Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 6

The New World

“You lead such an exciting life!” exclaimed my visitor from the States.

I turned to her, one eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”

“You’re always doing such interesting things.” This came out in a breathless gasp, the same as might be used when speaking of skydiving or tumbling over Niagara Falls in a barrel.

“What things?”

“Like going downtown or going out for coffee or going up on the roof.” She slumped back on the couch, as if the very thought of these took all her energy.

“I see.” I raised my other eyebrow. After a few moments, I did see. When she said “going downtown,” she didn’t just mean heading to 2^nd Avenue in Nashville to eat at The Spaghetti Factory. She meant going downtown in Asunción. There you wage a running battle against determined sidewalk merchants. There you pass between rows of cross-legged Guaraní Indians with all their handmade goods spread out on their rugs. There you hear not a word of English as the people press around you. There you stop in at the Lido Bar for a quick snack. The words on the menu are in Spanish and you never know what you might get. You can take a chance on jugo de pomelo and not be in the least disappointed when the waitress hands you a fresh-squeezed glass of grapefruit juice. It is still exotic.

When she said “going to get coffee,” she didn’t mean driving through McDonald’s for a Styrofoam cup of java. She meant going to Café Havanna, where the coffee is strong and smooth (I am told. To me coffee tastes like boiled tree bark) and comes with exotic names like Café Irlandes, Moka Frio, or Lagrima. Each has its own unique taste, and you can sit outside on the tropical furniture and drink and watch as the world passes by.

When she said “going up to the roof,” she didn’t mean sitting on the peak of a shingled house and getting tar on your pants. She meant up onto the roof of our apartment building. There you sit by the pool and feel the warm night breezes blow. There you are that much closer to the stars and look in vain for the Southern Cross, that elusive constellation only visible from the Southern Hemisphere. There you can gaze out across the night lights of the city, across the Paraguay River and see, somewhere over there, Argentina.

None of those things were exciting to me anymore. I had done them, day in and day out, for a year. They were mundane, ordinary. They were just parts of life.

Having guests is nice. They see things new. The country is exotic again. It’s like watching a child who just discovered a beetle on the floor, or a candle, or a leaf, and being in awe with them. It’s like watching the original Star Wars trilogy for the 99^th time, but with someone, like my sister-in-law, who has never seen it before. Suddenly “I am your father!” is a revelation once again.

Helping someone discover is as good as discovering for ourselves. Tired, old things are made new. They are ready to be explored. They are ready to be enjoyed. They can fill us with wonder again.

I think I’ll go up to the roof and look at the city. But I’m not going to drink any coffee. No matter how many times I try to discover it, it still tastes like boiled tree parts.