There Galapagos My Heart

by Philip William Stover

  I settle into my comfortable leather seat, and a pert flight attendant offers me a glass of champagne to welcome me aboard. I’m not sure I’m supposed to mix alcohol with these pills, but I smile to thank her and say, “Don’t mind if I….”

  Holy crap. Where am I? I’m wearing my headphones around my right thigh, and my neck pillow is perched on my head like a tiara. My lavender-scented eye mask is around my mouth. The last thing I remember is thinking the champagne can be deceptively strong because of the bubbles and that I should not take my Ambien with alcohol, but even that memory is fuzzy.

  I hear boarding announcements and see jets parked outside the windows. I am in an airport? I take my neck pillow off my head and make out the words Miami International Airport on a sign above me. For a second I think, Oh boy, I’m going to visit the Golden Girls.

  “There you are, Mr. Davis.” A young woman with a sloppy French braid smiles at me. “Remember me? I’m Lisa.”

  “Lisa?” This woman in a flight attendant uniform is a complete stranger to me.

  “That’s right,” she says, speaking to me like I’m a lost a child, which I am at the moment. “I was your flight attendant from San Diego.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. Actually, you told me I was going to be your best friend for life if I landed the plane safely. Then you stood in the aisle, said you were Whitney Houston’s Irish cousin, and sang ‘The Greatest Love of All.’ You have a lovely singing voice.”

  This sounds vaguely familiar, but I am too foggy to know.

  “You need to get in that line over there.” She points to a gate a few yards away that says the flight is departing for Quito. Quito sounds familiar.

  Another woman in the same exact outfit is with her…or am I seeing double? I’m not sure.

  “This is my colleague, Olga. She’s going to make sure you get to Quito. Nice meeting you, and thank you for French braiding my hair after the dinner service.”

  Huh?

  Olga says more words and puts me in a line I am to follow until I’m on the plane. I think my head and my blurred eyesight are slowly clearing. I look around the terminal and see a mother on her knees cleaning up some crackers her toddler has spilled, two guys fighting over a USB port, Benton reading a book, and a woman talking to her dog in a carrier.

  Wait, what?

  I scan the seating area of the gate again. Toddler, USB port, Benton, dog.

  No. There is no way he is in the Miami airport. He’s in Queens. No, not Queens. He is in the place with the Queen. England. He’s in England. I’m having a hallucination, but that guy really looks like Benton—same perfect jawline, same gorgeous face. What am I talking about? It’s the Ambien. I’m not even here. I’m not even me. I’m Whitney Houston’s Irish cousin.

  Chapter 4

  Somehow I make it to Quito, disembark, get my luggage, and find the driver who takes me to the JW Marriott. Even though I’ve been in a semicoma for the past twenty hours, I’m still exhausted when I reach my room. I collapse on the bed.

  Five hours later sharp beams of sunlight penetrate the room through the openings in the curtains. I open my eyes and feel surprisingly rested. It takes me a few seconds to figure out where I am.

  I get out of bed and quickly pull back the curtains. A sprawling valley of modern low and midrise buildings gives way to a stunning view of a snowcapped mountain towering over the cityscape. Sunlight illuminates the white peak, making it look like an ancient beacon. It must be the Pichincha volcano. I remember from the guidebook that Quito is in the middle of a corridor of somewhat active volcanoes. None of them have erupted for a while, but I can feel the tension when I stare at the massive formation. Of course, I choose to live only a few miles away from the San Andreas Fault in San Diego, so I’m comfortable operating under the assumption the earth could swallow me or explode at any second.

  I notice a folder on the desk near the door and a perfectly arranged basket of fruit. I open the folder and scan the information. We are scheduled to have a welcome breakfast and faculty introduction at 8:00 a.m. I look at the clock on the nightstand. That gives me thirty minutes to shower and make myself beautiful.

  As I lather my scruff in shaving cream, I try to remember my journey from San Diego to Quito, but I seem to have a bit of a mental block. I suppose it doesn’t matter since I got here safely, but I do wish I could stop mindlessly humming Whitney Houston hits. After a quick shower, I put on some very wrinkled wrinkle-resistant pants and head out.

  The lobby of the hotel is a terraced atrium with tropical plants and water cascading from level to level. I see a sign for the Luxton Tours Welcome Breakfast on the La Alameda Terrace. I take the escalator up three flights and admire the view of the volcano ridge through the atrium. At the breakfast there is an impressive spread of sliced tropical fruit and an avalanche of breakfast breads. A few feet from the table, I spot Penny.

  “Hi, doll! You made it,” she says. “I’m so glad you’re here. Things have been crazy already, and we haven’t even been on the ground twenty-four hours. Mrs. Kimble brought her teenage daughter with her, who is insisting on her own room, Mr. Archer swears his wife is allergic to pineapple but not piña coladas, and the local guide is late because she broke both her thumbs.”

  “Sounds like you have your hands full already.”

  “Just a normal day in the life of a luxury tour operator. Once everyone arrives, I’m going to introduce all of the faculty who will be teaching the classes on the ship.”

  “Oh, there are others?”

  “Yes, you and…” Penny mumbles something.

  “What did you say, Penny?” I ask.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says, grabbing her earlobe. She only grabs her ear when she is trying to hide something.

  “Penny, what’s going on?” I ask, staring at her earlobe.

  “Well, Michael, we are going to one of the world’s most important wildlife sanctuaries, right?”

  “Yes…”

  “And what kind of tour operator would I be if we didn’t have a wildlife expert with us on the cruise?”

  “Yes, obviously you would have a wildlife expert…” It suddenly hits me with the force of an out-of-control Prius. “Penny! You didn’t!” A few of the passengers look up from their plates of papaya with concern. I try to cover with a big smile and a small laugh. Through clenched teeth, I quietly ask, “What did you do?”

  “Now remember,” she says, beaming a smile as bright and as false as mine, “if you kill me on foreign soil, you will be subject to their laws. Who even knows if you would get an attorney?”

  “Penny! Spit. It. Out.”

  She takes a short breath in. “I invited Benton to be the wildlife expert on the cruise and he said yes and promise you won’t kill me.” The words shoot out like bullets from a machine gun.

  “I promise nothing.”

  Chapter 5

  Benton. He’s here. It’s true.

  I scan the room and spot him clearly. He is standing with an older man and woman. I have a vague memory of seeing him in the Miami airport, but this is not some narcoleptic mirage. This is reality. This is Benton.

  He is chatting away without a care in the world. My heart is racing so fast I consider scanning the walls of the banquet room for a defibrillator. He is even more beautiful than he was a year ago when he left. That jawline is so defined you could use it as a ruler, and he has that perfect two-day scruff that creates a sharp contrast between his patrician features and his casual playfulness. I can’t hear him speaking, but I know once I hear that accent, I’ll melt a little inside. I have to prepare myself for that.

  Suddenly his head turns and he looks right at me from across the room. I’m frozen. Well, not exactly frozen because I suck in my gut and lower my chin so my cheekbones are more pronounced. He nods calmly to acknowledge my presence. I nod calmly to acknowledge his, hoping he can’t hear my heart pounding from the other side of the room. A waiter walks in front of him, and Benton disappears like the sun d
uring an afternoon eclipse.

  Penny grabs my arm. “Mike, doll, I’m sorry. I was in a bind. The original wildlife expert canceled, and I had just seen a picture of Benton and his friend at some wildlife park in the Cotswolds, so I sent him a message and, well, here he is.”

  I know Penny well enough to know when she is baiting me.

  “What do you mean friend?”

  “Some guy seems to be all over his Instagram. He seems British. Gay, I think. You know I can’t tell the difference. Handsome guy, blond, thick hair, and nice smile, like you. But younger. Much younger.”

  Benton is only two years older than I am, and we are both in our early thirties. How young could this guy be? Whatever. It’s none of my concern.

  “Benton has moved on. Well, good for him.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t need to.” I know Benton and the way the world just sort of opens up for him. I was never sure if it was just charisma or some manifestation of The Secret, but life never seemed to be a struggle for him. He had this happy, well-adjusted attitude that, at first, I found quite charming, but eventually it became infuriating. He never understood why I stressed about work or why I worried about getting a promotion. He believed good things were always waiting to happen. I believe that you brace yourself for the worst at all times and wait in the cellar until the tornado passes while eating expired cans of fruit cocktail.

  It doesn’t surprise me that Benton already has a new boyfriend. This is exactly why I stopped following him on all forms of social media.

  “Doll, don’t be mad at me. Please?” Penny asks and looks at me softly through her tinted contact lenses. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, and I know she loves me deeply. If she needed to reach out to Benton, she must not have had another option.

  “I will forego murder for today, but don’t stand too close to the railing when we get to the ship.”

  “Fine, but you know you are my only heir, so just remember you’ll always be the number-one suspect,” she says with a wink. “I have to get things going.”

  She walks to the front of the room and taps her water glass with a spoon. “Can I have your attention, please? Hello,” she says in a firm but gentle voice. The room of about forty people quiets, and everyone turns to face Penny.

  “I am so pleased to welcome you to our exciting South American Adventure. We are going to have so much fun! We have a lovely day planned for you in Quito before we fly to Santa Marta to set sail for the Galapagos. Today we will be touring the old town, the contemporary art museum, and visiting the site of the historical equator.”

  I look across the room, and my eyes accidentally fall on Benton, who seems to have been looking at me. For a second, not even a second, a half second, our eyes catch, and there is that spark, that magic that connected us so fiercely back in San Diego. I really better find a defibrillator soon. I quickly look away to break the spell, and when I look back, I give a friendly but somewhat cold smile. Benton returns the smile, which makes me think he is not as pissed at me as I am at him, but what does it matter? I wonder if he has brought his new boyfriend on the trip. Then I wonder how high the railing on the ship will be in case I have to jump off at any point or, alternately, push him off.

  Chapter 6

  Penny uses two luxury vans to shuttle us around Quito. I wait until I see Benton get on the first one, and then I race for the back seat of the second one. The level of maturity I am displaying is shockingly low. How long can I avoid talking to him? I feel protected sitting in the last row, cocooned in the cushioned leather seats and dark interior.

  “There’s no one on this one,” I hear from the doorway. Hooray. Maybe I have become invisible. Oh please, oh please. I peer over the seat.

  “Hurry up, Fred.” A woman with gray-streaked black hair, pink nails, and wearing a pink-and-orange floral-print top boards the bus.

  “I don’t see where the rush is. The equator isn’t going anywhere,” a man wearing a gray shirt and pants that match his beard says.

  They take the seats next to me in the back and introduce themselves.

  “I’m Rita, and this is Fred. Fred, say hello to the young man. He’s teaching the watercolor class when we get on the boat.”

  “I know,” he says dismissively. “I was at breakfast. Nice to meet you. I hope they are paying you well to spend time with all these old fuddy-duddies.”

  I can’t help a small laugh. Their contrast is peculiar, but it’s easy to tell they have been happily married for a long time.

  “Oh, Fred, stop that. We aren’t old duddy-fuddies or whatever you said. That one woman brought her teenage niece, and there is that gorgeous young man with the chiseled jawline and accent.”

  “Sweetheart, he’s part of the staff. The wildlife expert, I believe.”

  “Yes, I think so,” I say. Benton always makes an impression on people, even from afar.

  Rita says, “Well, then I guess Fred’s right. You are stuck with a bunch of duddy-fuddies.” She laughs hysterically at her own joke in a way that makes it impossible for me not to laugh with her.

  The motor coach fills up, and I panic every time the door opens that Benton will change buses. Our coach is going to the old town first and then the museum and park. The other coach will go in the opposite order so we don’t clog the streets. We all meet later at the historical equator to watch water go down the drain in the opposite direction as the US.

  Penny is on the other bus, so we have a local guide named Marta, a thirtysomething woman born and raised in Quito. Her knowledge of her hometown is extensive. On the ride over, she tells us the history of the landscape, the politics of the country, and the great pride Ecuadorians take in their culture. We bump and hiccup over the old cobblestone roads until we disembark on Chile Street, a few blocks from the old square.

  The old town is surrounded by mountains covered in a patchwork of rectangular ochre and mustard buildings that seem to go all the way up to the clouds. Being in front of something so beautiful makes me wish I had time to grab my paints, but I did remember to bring my pencils and a sketchpad. Maybe I will steal a few minutes away from the group to do a few sketches. It’s been a while.

  Marta takes us down the narrow street filled with stalls selling woven blankets and painted pottery. We walk through the old square, a large open space with the Iglesia y Monasterio de San Francisco taking up the length of one side. Construction on the massive structure began in 1534—a date so far back I can barely fathom it. In California buildings from the 1970s are considered historical. Two white towers over the basilica gleam in the sunlight.

  “We have about thirty minutes until the bus leaves for the next stop, and this time will be spent at leisure,” Marta says. I have quickly learned that “at leisure” in the tourism business means you are on your own. “The bus will pick us up in the exact location where it dropped us off on Chile Street, which is right on the corner of the square. Alla.” She points to the corner a few yards away.

  “Que te vaya bien,” she says, and most of my traveling companions follow her into the church for a tour of the interior.

  I take out my sketchpad and pencils, find a quiet shaded spot with a fantastic view of the marvelous structure, and begin to draw.

  Drawing has always been a calm, meditative experience for me. It’s a world in which I can immediately get lost. Lines and shadows appear when I examine my subject, and when I look down, I translate what I see onto the paper. For me it’s not about what happens on the paper; it’s about what I see and how I see it. Drawing is really just seeing with a pencil.

  I try to keep one eye on my watch so I’m not late getting back to the bus, but the ornamentation of the facade is so intricate that it’s hard to focus on anything else. I look down at my drawing and add some lines near one of the towers.

  This time when I look back up, I not only see the church but also Benton. He is with the other group, walking in my direction. I can’t avoid him forever. Any normal human w
ould simply walk over and shake his hand and ask how he is.

  I am not normal.

  I shove my sketchpad and pencils into my bag and run.

  I’m not ready to see him or talk to him. I’m really not ready to find out about his new boyfriend. My heart begins to beat faster, and I can feel sweat across my forehead. I speed-walk from my perch in the square to the first alley I can find. I don’t look back; I just keep going down the alley to the next street and follow the twisting and turning path until I’m actually running and out of breath.

  I’m in shape, but the altitude of Quito means the air is thinner, and the lack of oxygen is really getting to me. I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. When I do, I check the time and realize I have six minutes to get to the tour bus. Correction. I have six minutes to find the tour bus, because when I look around, I realize I have no idea where I am. The street is a mixture of local shops with colorful handicrafts, and each shop looks identical to me. The lack of oxygen seems to be affecting my body and my brain since I can’t figure out where I am.

  I go to the first person I can find, a woman in a wide skirt holding a small girl by the hand.

  “Perdon, Señora…” After two words I’ve used up about 50 percent of my Spanish vocabulary that does not involve food. I try to focus to remember where the coach parked. Then I remember Chile Street. The coach is on Chile Street, but how do I communicate the name?

  First I say the words slowly and loudly like the woman is headless. She looks at me like I’m headless. This isn’t working, and I have almost no time left. Penny will kill me if I miss the coach. I will kill me if I miss the coach and have to ride on the one with Benton.