Profiles: An Array of Faces

The New York Times has started a brilliant features section called One in Eight Million, just finding the tales of The Big Apple's people and telling them through photos and audio; everyone has a story, they prove. It got me thinking about some of the faces here--the ones I see everyday and the ones I catch mere glimpses of that create fuzzy snapshots in my head. 

Most days, Santusa comes to clean the house. She has terrible arthritis in her arm so wears a cast but still leaves a room shining--if not from her cleaning than from her smile. She helps me with my Spanish and brings me coca tea if she notices I don't look well and makes sure there are cakes for special occasions; she just yesterday shoved Annie's face in a birthday cake, laughing to display the gold in her mouth and sense of humor I sometimes miss because of my poor Spanish. Santusa ensures the comfort of those in the house to the point where she has to be reminded by her husband it is their daughter's birthday. 

There is the bundle that usually lies on our couch and, just when you think it is just a blanket, cries; Santusa's nephew is a gorgeous baby boy that I hold when the work in front of me seems intangible. There is Sandra, the 3rd grader in Pumamarca with huge eyes who I practiced cursive with the other day and who told me she just really wanted a banana to eat as I thought of the bunch I just bought. There is the girl behind the counter at the gym who always enquires with chocolate-brown eyes about one of us if we four girls don't all come to try to keep up with the swinging hips of our Peruvian aerobics partners. There is Edgar, the busy Pumamarca school director who has the keys to the supplies and medicine cabinet but is also the 4th grade teacher and who teaches the kids to say, "good morning, amiga" when you enter the room. 

I think about the family who owns the bakery where we get empanadas from--the grandfather who usually has happy toddler Ricky on his knee, the mother who can guess what we are about to order, the son and daughter who are usually watching a cartoon with a plate of bread but will stand behind the counter when we come. They know we will want our pastries warm and that we will always blow Ricky kisses goodbye. 

There is the wrinkled man in the newsboy hat and three-piece suit who I sat by on the bus who asked if I needed directions or help because he was "kidnapping the whole bus and you never know where I'll feel like going." He has lived in Cuzco for 51 years, is originally from Arequipa, was "surprised to find an American girl on this bus," is 78 years old but has a grandmother who lived to be 103 so he figures, he "has a while." Thank goodness, too, because he has a theory to publish that would blow Cusquenians out of the water: "the Incas never cut a single stone," he whispers. "It was someone before them, but I don't know who. Can you imagine what will happen when I get published? I'll be exiled." He is aiming for National Geographic and when I asked what name to look for, he tipped his hat and said, "Dante" as he promptly got off the bus. A true, conspiracy-buster gentleman in his prime. 

There are too many more faces and, as I see I touch ground in the States exactly two months from today, I'll aim to keep clearer snapshots.