La búsqueda de la nueva

It sprawled out; a mosaic of pastures, eucalyptus forests, and ancient terraces. It was draped from every surrounding peak like avocado shag carpeting in the 1970’s. It was the tie-dye of mantis, celadon, and absinthe donned by the Jolly Green Giant at a Dead show. It was a salad bar sporting every shade from mizuna to lacinato kale. That February, green was the color of the season and Peru's Sacred Valley was wearing it with style.

Before descending from the grey, clouded skies that predominate Andean summer, the dusty sages of the southwestern US had been my only familiars in the green spectrum. The medley of myrtle, mint, and midori that unfolded below introduced me to the vast world lying between blue and yellow. Green sprouted from every conceivable cranny; bromeliads blossomed from telephone wires, serpentine vines crept up every structure, even local smiles were coca leaf tinged. Green clung to the summer air like moss; damp, soft, and earthly.

The first dew covered mornings and gulps of granny smith apple air had me hooked on the green dragon of Andean summer. The green tea hues had steeped into the mentality of the valley. Summer in Pisac seemed to pass at tortoise pace, slow and steady. Locals neither hustled nor bustled, but moved in an inchworm or caterpillar fashion. And no matter who, what, when, or where, there was always time to appreciate the cool, grassy green before fall harvest. It was easy living behind Pisco tinted lenses.

Returning to the unrooted, concrete grays of the western world from the verdant valley was jarring. Suddenly the stress, rush, and general unhappiness of my culture made sense: it was missing its daily dose of green. Though I’ve found ways to create more green in my life, nothing compares to soaking up Andean summers. After three trips down, I still haven’t gotten my chloro-fill.