 |
| A cryptic trail marker |
There was space to breathe there in La Orotava Valley – fresh and unrecycled air - between the steep pine-forested mountains that dropped off into sheer rock or reached up above the cloudy haze. There was room to walk, in the sandals that clung to my feet and pulled at my toes, through marked and unmarked and cryptically marked trails, streets and patches of fern that clearly hadn’t seen a machete in a while. Past ancient stone buildings and aqueducts and over bridges and through black raspberry bushes and pines draped with trailing green streamers of Spanish moss. It was good to be on land again. Away from the concrete and Terexes of the Tenerife port, without crowds of tourists to distract.
 |
The Finger Lakes welcoming me home
|
Two days later I was picking black raspberries in my own hometown, watching the squirrels chase each other, reveling in the freedom of being barefoot, enjoying the sunshine dappling in the edges of the river, and drinking real milk to my heart's content. After 36 hours of incredulous amazement at the footwear and outfits people choose to travel in, I am able to sit back and just enjoy America again. As we flew in low over the countryside, the Susquehanna and Finger Lakes greeted me, familiar and friendly in their twinkle against the setting sun. I marveled at the lush green of the mountains, the open lakes and blue rivers, and looked forward to hiking and kayaking the places I call mine. This time with my family is a gift; here there is time just to breathe.
