Speed bumps in Chicago:

Oof!

Speed bumps in Ecuador:

¡Oof!                              ¡Oof!                              ¡Oof!                               ¡Oof!                              ¡Oof!                              ¡Oof!

Now, imagine yourself sardined into a van or bus for 3.5 hours. In fact, somebody call those CIA agents who authorized torture strategy at Guantánamo; I’ve got a few pointers for them.

Yet there’s something about being homeward bound, your last chocolate Casero already reduced to its popsicle stick, that gives a traveler a bit of nostalgia about even the least desirable parts of a country.

What I wrote in my journal during the van ride back to Guayaquil, our departure city:

Every speed bump on the way back to Guayaquil, no matter how jarring, was welcome: anything to slow the ending and give me more time to savor last looks at Ecuador, like lingering during the credits of a movie. You get in that otherworldly state of mind where you want to transcend space and time, be in two places at once, eager to be home but clinging to your travels, sad to see them go. Like double-checking you packed your toothbrush, when leaving a country you look more closely, more intently, with more care, all to be sure you didn’t miss anything.

Poetic, isn’t it?

What I wrote 45 minutes and 72 speed bumps later:

Speed bumps are like riding over the polygraph readout of a compulsive liar.

Travel. It’s bittersweet.