Unas llamadas extrasensoriales.
Unas vacas danzando en la oscuridad
besos, ternura.
El barco Maid of the Mist parte de la base de la torre de observación y navega cerca de dos grandes cataratas del Niagara. Pasa a cierta distancia de una de ellas y muuy cerca de la más grande. Por eso resulta indispensable llevar el poncho plástico azul, si uno no quiere mojarse.
La noche anterior llegamos justo antes de los fuegos artificiales, cinco minutos después de las 10 de la noche, se ven bien las cataratas de noche pero no se aprecia igual que de día, cuando se puede ver en toda su dimensión la caída del agua.Las cataratas de Iguazú son más espectaculares. Sí. Pero estas también son impresionantes.
Hay otras cosas que visitar, una caminata hasta la base de una de las cataratas, pero como no tenemos mucho tiempo y queremos llegar pronto, nos contentamos con el viaje en el barco. La ciudad Niagra Falls, parece ser una ciudad en decadencia. Se ven edificios y hoteles que parecen haber tenido su época de esplendor en los 50s o 60s. Lo que más me impresionó a mí fue ver la gran cantidad de visitantes de la India. Por todos lados ves turistas de rasgos hindús. Miki dice al bajar con ellos al elevador hacia el barco, que el olor de ellos no es muy agradable. Acá mi compadre necesita una buena lavada de ala , reclama Miki.
Ya ha pasado el susto del puente con el Canadá, el auto sale disparado en contra y sobre la puerta automática. Incluso nos tomamos una foto en la entrada al cruce peatonal. La hindú que administra el hostal tiene pinta de estafadora. El desayuno en el Little Italy estuvo rico, la mesera se parece a una de las tías de Knollwood. Hay conexión pobre en Internet pero Lissette me manda unas fotos artísticas muy bien tomadas. Desde Lima Carolina llama y le confirmo que ya compré en Internet la Tanita que necesitaba para sus pacientes de nutrición. Desde Lima también, Enrica me confirma que compró las entradas para la ópera. Somos temporada de ópera en Nueva York. Ahora falta que Steve confirme las entradas para Shakespeare in the Park, pero no ha llamado y YA ES TARDE.. Tal vez mañana lunes. Cristi también llama para invitarnos a su restaurante en la 38. Y en la tele, después del pollito Castañeda habla sobre sus planes para un segundo período. Hablan del tren eléctrico. Qué malos recuerdos de aquel tren fantasma…
My brother Miguel was an exchange student in 1986. After 20 years we are visiting the little town in Michigan where he spent 2 months, and the family with whom he lived with over there. They haven’t seen in 20 years. We left New York on Monday morning and we arrived to Kinde almost 15 hours later
There is a green sign at the side of Kinde road that reads: Kinde Village Limit. We have been driving all the way from New York, almost 16 hours. The town is dark, you can see the shapes of the corn plants moving gently with the wind but not much else. The lights are off in most of these small one-story houses. Miguel stops thecar in front of the green sign. He takes out the camera and handle it to me: Take a picture, he says.
The brights are on and you can see the inviting sign of Kinde but nothing else. It is quiet, as most of the towns in Huron County, Michigan should be at this time of the night. I check the time on my watch: 10:30.
I take a picture. A car slowly coming from Kinde seems to stop in front of us. I can see just its lights, but somehow the way it comes and the sound of the engine running, makes me feel that someone is watching me behind that windshield. I take another picture, the flash came out and the car turns right on one of the small streets that seem to go all the way into the corn fields. I try to imagine the person behind the wheel asking himself: Is there really somebody taking a photo of that sign at this time of the night?
The wind is a little bit stronger, but it is still warm. Miguel jumps off the car and tells me to take a picture of him in front of the sign. I do it. Then he drives into the town, that seems to be empty. I can hear the breeze of the Lake Huron coming through the window. Passing in front of a body shop there is a guy working, bended in front of the hood of a car, with a lantern. He has a clear but funny accent. He gives us some directions to get to the street where Mike Gage lives. He does not know his house but seems pretty confident giving us the directions to get there.
We kept going all the way through Kinde road, looking for a flag and the Fire Department building. The town finishes and we keep going where there are just corn fields and abandoned houses.The directions are wrong, and there is nobody in the streets to ask for. We turn around over Kinde road and, at least, we find the Fire Department building.
Like in a puzzle, suddenly all the details of Mike Gage’s address fit together. Miguel drives towards a white, one-story house, the only one in the middle of a desertic street. There is an old man with white hair, a round and big belly and wearing glasses, standing in front of its main door, waving to us, We wave back: twenty years and a heart attack have passed since 1986, but Mike embraces Miguel, his Peruvian son, as if it was yesterday when he left Kinde. Mike is wearing a white T-shirt where I read: Michael Gage, Huron County Commisioner.
The New York Street 