Nublada

Today was the first cloudy day since I’ve been to Santiago. As the sun began to set I climbed into the car with my host family to go to dinner with their extended family. A light drizzle was falling intermittently. The streetlights came on and cast a dull yellow glow through the trees.

The rain had washed the sky clear, and looking behind me I could see a rainbow in the east arcing its way up from the base of the mountains until it slowly faded into the dark clouds above. It was as if a valve had burst, sending color steaming and gushing from the very heart of the Andes. The snow-dusted peaks showed their ridges and valleys in silhouettes to the setting sun orange in the west. Above the city the clouds lit from gray to fire and crashed like silent waves across the darkened faces of the skyscrapers, billboards and trees. The heavens thrust themselves upon the skyline demanding to be seen, demanding hyperbole, demanding awe. “We are here!” cried the clouds as they came pouring over the towering granite of the cordillera. “Aqui somos!” Splayed out like sheet lightning frozen purple and golden, the sky glowed silent and dignified until it finally faded to rainy black. The next morning there was snow on the mountaintops.