By Jennifer Frye
Recently, my host family and I visited Cajas National Park, about an hour outside of Cuenca. As I stepped out of our car, relieved to finally stretch my cramping limbs, I was swept away by the view. Rugged hills dappled deep blue and muddy green by low lying clouds stretched to the horizon. Driven by an urge to lose myself in endless sky, I began walking. From time to time, I climbed rocky outcroppings and gazed into the distance, leaving my worries far below.
The fields were so dense with tufts of native flowers it was hard not to step on them. The wildflowers were brilliant spots of color on a dull canvas, hidden behind rocks and between thickets of grass, peering out at me as I passed. They fascinated me, and I carefully stooped to examine crimson spikes, golden buds, and violet petals.
By Dominique Landinez
I was seduced by a heavenly concoction of light, warmth, and aroma in Anitápolis… I walked towards the fire slowly, the soft glow spooled over my skin. I took a deep breath. I stood at a distance, watching the fire climb. It moved quickly as it entranced me with its erratic dance. Every now and then it would shoot up flakes of light that would swirl up and mirror the cosmos in the dark sky. “There’s something so artistic about fire,” Tiago told me, “if you give it air, a reaction occurs, triggering a response that then results in a larger flame, but if you give it too much (air) the fire goes out.” I pondered this for a moment. Fire made the delicious soup that the community was enjoying inside. Fire brought these people together. Fire is a form of art. It can trigger change, it can trigger a response. It can also destroy. The branches leaned over and crashed—sending a stream of stars into the clean air.
I stood there, completely in love with fire. Completely in love with the moment.
Existing here, immersed in another environment, culture, and country allows you to see elements of life in a different light. There are days that we do extraordinary things that I would not be able to do back home but there are also days that are so simple. Days where I am riding the bus and notice how people interact around me, days where I feel the hot wind pick up right before a storm, days where I notice people speaking in English on the street but they slip away too fast before I have a chance to talk to them. These simple days are not insignificant, rather, they still change how I see the world. Simply living abroad has forced me to constantly keep an open mind. Activities so mundane seem to have a significant meaning, like looking at fire.
By Jonas Gerken
I think Americans take for granted the fact that all of their food share the same texture. Regardless of whether the food is whole or in pieces, cooked or raw, moist or dry, it all does the same thing in your mouth: it mushes. Now imagine eating a fruit with an identical appearance to a melon, and finding that after twenty seconds of vigorous chewing it has broken down into dozens of miniscule, dry pieces of fibre. This fruit–called chuchu–is native to Mexico and is included in everything from omelets to lasagne, despite it having no taste. The only reason brasilieros eat the fruit is because it contains minerals that benefit your immune system. Last Tuesday, chuchu found its way into my largest meal of the day: lunch.