I believe that even google with all of its storage space, information and acccrued knowledge does not have enough energy to record the vast amount of stories that have been written in our world. Sometimes I imagine God a brilliant,crazy haired, cigarette smoking, eccentric, madly typing the stories of every individual that walks our planet; overpopulation, in fact, is just the unintentional consequence of Gods over-efficiency at the typewriter and infinite creative ability. This image is accentuated by travel, especially as we move further away from the familiar. Sometimes every hour feels like it could be a short story in of itself. Updike, Salinger and Marquez have got nothing on the divine orator. The last week has taken us into new and wild places, where we can only speculate at the stories of some of the people we cross paths with. What I wouldn’t give to be able to, not only know, but to feel their history, worldview and life experience. All we get are snippets and to be honest that’s probably more than we deserve. Even the snippets though are fascinating. The story of the owner of an old spanish colonial ranch that has been passed down through generations who struggles in her relationship with the indigenous people that surround her. Or the Quechua painter who in the 70s started a new art form that has become renown worldwide by his son, yet he still humbly paints away in his home town which is so small and isolated, that even the locals haven’t heard of it.
In Quito a young gay man who worked at our hostel explains what happens when he holds hands with his boyfriend at a club and about his joy over the new law that passed, called “free union” which is equivalent to the civil union laws of the U.S. All of these stories could easily make millions as a New York Times best seller novel. Really, they are incredible and yet they are just another beautiful life being lived. This is true everywhere, it’s just revealed with ease in the midst of foreign contrast. This is true of those who lost their lives in Charleston and as we travel it would be easy to ignore the sorrow that is felt back home, but alas, we cannot and we hold the memory of their stories in our heart as we sit in the market and eat empanadas or ride the bus over the highlands. Kyrie Eleison.
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