Sticks. And a Full Moon

Sticks.

Sticks in the road, semis lousy with bundles of them, fallen trees on the side of the road, the larger survivors marked white up 3 feet of trunk. A full butter-yellow moon dodging in and out of mountains. The smell of the old Toyota van, the sound of its dying transmission. Toyota and Nissan pickup trucks stacked with people, furniture, more sticks. Small clusters of people standing roadside, some crossing perilously in the dimly lit highway traffic. Hot. Humid. Dark. The eerie glow of fields of white washed trees. Churning the question in my head over and over in Spanish, trying to inquire this phenomenon. The surreality of stepping off a plane in a third world country and meeting a man with my name on the back side of a sheet of paper. The withered abuela across the hall from me. The Salvadoran flight attendant who roused me from coach to watch the sunset over Mexico from first class. Understanding more Spanish than I care to admit. Blushing and reluctant to speak any myself.

So tired the room is swaying. No internet access tonight. Adrien Brody on dvd. Caffe con leche delicioso. Pescado frescado con vegetables y arroz. Agua con gas.

Safe, more importantly. I feel safe. The steep brick sidewalks and fountains running alongside steps to a plaza of restaurants remind me of the Sacre Coeur arrondissment in Paris.

Approaching 11. The End.