My dark friend

I make my first cup of coffee in two weeks. The smell of the coffee, harvested from Ecuador, roasted and ground in a small wooden shop in Quito, rises strongly from the jar when I twist off the lid. I fill the metal receptacle of the italian espresso maker with water, and set the whole apparatus on the propane stove and wait for the steam to rise from the spout. When ready, I pour the black liquid into the Holstein Ecuador mug and add cream: thick, almost oily, sweet. I give a nod to the cows that I can see grazing the startlingly green grass from my window as this cream came from their udders (udders that sway as they walk, slicking the cobbles with their green grassy shit that stains my pants and flies up when I ride my bicycle). I sit in a wooden chair and face the sea off small windows framed by blue window panes that looks out on our mud walls, overgrown lawn, hummingbird tree, and further to fields and mountains. I sip my strong coffee and sigh in relief at the familiar taste, then turn my attention back to my book I am reading: Chasing Che: A Motorcycle Journey in Search of the Guevara Legend, quite an excellent read with ponderings on the general history of Latin America and the mythology surrounding Ernesto “Che” Gueverra. For one more week this is my home, my table, my view, and then? We leave it to the next ones and begin a long meandering journey home.