Like Morning Coffee

I was lucky as a child. The Ecuador that I lived was sun-soaked and epic, full of tall laughing men, German shepherds (magical to me), and bowlfuls of broth and cilantro. The air smelled like smoke –always –and a weedy green plant scent that blew in from the mountains. And, in 1979, at the age of 7, I spent a summer in Quito with my cousins. This was when Fausto was in his glory.