Spanish Stories

    B1Challenging · 7 min read · 731 words

    El viaje pendiente

    The Trip I Kept Putting Off

    A retired teacher in Peru finally takes the trip to the Sacred Valley she postponed for thirty years, and has to decide, alone for the first time in her life, what to do with her late mother's house.

    Topics

    • self-discovery
    • travel
    • grief
    • family decisions

    Tap or hover any underlined word for its English meaning.

    Listen to the story

    Learner-paced · Spanish

    What you'll encounter

    Grammar
    Interwoven past narration (preterite, imperfect, pluperfect), Pluperfect subjunctive in emotional reflection (sin que yo nunca se lo hubiera contado), Conditional for past assumptions (sería solo esa vez, sería lo más práctico), Present subjunctive after wishes (quiero que la escuches)
    Vocabulary
    Travel and altitude (terrazas incas, té de coca), Emotional and reflective language (algún día, de pocas palabras), Family decisions and inheritance (herencia, deshacerse de algo)
    Language skills
    Following a first-person narrative that moves between past and present, Understanding a decision that unfolds gradually rather than all at once, Recognizing how a stranger's comment can reframe a personal memory

    El autobús subía despacio por la carretera que lleva al Valle Sagrado, y yo iba , como una niña, mirando montañas que nunca antes había visto de cerca. Tenía sesenta y tres años y era la primera vez en mi vida que viajaba sola. Ya sé que suena exagerado dicho así, pero es la verdad.

    Show English
    The bus climbed slowly up the road that leads to the Sacred Valley, and I rode with my forehead pressed to the window, like a child, looking at mountains I had never seen up close before. I was sixty-three years old, and it was the first time in my life I had ever traveled alone. I know that sounds dramatic, put that way, but it's true.

    Hace casi treinta años, mi amiga Gladys me invitó a Cusco. Yo tenía treinta y cuatro y mi madre acababa de empezar con los primeros problemas de memoria. «Ve tú, Elvira, yo me quedo», le dije, convencida de que sería solo esa vez. No fue solo esa vez. Gladys me invitó otra vez cinco años después, y luego otra, y cada vez yo encontraba una razón nueva: un tratamiento, una operación, un mal invierno. Con los años, dejé de necesitar excusas. Simplemente decía «algún día» y todos entendíamos que ese día no iba a llegar pronto.

    Show English
    Almost thirty years ago, my friend Gladys invited me to Cusco. I was thirty-four, and my mother had just started showing the first signs of memory problems. "You go, Elvira, I'll stay," I told her, convinced it would only be that once. It wasn't only that once. Gladys invited me again five years later, and then again, and each time I found a new reason: a treatment, a surgery, a bad winter. As the years passed, I stopped needing excuses. I simply said "someday," and we all understood that day wasn't coming anytime soon.

    Mi madre murió hace poco más de un año, después de una larga enfermedad que cuidé casi sola, primero como profesora e hija a la vez, después ya jubilada, dedicada por completo a ella. Cuando murió, sentí, además de la tristeza, algo que me costó mucho admitir: una especie de espacio enorme y silencioso donde antes había horarios, medicinas y turnos de noche.

    Show English
    My mother died a little over a year ago, after a long illness I cared for almost entirely alone, first as a teacher and a daughter at the same time, and later, once retired, completely devoted to her. When she died, I felt, beyond the sadness, something I had a hard time admitting: a kind of huge, silent space where there used to be schedules, medications, and night shifts.

    Llegué a Ollantaytambo al atardecer y me hospedé en una casa pequeña que alquilaba habitaciones, con un patio lleno de macetas de geranios. Wilber, el dueño, un hombre y manos ásperas de tanto trabajar la tierra, me preguntó si viajaba con mi familia. «No», le dije, «viajo sola.» Él asintió, como si eso no necesitara ninguna explicación, y me sirvió un que todavía no sabía si me iba a gustar.

    Show English
    I arrived in Ollantaytambo at dusk and checked into a small guesthouse with a patio full of geranium pots. Wilber, the owner, a man of few words with hands roughened from working the land, asked if I was traveling with family. "No," I told him, "I'm traveling alone." He nodded, as if that didn't need any explanation, and served me a coca tea I still wasn't sure I was going to like.

    Al día siguiente subimos juntos hasta las que dominan el pueblo. A media subida, tuve que parar a respirar, más por la altura que por el esfuerzo, y Wilber esperó sin decir nada, mirando el valle. «Mi mamá siempre quiso venir aquí», le confesé, sin saber muy bien por qué se lo contaba a un desconocido. «Nunca pudimos.» Wilber se quedó callado un momento. «Ahora está usted», dijo finalmente. «Eso también cuenta.»

    Show English
    The next day we climbed together up to the Inca terraces that overlook the town. Halfway up, I had to stop to catch my breath, more from the altitude than the effort, and Wilber waited without saying anything, looking out at the valley. "My mother always wanted to come here," I confessed, not entirely sure why I was telling a stranger this. "We never could." Wilber was quiet for a moment. "Now you're here," he finally said. "That counts too."

    No sé si fue la frase, o la altura, o el cansancio acumulado de tantos años, pero me senté en un escalón de piedra y lloré como no lo había hecho ni en el funeral. Lloré por mi madre, por Gladys y sus invitaciones olvidadas, y también, no puedo negarlo, un poco por mí misma y por todos los «algún día» que se me habían ido acumulando como polvo.

    Show English
    I don't know if it was the sentence, or the altitude, or the accumulated exhaustion of so many years, but I sat down on a stone step and cried like I hadn't even cried at the funeral. I cried for my mother, for Gladys and her forgotten invitations, and also, I can't deny it, a little for myself and for all the "somedays" that had piled up on me like dust.

    Esa noche me llamó mi hermana Norma desde Arequipa. Quería saber qué había decidido sobre la casa de nuestra madre. Un sobrino se había ofrecido a comprarla, y Norma insistía en que venderla sería lo más práctico: una casa vacía, decía, solo trae gastos y problemas. Le pedí unos días más para pensarlo, aunque en realidad no sabía si necesitaba tiempo o si simplemente no quería decidir nada estando tan lejos de todo lo conocido.

    Show English
    That night my sister Norma called from Arequipa. She wanted to know what I'd decided about our mother's house. A nephew had offered to buy it, and Norma insisted that selling it as soon as possible would be the most practical thing: an empty house, she said, only brings expenses and trouble. I asked her for a few more days to think it over, though I honestly didn't know whether I needed time or simply didn't want to decide anything while so far from everything familiar.

    Me quedé cuatro días en Ollantaytambo, y cada mañana desayunaba en el mismo patio, entre las macetas de geranios, viendo a Wilber ir y venir entre sus huéspedes con la misma calma de siempre. La última tarde, mientras le pagaba la cuenta, le pregunté cómo había empezado con la casa de huéspedes. «Era la casa de mis padres», me dijo. «Cuando ellos murieron, mis hermanos querían venderla. Yo preferí quedarme y hacer algo nuevo con ella.»

    Show English
    I stayed four days in Ollantaytambo, and every morning I had breakfast on the same patio, among the geranium pots, watching Wilber come and go among his guests with the same steady calm as always. On the last afternoon, while I was paying my bill, I asked him how he'd started the guesthouse. "It was my parents' house," he told me. "When they died, my siblings wanted to sell it. I chose to stay and do something new with it instead."

    Esa frase se me quedó todo el camino de regreso a Arequipa. Miré por la ventanilla del autobús las mismas montañas, ahora alejándose, y pensé en la casa de mi madre, en sus habitaciones vacías, en el patio donde ella sembraba geranios idénticos a los de Wilber, sin que yo nunca se lo hubiera contado a nadie.

    Show English
    That sentence kept nagging at me the whole way back to Arequipa. I looked out the bus window at the same mountains, now growing distant, and thought about my mother's house, its empty rooms, the patio where she used to grow geraniums identical to Wilber's, without my ever having told anyone that.

    Al llegar, antes incluso de deshacer la maleta, le escribí un mensaje a Norma: «No vendas la casa todavía. Tengo una idea, y quiero que la escuches antes de decidir nada.» No sabía exactamente qué le iba a proponer, algo entre un pequeño hospedaje y un lugar donde las dos, quizás, dejáramos por fin de decir «algún día».

    Show English
    When I arrived, before I'd even unpacked my suitcase, I wrote a message to Norma: "Don't sell the house yet. I have an idea, and I want you to hear it before we decide anything." I didn't know exactly what I was going to propose, something between a small guesthouse and a place where the two of us might, finally, stop saying "someday."
    Show English translation

    The bus climbed slowly up the road that leads to the Sacred Valley, and I rode with my forehead pressed to the window, like a child, looking at mountains I had never seen up close before. I was sixty-three years old, and it was the first time in my life I had ever traveled alone. I know that sounds dramatic, put that way, but it's true.

    Almost thirty years ago, my friend Gladys invited me to Cusco. I was thirty-four, and my mother had just started showing the first signs of memory problems. "You go, Elvira, I'll stay," I told her, convinced it would only be that once. It wasn't only that once. Gladys invited me again five years later, and then again, and each time I found a new reason: a treatment, a surgery, a bad winter. As the years passed, I stopped needing excuses. I simply said "someday," and we all understood that day wasn't coming anytime soon.

    My mother died a little over a year ago, after a long illness I cared for almost entirely alone, first as a teacher and a daughter at the same time, and later, once retired, completely devoted to her. When she died, I felt, beyond the sadness, something I had a hard time admitting: a kind of huge, silent space where there used to be schedules, medications, and night shifts.

    I arrived in Ollantaytambo at dusk and checked into a small guesthouse with a patio full of geranium pots. Wilber, the owner, a man of few words with hands roughened from working the land, asked if I was traveling with family. "No," I told him, "I'm traveling alone." He nodded, as if that didn't need any explanation, and served me a coca tea I still wasn't sure I was going to like.

    The next day we climbed together up to the Inca terraces that overlook the town. Halfway up, I had to stop to catch my breath, more from the altitude than the effort, and Wilber waited without saying anything, looking out at the valley. "My mother always wanted to come here," I confessed, not entirely sure why I was telling a stranger this. "We never could." Wilber was quiet for a moment. "Now you're here," he finally said. "That counts too."

    I don't know if it was the sentence, or the altitude, or the accumulated exhaustion of so many years, but I sat down on a stone step and cried like I hadn't even cried at the funeral. I cried for my mother, for Gladys and her forgotten invitations, and also, I can't deny it, a little for myself and for all the "somedays" that had piled up on me like dust.

    That night my sister Norma called from Arequipa. She wanted to know what I'd decided about our mother's house. A nephew had offered to buy it, and Norma insisted that selling it as soon as possible would be the most practical thing: an empty house, she said, only brings expenses and trouble. I asked her for a few more days to think it over, though I honestly didn't know whether I needed time or simply didn't want to decide anything while so far from everything familiar.

    I stayed four days in Ollantaytambo, and every morning I had breakfast on the same patio, among the geranium pots, watching Wilber come and go among his guests with the same steady calm as always. On the last afternoon, while I was paying my bill, I asked him how he'd started the guesthouse. "It was my parents' house," he told me. "When they died, my siblings wanted to sell it. I chose to stay and do something new with it instead."

    That sentence kept nagging at me the whole way back to Arequipa. I looked out the bus window at the same mountains, now growing distant, and thought about my mother's house, its empty rooms, the patio where she used to grow geraniums identical to Wilber's, without my ever having told anyone that.

    When I arrived, before I'd even unpacked my suitcase, I wrote a message to Norma: "Don't sell the house yet. I have an idea, and I want you to hear it before we decide anything." I didn't know exactly what I was going to propose, something between a small guesthouse and a place where the two of us might, finally, stop saying "someday."

    Vocabulary in this story

    con la frente pegada a la ventana
    with my forehead pressed against the window
    de pocas palabras
    a man of few words
    té de coca
    coca leaf tea, commonly offered to travelers to ease altitude sickness
    terrazas incas
    Inca agricultural terraces
    cuanto antes
    as soon as possible
    rondando la cabeza
    nagging at my mind, running through my head
    Comprensión(check what you understood)

    Answer a few quick questions about the story. This is just for you: there's no account or score saved.

    1. ¿Por qué es este el primer viaje que Elvira hace completamente sola en su vida?
    2. ¿Qué pasó la primera vez que Gladys invitó a Elvira a Cusco, hace treinta años?
    3. ¿Por qué llora Elvira en las terrazas incas después de que Wilber le dice «ahora está usted»?
    4. ¿Qué quiere hacer Norma con la casa de la madre, y qué le pide Elvira a cambio?
    5. ¿Qué le inspira a Elvira la historia de Wilber sobre la casa de sus padres?