The Little Things

Flying over the Andes at midnight, lightning strikes illuminating the horizon; 39,000 feet above the Amazon rainforest in Bolivia, an impenetrable green backdrop broken by curling brown ribbons of river, switchbacking into inexplicable patterns; the `phht phht phht´ sound of the buses; the swarms of dragonflies above each park in Buenos Aires; the kid playing with his own hands on a doorstep while his mother makes out a few feet away; the monkeys and vultures, the coatis (cody?) which `can and will bite if you are holding food´but look like a racoon crossed with an anteater, and the iguanas which are big enough to belong in zoos but still seem as startled as I am when they jump out onto the trail in front of me; realizing that reptiles can jump and that dinosaurs were reptiles; the guy who, when I told him I was from North Carolina said `oh, Pepsi! I like Pepsi´and remembered me as `North Carolina´ when I walked by hours later; the marine working construction in Hawaii who was traveling Argentina with three UNC grads; Jorge Luis Borges avenue in Palermo district; the old lady who wanted me to make sure she was getting on the right plane, and yet who I instinctively followed through the mess of tourists and taxis after arriving; the traveling hippies selling bracelets who were heading to Bolivia to get cocaine; the charcuterie slicer at the local store who asked me how much I made per hour, after I blurted out that I did the same work in the United States; occasionally settling into the moment, instead of wondering what comes next.