Why I decided to visit Cuenca

I enjoy walking around El Centro on Sunday mornings to surround myself in beauty while meandering quiet neighborhood streets. I often see whole families dressed for church, reminding me of when I was little, kicking my way through autumn leaves so deep it caused a wake of ruffles splashing orange and yellow and deep deep red; memories begin to unwind.

My memories are unwinding; revisiting why I decided to move to Cuenca, the contours of which I wish never to forget.
Memory tends to expand with time. Seemingly, and without our thoughtful vigilance, the scenes tattooed on our retelling are often inked in more complex images and more overwrought designs that mask the underlying intention of the artform — while obscuring one’s true colors.

The fish are larger, the mountain steeper, the mama bear meaner, nearer, and with two cubs — no, make it three cubs, two of which are crying and pointing at me.

My “awakening” started with a major flashpoint. I felt I was dying, a condition that I was shocked to learn was confirmed by my doctor. He would not tell me how much longer I had to live. He simply did not know.

He said, “Look, you can be hit by a Buick LaSaber with rectangle headlights, and a distracted driver fifteen minutes after you leave this office, or you may live until you are 97 years old. Start living as if your life depended on it.”

It was good advice that I took to heart.

I can recall the exact moment I decided to redirect my life. An elemental part of me had been broken; I was sad and lonely and paralyzed with grief. A failed marriage consumed me. I became shellshocked by the daily news screaming apocalypse .I was stunned that kids were no longer safe in their classrooms, horrified that water was no longer safe to drink, and incensed that the bridges we depend on every day are flaked with a greyness that highlights the pallor of yellowing red crumbling steel. I recalled a quote I learned many years ago,

“The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters.”
— Antonio Gramsci

And then, one morning, Andres, a nurse who had cared for me many months earlier when I was recovering from knee replacement surgery, surprised me by dropping by my office to say hello and ask how I was doing. He quit working at the assisted-care facility where we met and came to share his new plans.

He told me this story:

“When I was eight years old my parents took me to see my first movie, I was mesmerized! Lights! Camera! Action! I don’t remember the movie at all, but the glamorous lifestyle portrayed in the film changed my life. I decided then and there,

“I am moving to the United States of America!

“It took me nearly thirty-five years to save up enough money and to secure a good profession that would be appreciated. After all, you have to be prepared in the land of opportunity, the greatest country in the history of the world! I was jubilant when I landed in New Jersey (Paradise with an Ocean View), my dream had come true! I wanted to shake every hand and kiss every cheek. Oh, happy day!

“Welcome to the United States of America!

“But I was not welcomed. It was so confusing to be branded ‘Mexican,’ as if that was a bad thing. I was shoved aside with the smallest pretense. I could not find a job in my profession. I could barely find suitable housing. Store clerks would follow and pester me with, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

“I learned first-hand that people here do not care for people like me. In fact, they don’t even care for their own families! They kick their children out of the house when they are children — before they are even married! And when you are old, your own children toss you aside in places like the warehouse where I cared for you. I am going back to Cuenca.”

“Where?” I asked.

It is then that he told me about the rivers and clouds. He reminisced about farmers, fabric stretched across their shoulders, stooped under the heavy weight of freighting baskets of produce for the market, and how the mornings can be champagne bright. He spoke of the scent of roses from the flower markets — a mixture of fruit with a spicy hint of clove, that wafts all morning along cobblestone streets polished by evening rain. He told me about the centuries-old tradition of almuerzo when you are rewarded for your efforts with a light mid-day meal and perhaps a brief nap. He said, on holidays everybody dances and sings and prays together, and in times of grief, they mourn as one, comforted by the prayers of everyone you know, a few that you don’t, and some that are precious – those that you love.

As he spoke he slowed, he paused for long stretches as he searched for the exact word that would mirror his memory. He was drifting on a current crumbling the banks of his misadventures. Then he spoke softly of his parents, brothers and sister, his aunts and uncles, his friends and neighbors, and how they rained tears when he left — as he spoke, droplets from rivers spilled on his cheeks, the oasis of his soft brown eyes pooled.

“My shirt will be wet with my mother’s tears.I am going home.”

I remember that exact moment my life changed. I remember the swirling paisley of blues and grays as the Columbia River bucked the incoming tide. I remember an apple-scented breeze inviting autumn to join with wreaths of orange and gold, I remember the gray dome of cloud that replaced the sun. And, I thought of all the people I would pass on the street, mostly people whose existence I did not believe in, but a few whom I would glance at and see my whole life the way you see the ocean from the shore.

I decided to visit Cuenca.