Ambiente in the Hudson Air

written by Ashley Stickney

Stepping off the plane once again, into a country she barely knows. Their last visit was where the streets were cold, and the people of this city were hiding indoors. Now the streets are smoldering and full of life, feeling more like the Dominican Republic, their home, el calor pero no el ambiente. They wait for her sister to pick them up at Logan International, it had been two years since she has seen her sister and her nieces and nephew. Living in another country made it hard to see them as often as she wanted. There was always a physical distance, but never an emotional one. With the heat she thought back to moments with her sister, playing on the street and spending time at the beach, hot always hot, the only memory she could feel in the Boston sun. 

“Is she here yet”, the sound of her daughter’s voice and a timbre snapped her back to reality, the call came through WhatsApp, which was not her sister as expected but her niece. Hola mija, the way she always answered calls from her children, soon her sister’s car was visible, and her own daughter screamed with excitement, but it was the voice on the other end of the line who stepped out of the car. With this excitement the call was abruptly ended, hugs were exchanged, hugs filled with tears of sadness and joy. 

Since they were born, she thought of her nieces and her nephew like her own children, missing them but keeping up with their lives as if she was right alongside them. She held onto everything, clothes, pictures, anything her sister would send. Even though she wasn’t present physically for those memories, she held on to them. Now she looked forward to creating new ones, but still holding onto the distant ones that were hard to grasp. - Cion tia, brought back again to the present, - quiero eseñarte algo, I want to show you something said her niece. 

They pulled up to downtown Hudson, the town her sister and niece now called home, busy with cars and the sweet and savory scent of coal. The engine abruptly went silent, ay que calor, she thought as the cool air cut with the turn of the keys. They walked Main Street, her niece pointed out the local shops rich in antiquities and bursting with color and creativity. It was all overwhelming, nothing like her hometown. When the smell in the air quickly shifted from coal to the aroma of freshly baked bread, she felt a small piece of home with her. She could smell the bakery she would walk past on her way to work; she could picture la gente walking up and down her streets. With a tap on the shoulder, her niece pointed out that their destination was just across the way. 

They stepped through the doors, ¡que bella!, the shop was lit like Christmas and smelled like it too, with lights hung from the ceiling with care and the sweet smell of what reminded her of pan dulce, but all she could see cooking were ice cream cones unlike she had ever seen. Her niece escorted them to a large, green, school-like chalkboard, with some familiar words like “cookie” or “chocolate” and images that were all their own. She looked around and saw the shining surfaces, behind which people were smiling and laughing, making this unfamiliar space feel warm. Her niece explained what the board was trying to teach her, the treats she would be able to try. She tasted her sister’s favorite, cookies n’ cream, que rico, salted oreo, mmm…interesante, but in the end she went with vanilla. 

The three walked to a table to take their seats, mira, look, the little one said. They turned and watched the plume of what looked like smoke rise from behind the crystal window. They had seen this before on cooking shows but never in person. The hypnotic process, from which their treats were born out of, had stopped them from even tasting what was in their bowls. ¿Todo lo hacen aqui?, she asked in disbelief to her niece, how could they possibly make all those flavors there? – Si todo, everything, her niece replied, who went on to explain the process. During this explanation she finally took her first bite. 

There she was walking in her pueblo with her siblings after a trip to Tia Ruby’s house, a woman who used to make homemade helado. She would make it from fresh vanilla beans and with milk from the cows she had grazing in the backyard, something common in el campo. She could feel the heat of the tropics but with each bite she would feel el ritmo of her isla, the rhythm, love and community of her island. She was running in the streets, trying to bring her mother a taste before it melted laughing along the way. In the smooth and delicious folds of that confection she could really feel it, el ambiente. 

But she was sitting there, in an American ice cream shop, seemingly far from home, tasting the helado from Tia Ruby’s. A tear fell from her eyes, - que te pasa, what’s wrong? - asked her niece. Nada mija, nothing my daughter, she said wiping the tears from her eyes, tiene el sabor de mi niñez, it tastes like my childhood, she said trying not to let more tears flow. That memory, one she had thought was forgotten, brought back on a trip to create new ones. With a single bite, an irretrievable sensation was hers again, el ambiente de la Republica Dominicana was in the Hudson air and memories were in the ice cream. 

Spanish to English

Ambiente – atmosphere

el calor pero no el ambiente – the heat but not the atmosphere

Hola mija – hello daughter

Cion tia – short for “bendicion tia”, sign of respect; literally meaning “blessed aunt” 

Que rico – how delicious

Interesante – interesting

Helado – ice cream

El ritmo – the rhythm 

Isla – island