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.