Escape from LaGuardia Airport!

“Get out so I can start missing you.” - Mom. (Hi, mom!)

I Ubered to hell and back for three consecutive days, but I finally made it to Ecuador. After two respective flight cancellations and an inexplicably lost suitcase, I am in Quito. My original flight was scheduled just days after the Hurst fire broke loose in Los Angeles, which is where I would be if it weren’t for this trip. A tia of mine who I’ve never met told my father that God protected me from the fires by sending me to Ecuador, which was a sentiment I could of course appreciate, but ultimately painted the picture of a cruel God whose love I did not want to receive. For anyone reading this who has been personally impacted by the fires, here, here, and here are just a few resources from my incredible organizing friends in California who show me daily what it means to love. 

I found myself weirdly emotional at the Houston airport during my 6-hour layover. My Gigi, who’s lived in Texas her whole life, came to visit me with a box of Whataburger as a going-away present. She told me how she missed her introductory line dancing class at the community center to watch the Texans game, showed me how well the scar on her forehead had miraculously healed, made the ever-expected passing reference to “one of the many pompous asses [she] was supposed to marry”. A beautiful service dog named Polo found its way to our bench and after sufficiently gushing over the sweet boy (a white golden retriever!) Gigi did what Gigi does and told his owner about my trip to the Galápagos. I remember being 13 and becoming some sort of wiggly earthworm at the mention of myself and what Gigi perceived as accomplishments to any passing stranger. The perception was all too much for a pile of crooked braces dressed in galaxy leggings to handle back then, so I'm glad I grew from an earthworm and became a person again, because I could cry just thinking about how special it is to be loved so loudly. 

We went on talking, and found out that the very kind woman attached to Polo had spent her fair share of time in the Galapagos herself! Her name is Angela. She’s in Texas, fresh off of a TedTalk, bringing Polo to help take care of her father. Gigi wanted to drive back before it got dark — it wouldn’t for another couple of hours, but I’d also forgotten that she goes to bed around 5pm these days. I guess I’d forgotten that I’m nearly 21, that Gigi just turned 83 (happy birthday, Gigi!), and that I’m not an earthworm anymore. We said our goodbyes, Angela and I exchanged phone numbers and well-wishes – her for my trip, me for her father – and I headed to Terminal E. 

To re-enter security from baggage claim to have lunch with your grandmother, you have to go through a hallway of murals and watch two little girls laugh and shout about how neat the whole thing was — “it’s like we’re underwater!” “Look at the fishy!” You’ll hop on the indoor railway and make faces at a baby in your cart, then find yourself feeling like Edward Hopper watching two lovers do everything they can not to say goodbye as you chug the rest of the water in your Nalgene (hydration is the best cure for altitude sickness!). You’ll lose the lovers when the 8,000 or so very French, very late flight attendants crash the TSA pre-check line, which is where you’ll get to commiserate with the woman ahead of you in English and the man behind you in Spanish. You might be reminded of that thing you saw online somewhere that goes something along the lines of imagining yourself as an ancient already-dead thing who begged to be let back into earth to experience it all over again for one more day: all the greatest loves and greater inconveniences. Hand on my stupid heart. Here, I think, is a God that I recognize.

Y al fin… Quito. More soon. Much to tell. Can’t believe I’m here. Hope you’re well.