That day, for no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run.
Forrest Gump
Morning.
Trees with wide, gnarled trunks and huge leaves stand guard over quiet streets bathed in sunlight. Somewhere below the street there are ripples of water: all the streets in this town go down to the river. When it rains, they turn into storm drains, turbulent river streams that rush from the top of the hill to the foot.
On this bright Sunday morning, a girl in a flowing white dress is running down the street towards the river. The veil that follows her looks like foam whipped up with water. She's running along the median and to her friends at the top of the hill it looks like she's accelerating on the runway.
- I'm next, I'm next, me, me! - they are arguing out of impatience.
If they had come across passers-by, they probably would not have failed to ask them about the purpose of the mischief, but on Sunday morning in not a single godforsaken Latin American town there are no passers-by. And there are so few cars on the roadway that if you were looking for a place in the world where you could run along the road on a Sunday morning, you could hardly find a point on the map more suitable for such entertainment.
