The Art of Exile

On the Pan American Highway, somewhere between the north and south continent, you come across a chain of volcanoes, a coast with a thick growth of palm trees, crunching waves of the sea; an isthmus Neruda called “slender earth like a whip.” When the road bends, turns into a street, the walls splattered with “Yanqui Go Home!!!” you see a boy fifteen years old, barefoot, sniffing glue in a small plastic bag. An old woman in an apron will step out, say, “This is the right street.” In the public square, there will be no friend from school to welcome you, no drive to Sonsonate, city of coconuts, no one to order cold Pilseners, oyster cocktails, or convince the waitress into dancing a cumbia or two with you. Instead, at the local bar, you’ll raise a bottle next to strangers, stub your cigarette out on the floor. You’ll watch a country ten years after the civil war: an old man sitting on the curb, head between knees, open hand stretched out. Everything will hurt, your hair, your toenails, even your shoes. You’ll curse dusty streets, demented sun slowly burning the nape of your neck, stray dogs following you to the park. By nightfall, you drag yourself back to the bars, looking for a lost country in a shot of Tíc Táck. Against the wall, three men with their guitars. When you lie on a hotel bed, too tired to sleep, when you feel torn, twisted like an old newspaper, blown from city to city, you have reached the place. You have begun to speak like a man by the side of the road, barefoot.