Separate Tables
An American couple asked me to guide a trip to southern Ecuador. I said yes.
They rented a car in Guayaquil. Masks in the car.
In Cuenca, they stayed masked at dinner, lowering them only to shovel food in, then pulling them back up again.
I drove with the window down, face in the wind.
We reached Tapichalaca. Cool air. Fog. Forest.
That night my nose started running.
A knock on my door. I was sitting on the bed, still dressed for the damp chill.
I opened it a crack. The husband stood there in a mask, holding a home COVID test out in front of him.
“Do you want to take a test?”
I took it. Negative.
I told them through the door.
Half an hour later, another knock.
“We were thinking maybe tomorrow you could eat apart from us.”
“Sure.”
I suggested a local guide. They liked that.
The next morning they left with him. I waited until they disappeared, then ate breakfast.
No mask. No conversation. Just food.
I took the keys and drove.
Mist on the road. Windows down. No one in the back seat.
I pulled over constantly. Walked the edges. Stopped. Tiny orchids in the moss—one deep red, long and spidery, caught mid-step, its petals fringed with fine hairs.
That night I ate outside alone. Cold air.
I slept.
Morning. Another knock.
“We’ve decided to head back to Cuenca,” he said through the door.
“Okay.”
They left.
I walked down to the road and stuck out my thumb.
The forest was still wet. Same fog. Same quiet.


Masks have meant so much to civilization over time; these are just the latest.
Lo unico que importa es el viaje interior y la oprtunidad de viajar y ver lo que esta lejos de nuesro alcance, si el miedo a contagiarse es mas fuerte que todo, entonces nada llenará lo que ellos buscan