Thou art abundant.

As we drive, I can’t help but stare out the window. The truth I know is that Alberto doesn’t really speak much English and I still don’t really speak any Spanish (shame on me) and so, our best method of communication seems to be a game of charades. Smiles and pointing, wild gestures and rigorous head shaking. I frantically Googled the word miel (honey) a half hour ago because when I thought to inquire about the miscellaneously sized bottles on tables littering the side of the road, I seemed to give Alberto the impression that I was thirsty. And the only way to convince him I did not need a drink was this pathetic pantomime combining chugging an invisible beverage and peeing my pants.

When I get home this time, I think, I will finally take a Spanish class. Or at least commit to a regular Duolingo practice. How obnoxious of me to come here and presume, to boldly imagine I could make due. I can. I will, but not without the awareness that this is less than acceptable.

Anyway, we’ve now settled into a comfortable silence that is only permeated by the sounds of the street and Alberto’s cell phone chiming occasionally. I’m keeping myself occupied by gazing out my window, which is spotted in a random pattern with irregularly shaped opaque spots. Alberto, as if reading my mind, breaks our mutually agreeable silence with his rich, baritone accented voice: rain for Christmas he says, shrugging his shoulders like this is a mystery that is entirely unsolvable. In response, I revolve my head in that moment, like a dimwitted bobblehead, as if to signal that I understand completely the dilemma of a weather ruined holiday, and no further explanation is required.

Ten minutes ago, Alberto stopped next to a street vendor who was perched precariously close to the vehicles passing by, and purchased a small plastic bag of what he almost apologetically referred to as churros. Crunch, crunch, he said while extending his arm and the bag of small tan breadstick looking items in my direction. I was so charmed by this and so curious, that I didn’t have the heart to explore the wisdom of diving into street food an hour into my trip or to ask what they were made of, or even to ask: sin gluten?

Instead, I reached my travel filthy fingers towards the rim of the bag and extracted one, as if playing a game of germ Jenga. He was right, they are delightfully crunchy and just a little sweet, with innards that taste faintly of corn. Rather than achieving some baseline satisfaction, this snack seems to remind my system that it has been woefully without a proper meal for over twelve hours. I’m clearly not one of those gals who feels sated after eating fistfuls of airport purchased trail mix, no matter how much it costs. And the soy latte I had eight hours prior was long out of my system, psychically if not physically.  I shift my feet around the dust covered rubber floor mat to cover the sound of my stomach grumbling and try and remember if I ate all of my almonds.

I wrap my fingers around the silicone case covered my phone ad if reminding myself of its presence. I can take photos or record video if I want. But I don’t. Not really. I want to just soak it all in. All of it. Half-dressed children chasing each other in the dirt, motorcyclists carrying construction levels and stuffed bags and wooden slatted boxes. Colorful stands with peeling paint that have counters piled high with somewhat identifiable fruit. Statues of political figures and confusing billboards and the thinnest strands of Christmas lights wrapped around porches and tables and trees. Bonfires and grilling meats and yards filled with ghosts and abandoned lawn chairs.

I ask Alberto if I can roll down the window and when he nods, and I do, the sticky heat of early evening dances over the curved of my face. The air smells foreign and familiar, like smoke and food and earth. I can hear shouts in Spanish and laughter and motors straining to carry old and worn vehicles over roads that are half paved.

I think in this moment of the notion of abundance, how it is all at once and understood concept and entirely subjective. Situational. Cultural.

We have created this paradigm in the United States whereas these inflexible barriers frame the idea of abundance. The definition. The understanding. The notion of bigger and better and more. Always more. And then more than that. But also, streamlined and efficient and minimalist. Larger living spaces that are often empty or at least contain fewer humans. Fancier cars. Flexible bodies and less flexible facial muscles. More fragrant and also, fragrance free. Faux everything and completely authentic and also, fake in the way it matters. Filter fake and highlight reel fake. I’m fine fake and I’m fucking spectacular fake. Generous portions and portion control. Farm to table but fuck the farmers. Not all of them, but many of them. Especially the ones with brown skin who dare to arrive at the US borders from elsewhere. Two demerits then. Double fucked.

Drones and conspiracy theories and government fibs and X and influencers. Sales and deals and steals. Blissful ignorance and misinformation and over saturation. The egoic notion that we are the only living beings that matter. Sprinklers in a drought and bright lights shining in the middle of the night and cities that are drowning and don’t sleep and can’t sleep and can’t sustain and won’t remain. Long, pointed nails and au natural. Everything. Get ready with me and also, go without. Sans makeup. Sans everything.

Viagara is sexy and abortion is not and fuck the women. But also, fuck the women.

We are so abundant in our salacious greed and desires and yet, so scarce in our acceptance, our willingness to change, our ability to own and face our fears. Our ant to change. To do better. To be better.

And here, out this car window is proof that there are those who do it differently. Not worse. Not better. Different.

And I get to bear witness.

And that, feels like the closest thing to abundance I’ve ever experienced.

X

L.