Chapter 23
Simón waits for me at the entrance to the cableway that will take us to the highest point in the city: El ávila.
When I join him after buying the tickets, he smiles and says, “There is a cableway in Bogotá too. It takes us to Monserrate. My sister, Montserrat, is named after it.”
“Why?” I ask him as we follow the line to our cable car.
“It’s where our parents met,” he says.
The line moves fast. People don’t usually go up around this time. It’s almost five and the cableway only takes people up until six but brings people back down until ten.
“Who are you named after?” I ask, just to keep the conversation going.
I try not to check what time it is again.
My mission is subject to the trajectory of the sun.
As soon as we make it up there, we’ll have to start the walk up to Hotel Humboldt.
The journey up the mountain takes approximately fifteen minutes, the walk would be another ten.
“My father,” he answers. “His name is Andrés Simón.”
I stop walking and appraise him. “You’re kidding.”
Simón chuckles, shaking his head. “I wish. I’m afraid creativity in my family started with my sister and me.”
The gondola operator ahead does a quick head count and motions eight of us forward, guiding us to cram into a cable car.
Simón gestures for me to go first, then settles into the seat beside me.
Our shoulders, thighs, and legs gently press together.
The proximity makes every thought in my head dissolve.
When he says, “They weren’t very creative,” it takes me about ten seconds to remember what we were talking about.
I force out a laugh. I scan the group of people sharing this experience with us and quickly realize we’re the only two who are not a couple.
The rest of them are either holding hands or touching in a way that suggests they’re very comfortable with each other.
The couple directly across from us share a quick peck and a grin.
“The landscape is beautiful,” I tell Simón, and immediately want to kick myself. He turns to me. I remain facing forward. If I faced him, our noses would touch.
“I believe you,” he says, his voice a low rumble, meant only for my ears.
As we start moving up the mountain and away from the city, the buildings look tiny, like pieces of a puzzle that fit perfectly into the landscape.
The vegetation surrounding the mountain seems to whisper old stories, and the sea of houses and streets stretches as far as the eye can see, framed by the blue sky and the clouds that seem so close I can touch them.
Going up El ávila is something every person visiting Caracas for the first time needs to do.
If I can’t give Simón a full tour of the city, then I have to make sure he doesn’t leave without seeing this.
If all he does after today is shuffle between the studio and his hotel and never sees anything else, then his visit would still be worth it.
I wish I could take him to other places too—a hike to the top instead of taking the cableway, showing him the wildflowers and the animals, having him drink water directly from a stream, but there isn’t enough time.
If I had my way, I would take him to every park, every restaurant, every museum.
I would take him to watch a musical at the Teresa Carreno Theater, to art shows, book fairs, film festivals.
Caracas is a city brimming with art and culture, with brave people willing to experience it all.
It’s also dangerous and unpredictable, the way all big cities are.
At the top, we get off the cable car and the first thing I notice is how many people are still up here.
The song “tranqui, te puedes enamorar” by Alleh and Yorghaki is playing somewhere in the distance.
Colorful lights dance over the ice rink as families and couples skate.
Smoke floats from different food vendors and the smell of grilled food coats the crisp mountain air.
We step into the cold. Today, the clouds are low, dressing everything in a thin white cloak. A giant Venezuelan flag waves in the wind, making a slapping sound. I inhale deeply.
“Hot chocolate?” I offer.
Simón nods. “I would love that.” When he speaks, fog comes out of his mouth. His cheeks are rosy, like the mountain spirits kissed him.
I check to make sure we’re good on time, get two cups of hot chocolate, and begin the trek uphill along the paved path.
Simón takes small sips from his cup, scanning our surroundings.
His eyes get lost on the tall trees growing at each side of the path, the birds perched on the branches, the children squealing and running while blowing soap bubbles at one another.
Then his attention jumps to a group of people laughing while sharing a cachapa con queso on a bench.
“People come up here to be happy,” I tell him.
His gaze shifts to me. “Hm?”
“We come up here to be happy,” I repeat. “Whenever I feel like I need to touch grass, this is where I come. It’s always here when I need it.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says. “I like that you have somewhere you can go.”
I take a little sip of my chocolate. “Where do you go when you need a refresh? What is your safe haven?”
“I don’t have a place I go to,” he says.
“I’m not always home. Sometimes I’m in a city I’ve never been to before, sometimes I’m in a city I don’t particularly like.
I think I have people.” He pauses, flattening his cup before throwing it in the nearest trash can.
“Yeah, I have people I go to when I need to feel better. My friends, my sister. You.”
You.
Heat creeps up my cheeks despite the cold. “I don’t think I’ve done a good job of that.”
Simón smirks. “No, trust me. You help.”
Finally, after a few minutes of ascent, we reach the hotel. Just in time.
“We’re here,” I tell him.
As the sun begins its slow descent, the sky transforms into a palette of colors that looks like something out of a dream.
I lead Simón to a wooden bench, the cool breeze caressing my face and the soft murmur of the leaves accompanying the silence.
The city of Caracas stretches out at our feet, its buildings and streets engulfed in a golden light that seems to merge with the flaming sky.
In the distance, the clouds are tinged with shades of pink and orange, as if the sky itself is burning in a final act of beauty before nightfall. My heart relaxes. The view is so breathtaking it seems as if the world has stopped just for us to experience this magic.
In the silence, our gazes meet. Here, in this corner of the world, there is only us. The sun bathing every surface it can touch also falls upon us. Simón is transformed into a creature made of gold. My brain replays his voice and that one word, you.
Simón’s hand finds mine before he shifts his attention back to the sunset falling over the city. “Gracias.”
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his hand in mine.
There are people around us taking pictures, talking, basking in the moment the same way we are, but somehow all that feels like another world entirely.
In this moment, I feel lighter than I’ve felt in weeks.
And it occurs to me it’s not just the power this mountain always has on me, but who I’m sharing it with.
“Simón?” I venture, my voice so small to my own ears I fear he might not have heard it. But he does.
“Mm?” His Adam’s apple bobs with the sound.
The tips of his eyelashes shine gold, as does his brown hair, tousled by the wind.
From this close, he doesn’t look like someone I would just recognize on the street.
He looks like someone I could trust—a warm face and kind eyes lost on the horizon in wonder. A friend.
“You help too,” I confess.