NONFICTION | TRAVEL | UNFORGETTABLE

We Parted Ways on a Bus in Quito, and Four Months Later I Got a Surprise in the Mail

Our meeting was unforgettable, but I no longer recall his name

I first saw him on a wooden deck overlooking the vibrant green hills of the Andes mountains.

I had arrived at the ecolodge the day before, a stop on my solo travels around Ecuador during a break from my teaching job in New York City.

I was in my mid-twenties, and I felt wonderfully alive.

I had walked through the streets of Quito during a stunning Good Friday procession. I had taken naked mud baths in Loja with new and old friends. I had traveled on a bus that cut through mountains over the entire length of Ecuador.

I spent that bus ride staring out the window, listening to Tracy Chapman, and wondering what my future held.

And now I was here at this ecolodge, a wooden structure cut into the side of a mountain outside Chugchilán, Ecuador. I had never seen a landscape as stunning as the view from its wooden deck.

On my first day at the Black Sheep Inn, I met other young travelers who became instant friends. Two women were volunteering at the lodge for extended stays. One was an American fresh out of college, and another was an Australian yoga teacher. Another boy, still in high school, was there on a trip with his father.

The four of us practiced yoga on that deck overlooking the mountains, paced lazily through meadows of wildflowers, and stayed up late drinking boxed wine. I fell asleep that night listening to the wood crackle in the stove heating our communal sleeping area.

And then, on my second day there, while enjoying fresh coffee on the deck overlooking the mountains, I saw him.

This moment has remained vivid in my memory. Yet 15 years later, I can’t recall his name. He was a French man, also traveling alone, who had stopped for a few days at this ecolodge on his way through the country.

There was something about his smile that drew me to him. He smiled almost entirely with his eyes.

He was a full-grown adult and had taken a holiday from his job at a bank in Frankfurt to travel to Ecuador. His hobby was photographing street art, and he spent his holidays documenting street art all over the world.

I felt drawn to this man who poured himself so deeply into something he loved, a man who could likely afford his own room and yet had also made a reservation to sleep in the communal bunk room with the rest of us wandering travelers on a budget.

After exchanging a few words on that deck, the two of us were inseparable for the next three days.

He joined a group hike with me one morning on the Quilotoa Loop. He chuckled when my fear of heights got the best of me, and our guide had to hold my hand over parts of the trail. He laughed when I came back from an afternoon horseback ride with bright red burns on my cheeks from the high-altitude sunlight.

We drank boxed wine at night next to a fire.

Our connection had all of the ingredients of a sultry travel love affair.

There were plenty of opportunities at night to bring my face close to his and kiss him, to find a dark corner tucked away between the wooden buildings and hold each other. I could have snuck into his bunk at the end of the evening, our bodies warm from the wine.

There was some tension, for sure, but our connection felt deeper than a simple travel tryst.

I had a boyfriend at home and never asked about his personal life. But there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the two of us that this relationship we were building over three days would never be physical.

Because we both knew we wouldn’t end this trip in bed together, my connection to this funny French banker who photographed street art felt safer.

It felt more like a unique, temporary love.

Eventually, our three days at the Black Sheep Inn came to a close. We joined a group of other travelers on a bus back to Latacunga, on our way to Quito. Eventually we would board the airplanes there that would take us all back home to our real lives.

We sat next to each other on that rickety old bus to Latacunga, giggling the whole time about various absurdities of our travels.

At one point the bus came to a complete stop as it approached a tiny town in the mountains.

The roads were blocked due to a political event, one of those rural gatherings where cars drive by with loudspeakers extolling the virtues of a populist candidate who promises to bring good fortune to farmers and day laborers.

There was no way for the bus to pass through the crowds, so it just stopped.

We all disembarked for a few hours to watch the spectacle and pace the cobblestone streets of this village. We stopped in a market and sampled fresh fruit.

The French man tried on a traditional hat in the market, and the photo I snapped then is the only photo I have of him.

In the photo, he’s smiling at me with his eyes.

Once the roads cleared, our bus continued on its way to Latacunga, and eventually, we boarded another bus to Quito. We knew our time together was coming to a close. We exchanged emails and addresses, knowing we would likely never see each other again.

We parted ways on that bus in Quito. I was headed straight for the airport, and he had a few more days left to photograph street art in Ecuador’s capital city.

I returned to my life in New York City, my face still pink from my horseback ride in the mountains.

I thought often about this man and our time together in Ecuador, but my life continued. I taught my class of 2nd graders in Brooklyn, and I visited my boyfriend on the weekends.

And then, four months later, I received a surprise package in the mail.

Inside was a book of the French man’s photographs of street art in Ecuador.

The photo book was full of colorful images of walls and murals. On one of the last pages was a photo of me in that village we’d stopped in on the way to Latacunga, in front of a brightly colored brick wall.

Every once in a while, travel allows us to cross paths with someone who sticks around in our memory long after our plane lands back home.

Perhaps the temporary nature of travel makes those feelings more profound, or maybe it just makes them simpler.

But I know that I shared a kind of love with that French man I met in Ecuador, one that will always be unforgettable.

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