Off a train and onto a bus. Trying to recall where exactly we are. Where we just came from. So much movement and it all starts to blend together. Four seats left, snagged by us, our bags, and a small old spanish man. He talks fast, and I try to keep up. But I'm distracted by his eyes. I listen. Respond. Get lost. Try to listen some more. But when you're still learning a language one second of lost concentration can mean a whole conversation down the drain. You have to hang on to every last word. But boy am I distracted. And why is it that we are talking in spanish, on an overcrowded bus in the middle of southern China anyway? Lauren carries the conversation forward and I steal as many glances of those eyes as I can. Little blue circles burried under piles of wrinkles. Blanketed by thick grey eyebrows. Wise and tired.
A lull in the conversation as the bus bounces forward.
I know that guy, says I, in the general direction of everyone. I do too, says Lauren, surprised, towards me.
Give us two hours and we place him. A couple of years ago somewhere in the Puruvian Amazon, we slept in a row of hammocks in a wooden sort of house like structure. Lauren, myself, a few others, and this man, snug at the end of the row somewhere near the stairs.
Two years and our paths have zigzagged around the globe to cross again. El mundo es bien pequeno. Traveling is a wonderful way to meet an incredible amount of interesting people in a small amount of time. To form real connections from only a few days of interaction. To also live with an ongoing sense of detachment in realizing that, like you, the people you meet you most likely won't see again. And to discover a form of comfort within this. You grow used to it. But then again, this world truly is small. If an old man you shared hammock space with on a wooden platform in the Amazon jungle can turn up two years later on a bus headed for the small mountain town of Dali, China, anything can happen. And most likely, it will.
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