Out with my camera last weekend, I was chatting to two locals. They asked about my desire to learn Spanish, and I mentioned that I had a job in Mexico City. They raised their eyebrows, questioning my decision. “But the smog, the traffic!” Hm, that is true. Though perhaps, most importantly: “No mountains!”
Medellin is in a valley. If I look left, they are there; right, they are also there. Their majestic permanence is a comfort, a solace. Tinted with the rosy hues of the sun’s rise, they are with me when I go to class. Then in the gym, late in the afternoon, blackened clouds dress them up with an awesome foreboding.
And the rains. Heavier than India’s monsoons, they fall along with a deep, rolling grumble from the higher lands. The thunder spits a winding smack of gunfire; car alarms respond with ugly music. The shots of white light are terrifying, humbling. Siempre aqui, these mountains.
Alas, nobody notices. They sleep on the bus, or run harder on the treadmill.
I will always notice. I promise.
