K – “And do you miss New York ?”
H – “Do I…I miss New York like a blind man misses his eyes.”
This dialogue, part of a longer conversation, happened two days ago in Tela , Honduras , between Kelly and Harold.
Kelly is a Korean-American from Los Angeles who is in Honduras as a volunteer, helping Honduran children with their English. Kelly is 25 and she is my girlfriend.
Harold – Harry – is a middle-aged Honduran-American who, although born in Honduras, spent most of his life in New York City . He returned to Honduras when his parents passed away and left him a house. However, he is a New Yorker.
He runs a small eco tourism office, organizing tours from Tela to Punta Sal , a national park located on a narrow strip of land projecting from the coast into the Caribbean Sea. Kelly and I were discussing the details of the tour when the conversation drifted. As soon as he realized that she was from the US, when asking our nationalities, he dropped his shaky Spanish and returned to his vernacular. “I’m a New Yorker” – he proudly said. “Lived there all my life.”
The feeling of relief exuding from each and every one of Harry’s pores when talking to us as a “New Yorker”, and not as a Honduran middle-aged clerk, was overwhelming. He briefly took us on a tour through his world: to his previous life in all the “Five Boroughs.” It must have felt as an eternity for him. Remembering the streets where he grew up. Their smell and the smell of the women he fell in love with. The bars where he and his friends learned how to be men. And the many dark corners where piss and vomit find their place in the universe.
The whole time, Harry was rubbing the large scar on his right cheek, totally zoned out. Forget about eco tours to marvelous white sand beaches. Forget about snorkeling and colorful fish. Forget about tropical rarities. Just “Fogg-it about it.”
Kelly and I decided to buy the tour. We signed the contracts, paid, and left. Harry on the door hailed at us heading back to our hotel. “See you tomorrow guys, and be on time! Pleasure talking to you.”
While I was on the tiny skiff – cruising fast towards the jungle as if it were cutting the Caribbean Sea in half – I thought about Harry and his story. I struggled a bit with what he said. I’m still not sure if talking to us had been a real pleasure for him in the end.