I was back at the San Pedro Sula airport at 6 am on Wednesday, and in Tegucigalpa by 8. The man next to me was Dutch and tried to strike up a conversation about the twenty years he has spent working in Central America, but I could barely keep my eyes from closing in the middle of sentences. Honduras rushed past beneath the wings of the plane, and we landed in that familiar swoop down onto the runway at Toncontin. The final turn used to swing out over nearly empty hillside. This time, ten years later, I looked down at rows and rows of new houses.
Once again, I had no luggage, and I walked straight on through Domestic Arrivals. My sister was waiting on the other side, all sun-bleached hair and yellow t-shirt. She looked like the sun rising in the morning, and we hugged and laughed as people stared at the two gringas so delighted to see each other.
It was strange, very strange, to watch my baby sister maneuver the first country that I ever maneuvered on my own. Shouldn't I be the one trying to talk the taxi driver down from 100 lempiras?
After stumbling through some Spanish (it was kicking in, sort of) with A.'s family, we spent the afternoon and evening with K. and J., the professors of the program that brought both A. and I down there. It was unfathomably good to see them. I always wanted to be them when I grew up, but I feel farther from it now than ever before.
We ate at a Cuban restaurant, sitting in the open air of the courtyard, breathing the evening air of a place with no winter. Driving home, through the curving streets of Tegucigalpa, lights flashing on walls on either side of the road, I felt the ache of having given this up. My life should be more like this, I thought. This is the life I wanted. What am I doing in Gone West?
Once again, I had no luggage, and I walked straight on through Domestic Arrivals. My sister was waiting on the other side, all sun-bleached hair and yellow t-shirt. She looked like the sun rising in the morning, and we hugged and laughed as people stared at the two gringas so delighted to see each other.
It was strange, very strange, to watch my baby sister maneuver the first country that I ever maneuvered on my own. Shouldn't I be the one trying to talk the taxi driver down from 100 lempiras?
After stumbling through some Spanish (it was kicking in, sort of) with A.'s family, we spent the afternoon and evening with K. and J., the professors of the program that brought both A. and I down there. It was unfathomably good to see them. I always wanted to be them when I grew up, but I feel farther from it now than ever before.
We ate at a Cuban restaurant, sitting in the open air of the courtyard, breathing the evening air of a place with no winter. Driving home, through the curving streets of Tegucigalpa, lights flashing on walls on either side of the road, I felt the ache of having given this up. My life should be more like this, I thought. This is the life I wanted. What am I doing in Gone West?
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