard.

I noticed sitting across from me a deaf man speaking to his companion with his hands. He asked his friend to close the window with the universal gesture that he was cold. Our eyes met and soon he and I were conversing too. He showed me where it was good to fish and that the fish  were good to eat. That we’d be arriving soon and that it was a great place to hike, although there were hills, and to take lots of photos. When I arrived we said our good byes. All without saying a word.
I met Valentin who was from Ecuador but had been living in the US the past thirty years. He made and sold “Panama” hats: the stylish head toppers from Ecuador made from straw. They can be exquisite works of art. He was visiting his old friend Sonia, the hostal owner-named after her mother. He showed me his hat made from beaver fur mixed with just the right percentage of rabbit fur-it looked like neither. It was stunning. His market was hats of high quality that sold for thousands of dollars. His clients were Texas oil men and celebrities. I enjoyed my time in Cuenca, but it was time to move on.

I booked a flight back to Quito-forty-five minutes-instead of the twelve hour bus ride.

Guayaquil was not on my list of cities to visit. On the contrary I had planned to purposefully avoid it. It’s reputation as a crime ridden, hot and muggy, tropical city held no appeal for me. I was surprised to see it listed as a “Top site in Ecuador.” I went there reluctantly to break up the long trip from Canoa to Cuenca.

From Canoa to Guayaquil took six hours, passing through miles of banana plantations-reminding me of the banana republic moniker. The Guayquil main bus terminal was surprisingly modern: a large bright structure with shopping mall. I asked one of the many security personnel walking around for an ATM: he offered to escort me while I withdrew my funds. I accepted the offer. The taxi stand was managed by a woman in cap and uniform. She asked where I was going, led me to an available cab and told me the fare to the city center.

The taxi driver was gracious and helped me with my bag.  A pleasant breeze was blowing and there was little humidity in the air. We were soon at the Manso Guesthouse: a converted three story colonial home.  The hostal had received mostly positive reviews and it was right on Malecón 2000-the pride of the city.  Like many old residences here there were many stairs to climb and the ceilings were impossibly high. The decor was tasteful and the common areas were huge. The manager showed me the available rooms warning me about noise in the front rooms, but the bright spacious bedroom overlooking the malecón was worth the potential annoyance.

The Malecón 2000 walkway/park runs along the Rio Guayas. The river is wide and murky, but provides an impressive backdrop for a picturesque promenade with restaurants, cafes, gardens, cinema, buskers, shops and amusement park.

Although it was soon night-the sun sets around 6pm year round-the malecón was crowded with couples, families, individuals, groups of friends strolling along, laughing at the antics of the performers, or stopping for refreshments. Once again the presence of security personnel was pronounced, but the ambiance was relaxed-except between certain vendors, who were apparently violating their designated areas, and the security. I spent a few pleasant hours strolling and taking it all in.

The noise from the traffic outside my window did not disturb my sleep.

The following day I walked over to Las Peñas which lies at one end of the Malecón. It is a colorful hilltop community with a wide range of architecture. Near the bottom lie restored mansions and modern hotels. The further one walks up the smaller and poorer the homes become-reminiscent of Brazil’s favelas. Although unthinkable for a non-resident to walk here ten years ago, it is now a popular tourist destination. Numerous security and police are posted along the pleasant narrow streets all the way to a lighthouse at the top.

Uniformed men with guns might be disarming if they weren’t all welcoming me with a wide smile and “Bienvenidos” as I neared. Although much of Las Peñas is still off limits-private and reserved for residents a.k.a unsafe for outsiders, the numerous shops and restaurants-not Disneyesque-brings locals an influx of dollars and tourists a delightful destination.

The transformation of the city with increased safety, parks and sites is undoubtedly providing an improved quality of life. Perhaps in time less security will be needed to aid in the transformation.

And so I spent two very unexpectedly enjoyable, relaxed days, in Guayquil.

Mompiche lies four hours north by bus of Canoa- people speak in time because distances might be short, but travel time rarely is. It is deemed by some to be the quintessential fishing village of Ecuador- “a must see”.

I returned to Perdenales to change buses for Mompiche. Perdenales, a small city, was the epicenter of the earthquake in 2016, but never having been there, it was difficult to know if the vacant lots had been something else. The town was thriving. It was Sunday-market day-and the streets were crowded with sellers and shoppers.

A few hours later the bus stopped at the turn off from the highway to Mompiche. I needed to take a taxi 5km to the town. Two taxis were there: the drivers were reclining beneath a simple concrete shelter shielding themselves from the harsh sun.

Mompiche is indeed a charming, tiny, tourist/fishing town. The beach is wide and long. Boats come and go from sea to shore. The restaurants offer local seafood, pizza, and other gringo fare. Men engage in futball and volleyball on the beach.

But beyond the facade of this engaging coastal town is poverty: dwellings are mostly shanties. Roads were rutted and muddy with deep puddles. It took concentration to navigate through them-locals walked in high rubber boots or barefoot. Yet this poverty is not one of homelessness nor hunger. Food is abundant and life, although simple, seems full with family and friendship. Older children wear crisp school uniforms and younger children play freely and gleefully.

I found a small bungalow on the beach. The owner’s dog Boa and I hit it off immediately and we took great walks together.
One day we visited Isla Portete, a tiny island of mangroves and a palm tree lined beach. It required a short boat ride to get there. Before leaving I bought a fresh coconut to quench my thirst and got a bowl of water for Boa. While enjoying the juice, sitting beneath palm fronds on a wooden bench, and watching Boa and the resident cat play tag, the seller and I began chatting. We exchanged the usual introductions: where we were from, work-he told me about the scar on one hand from a badly poised knife, but not the burn scar on the other-and soon after I was giving him an English lesson. We developed a list of sentences he could use in his business encounters.

He thanked me by personally taking Boa and I back to the mainland in his canoe. He, like other people in the provinces, did not get much more than a basic education.

Those working with tourists are pleased to learn some English-the lingua franca of the world. The following evening “Gringa” was used to get my attention from a woman selling fruit from her truck. I laughed and told her my name. Our conversation led to my sitting down with her sixteen year old daughter to help her prepare for an English test the following day.

I enjoyed my time and my adventures with Boa, but after three nights in Mompiche I returned to Canoa to finish up my ten days on the coast.

Having traveled through Ecuador with the risk of mudslides, gaping roadways, and erupting volcanoes I headed toward the coast to relax.

It took four different buses, some roadside drop-offs and pick-ups, and nine hours from Latacunga by way of Santo Domingo and Perdenales to Canoa. The ride was punctuated with vendors selling jewelry, fresh baked bread, bowls of chicken and fries, fruit, water, juices, ice cream, and body lotions. Certain vendors offered lengthy promotions of their elixirs-the snake oil salesmen of today.

Bus terminals were welcome offering me a quick bathroom break. Changing of buses went smoothly. Bus attendants ensured the loading of luggage, packages, and passengers.

The road to the coast offered spectacular views. I was leaving arid hills groomed with green fields and entering miles of lush tropical rainforests.

To descend thousands of meters required numerous tight switchbacks and deft driving. The bus driver possessed such capabilities and seemed pressed for time, frequently passing cars and trucks despite the limited visibility. The precipitous drops were without guardrails leaving my view of the gorgeous greenery unobstructed. Passengers showed no concern of the driving or the road. Many were sleeping, cuddling, or watching the Korean zombie movie offered on board, dubbed into Spanish.

When the terrain leveled off there was a marked change in the style of homes. Concrete block houses evolved into simple wooden shacks, one after another. They reminded me of 1920’s sharecroppers’ dwellings-except these were elevated on stilts. The laundry hung outside, gave hints of the inhabitants. Families were often numerous. Some interiors seemed as bare as the exteriors-the vantage from the bus offered me a few peeks inside. The poverty was palpable.

Blue tents with Chinese writing stood too: some as permanent dwellings, others as an additional room, others as a gazebo for shade. The tents were remnants from relief efforts after the devastating earthquake of April 2016.

Once I’d settled into Canoa it didn’t take long before residents spoke of their lingering trauma. “I was running forward and being pulled backwards. I’m still afraid.” Said one young man. He pointed out where homes, shops, and hotels had been flattened. Lives had been lost.

Despite the earth being ripped apart and pulled from beneath their feet, people remained and carried on. I thought of September 11th’s aftermath.

A row of makeshift eateries and shops line Canoa’s unpaved and sandy main roads. Those directly on the beach have tables and chairs sitting in the sand. Ceviche, prawns, shrimp, fish, and conch are the staples. This is the coast after all. Fishing boats dot the beach. Men and women unfurl and repair nets. Vendors drive by in trucks and bicycles filled with fruits and vegetables. Men and women carrying snacks, brooms, and hats to sell pass by. Children push makeshift boats through the sand. There are few people around. Those that are chat with one another, wait idly for customers, or thumb through a newspaper. The ubiquitous dogs are lazy and gentle. It is quiet, except for the occasional rooster or popular music playing from one of the beachside restaurants or bars. Flocks of pelicans swoop above. The ocean offers the familiar pulse.

I liked this small town immediately.

I found a hotel on the beach with a balcony and view of the sea. I started my days eating local delicacies of platanos and more familiar fare-eggs and toast- with my feet in the sand gazing at the sea. For lunch and dinner I feasted on fresh seafood. The ceviche and prawns prepared with coconut milk were divine. It was a welcome change from the meals I’d been eating inland.

I spent my days walking, reading my tome (Les Miserable in a new English translation.), writing-difficult to do after reading Hugo, speaking with locals and fellow travelers, partaking in a trivia night with expats and tourists-gringos everyone-that was different, taking a few Spanish lessons and giving impromptu English lessons.

Canoa was the perfect place to catch my breath and relax.