The Dona's

This morning at 6:15, my watch alarm woke me up. The morning was overcast, rainy, and a bit chilly. I sat up, stroked Maddie’s hair, who lay next to me in our large, but not quite large enough bed. I thumb through my running clothes that I diligently placed at the end of my bed, so there would be no excuse not to go. After a long pee, hit on my asthma inhaler, and quick teeth brushing, I’m out of the A/C and into the humidity. I’ve decided to wear a long sleeve t-shirt, which I realize a few minutes into my route, I probably should have chosen the short sleeve.

The rain is light and feels nice hitting my face. When I reach the main road of my route, there is a virtual sea of bikes and walkers, going to work or school, no doubt. Men with lawn cutters strapped to their backs, whole families migrating down the hill quickly whiz by me. No matter how many times I see this, I‘m still amazed at the site of four people on one bike. There are young kids in their school uniforms, secretarios or house maids, walking or riding bikes. Known by their stereotypical clothing of either Daisy-Duke shorts or short skirts and little tops, similar to sport bras, leaving a full mid-drift view.

Our “friends” shops are open, have been for an hour or so. The Sobrino Mercardo, Seo Beto the butcher, the “tire guy”(we don‘t know his name yet!), and the bakery. I wave to everyone and jog on down the hill, side stepping potholes and meat bones that have been discarded over night. There is a slow burning pile of trash that has been smoldering since the night before. This is one smell I will be glad to be rid of. Despite the city’s efforts to cut down on trash burning by having pick-up three times a week, people pile their daily trash up in a corner of their yard and burn it every night.

As I pass people, I can’t help but notice the many different types of faces. For me, its very difficult to discern where people are from. I saw a woman, light skinned, narrow nose, with light eyes, that I swore was American, or maybe German, but no, she was Brazilian. I know this because while running by I usually try to make eye contact and say “hello”, if there is no response this usually means they are local. The foot traffic I run pass are dark-skinned with dark hair, which should come as no surprise, but what was surprising to me is that once I run through the Horto, or Orchard gates, the skin tone becomes noticeable lighter. In the mornings, there are predominately middle-aged women, who I call, “The Dona’s”. I call them this because I assume they are married to wealthy men and have secretarios at home cleaning and getting lunch ready.

Finishing up a mile at the Horto, I break before running the last mile, which is all uphill. I start doing my bicep & tricep pushes, and I see The Dona’s come striding by in their lycra one-piececolor- coordinated outfits, we stare at each other. I’m noticing how light their skin color is compared to the group of day laborers behind them, and they, perhaps, are noticing my skin color, unmistakably foreign. Or maybe they are just critiquing my decisively unattractive tattered surfer shorts, wife-beater T-shirt and baseball hat.