My nose carried a sting inside it as I inhaled the early-morning Andean mountain air. It was as if the mountains themselves were saying to us, “you can stay and visit if you wish, but forget not that it’s only because we allow it.”

The town square held a handful of locals. A few early morning middle school lovers - the new kind of lovers- who couldn’t resist taking advantage of every spare second they shared together.

Some people ate their breakfast, some people contemplated their day, and some just took to the bountiful open space in the center of the winding side streets as a quick respite before they headed toward their daily obligations.

I passed a gigantic rectangular sign in front of the National police station, presented as a grid, each holding a wanted fugitive and their reward for capture. There was no way of me knowing who these people were, where they were from, or where they were now. But I felt grateful to not see my own image anxiously staring back at me.

I sat on a warming concrete bench, chewing coca leaves and watching the large stray dogs pass and play tag. My senses were consumed by car horns and foreign tongues, but I could only really think about the breakfast I could smell being cooked in the distance.

The altitude was enough to knock off my balance every time I stood up and lighten my head every time I turned a corner too quickly. But I welcomed it. It made me feel like I could drift away at any moment, just as easily as I drifted in.

This land of drifting wind.

Though we are this many miles from the sea, I wouldn’t stop to think twice if I saw a few natives hoisting a sail under this early morning, landlocked sun.

- Wanchaq District, Cusco, Peru. (Sept. 12, 2018)