All of a sudden it seems like there’s been a long separation from me and the continent I am to revisit. Two and a half year-old memories of sensations, birthed from my experiences in South America, have continuously held on to my thoughts. A diesel truck rumbles by on the street in Portland, and the toxic fumes don’t spur coughs or clearing grunts; instead, the smell of its released ozone infuses itself into my memory, and draws me along the dirt roads of Ecuador. Our manicured city streets disintegrate from beneath my feet and a hard caked dirt and rock composite threads itself through the holes that slowly eat the phantom road away. Our city buses are replaced by the circus-like red, green, and white weather-faded colors of the skins of Ecuadorian autobuses. I trade in the twenty dollars in my pocket to secure a week's stay at a hostel with hot showers. The smile of remembrance affixes itself to the corners of my mouth, and a complacent euphoria fuels my desire to again follow the warm currents south.