An unlikely oil scion who would have made an excellent Muppet for reasons too numerous to mention, Marc has nearly completed eleven years of training to become a Jesuit priest. He is funny and irreverent; he swears and he smokes. He beats me by 0.7 seconds with every witty quip, but he's also the first person to hug and thank someone who shares a personal insight during evening reflection.
Marc chose a window seat directly behind me on the bus, where he sat for six days sharing a few personal reflections of his own, on everything from solar panels to sunflowers to acute motion sickness. "Press your fingers on the tendon in your wrist," I told him, "and look at the horizon." A diving guide named Octavio taught me that in Mexico. It doesn't work, but it gives you something to think about.
I was pressing my own wrist when we made the approach to Montserrat, a rising series of switchbacks that reminded me of a marble maze. In the back of the bus, Kendra inquired about the window hammer. In case of emergency, you tap it in a rectangle shape around the window and force the glass out. "Just use it on me," Marc moaned.
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