How do I even begin with this day?
The day was Thursday the 4th of March in the year 2010.
I love Cochabamba. It happened suddenly—that morning, I think, in fact, yes. I love Cochabamba. I don't know how to describe this sentiment really. I don't even know how to describe this city fully. But it's a good city.
I put a good amount of pavement under my feet that day and the day previous. Perhaps I was finally connected?
Mi tia drove me a bit into town, on her way to art class, and then I walked a good length of blocks to reach la Plaza Colon, stopping to photograph whatever and walk my forehead into a low-hanging branch. I considered blonde, naked mermaid mosaics in a fountain and visited a gorgeous church. I installed myself at Cafe Casablanca for orange-carrot juice, cappuccino, laptop work and a friendly connection with Nima. He was wearing a Red Sox cap; he is Iranian and has family in Boston and a brother in Tehran and two years of residency in Bolivia. We chatted about the relative merits of countries and government and he offered me the cookies baked there, in this Italian-founded cafe. What a small, wondrous world.
I caught a taxi to my cousins' house for lunch, joining Mauricio, Nicole, Natalia, Pablo and, of course, mi tia Tuti. They served me richly, of course: salteñas, menudino, pan, and a delicious meringue, whipped cream and strawberry cake. They offered insight on Bolivia and brilliant recommendations for my time in other parts. I took photographs; we said our goodbyes.
Mauricio dropped me off at la casa de Simón Patiño. The mine tycoon was at once one of the five wealthiest people in the world. He and his wife were building a new house in Cochabamba but, sadly, the house was never completed before he died. After his death, and the passing of his family's time in the house, it became a museum and the seat of an arts foundation. There was beautiful (modern) Bolivian sculpture all throughout the grounds and in a special exhibition within the house.
I saw a piece of art there and the image and title of this work were a not-so-metaphorical representation of recent events in my life. And I laughed in joy and surprise: I felt stronger for the first time.
The house closed at four o'clock, so I walked down to la Recoleta for a refreshing maricuya frozen at Juice'Zen. See, Mauricio and some associates started an ice cream franchise—this specific shop was owned and run by his mother. I then called the cab company and secured a dedicated driver for the next few hours of my afternoon.
El taxista picked me up at la Recoleta and we were off—he drove me first to Cristo de la Concordia. I had gone the Sunday before, wanting the chance to climb inside Jesus, which you can only do on Sundays (duh), but was completely thwarted by the rain. I could neither climb inside nor see a damn thing of the city.
But I was back and it was a beautiful day.
Cristo de la Concordia is the tallest statue of Jesus in the world, beating out Rio by a few meters. He sits atop a hill in the middle of the city, with gorgeous views of everything in the surrounding valley. I was more than happy to sit and walk in the sun, considering the huge friggin' statue and the changing light and vistas of Cochabamba.
I considered staying for the sunset but there was limited light remaining for my final stop.
I was heading to Calle Carlos d'Avis.
So, my name is Carlos Andrés d'Avis. This is a good name. This was the name of the father of my father—mi abuelo, who tragically died when my father, Federico, was quite young. But Señor d'Avis was a famous doctor in Bolivia and once even the mayor of Cochabamba. He lived a good life, maybe even a great life? So he has a street; it's only three blocks long. How long is your street? You don't have a street? That's what I thought.
El taxista found it without problem—I had, in fact, been there once before, late at night with Mauricio, but without my camera or sufficient light to photograph. I walked around my street—the street of my namesake and grandfather—and I felt connected. Here was proof of my life and of the history of our family and of the lasting impression and memory of a bit of good work.
I was leaving Cochabamba the next day. I had a sight or so to see, and mi Tio Carlos y Tia Ida with whom to lunch, but I felt that I had found my heart of Cochabamba. I was happy and I was triumphant and it was a good day in Cochabamba.
