We rode in silence along the city’s Northern ridge. Our hands lightly clasped, but our eyes stayed fixed on the city, our stillness a permission allowing each other the space to savor our last few moments in our own way. For two months, we had been drinking Cuenca in. Our glasses had been all but emptied. We swirled the last lingering drops and took a final swig.
Ecuadorians’ adoration of fairs and festivals is only surpassed by their devotion to Catholicism. Subscribing to the Catholic credo that there ain’t no party like a Jesús birthday party, these passions intersect in a three-month celebration around the Christmas holiday that exceeds the birthday week excesses of the most self-indulgent sorority girl. Cuenca is the heart of these festivities, upstaging the larger cities of Quito and Guayaquil to draw people from all across the Andes.
The kitchen is a no-fly zone, where space to craft a punch or charcuterie spread has to be carefully usurped at the margins of the vast empire. The best time to sneak in is when my father is updating his tabulation of butter used thus far. A true student of the tradition of Julia Child, he delights in giving us a painfully honest breakdown of precisely how the sausage was made, as waistlines strain against belts. The only time I had ever missed my family’s Thanksgiving before was to share a Turducken with a friend who was stranded and alone under house arrest. Now, thousands of miles from Cleveland in Ecuador, the reality of the glamorous traveler’s life came with a complimentary jar of maraschino cherries.
There may be moments where it’s up to you to offer a counterpoint to crass generalizations and cultural falsehoods. That obnoxious Uncle in the MAGA hat who keeps suggesting Latin American countries are dangerous (whilst never having traveled beyond the tri-state area) is wrong. You’re well within your rights to let him know how wrong he is. Diminishing an entire group of people based on cultural differences is, to put it lightly, fucking bullshit. But do it gently and respectfully. Remember that we’re all human beings working towards similar goals. Far from being polar opposites, most of us are reasonable people, occupying some spot in the middle ground of the human experience.
The Obamas’ portraits had been unveiled a few months prior to our visit to D.C., so we were excited to make a pilgrimage. While the museum was busy, the galleries are large and numerous. After a day of walking, we cut some rooms short, skipping some parts entirely. Portraiture is lovely, but once you’ve seen one old, dead white man, you’ve generally got the gist of it.
Bryce Canyon National Park is quite possibly one of the most gorgeous misnomers on the planet. The park’s namesake, Bryce Canyon, is notably only half a canyon. The concave cliff face winds down to the valley below while towering hoodoos bear witness to Gran Escalante.
The newest addition to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., the National Sculpture Garden is home to over twenty sculptures. The garden is centered around a large fountain, which predates the creation of the sculpture exhibit. The garden is directly to the West of the National Gallery of Art, and borders the National Mall to the South.
Writing is a shared passion of ours, but so is the occasional comfortable silence. We’re more than happy to let our photography do some of the heavy lifting and let the photos speak their volumes.