From where I sit in Cochabamba, Bolivia, the air hums with the scent of citrus trees, a perfume wholly different from the crisp, cultivated fragrance of roses arriving in chilled bundles at The Loneleigh Petal. These roses, the ones exchanged in love and longing, the ones that find their way into trembling hands and quiet confessions, begin their journey on this continent but not here in Bolivia.
Their roots are in another stretch of the Andes, high in the mist-laden fields of Colombia and Ecuador, where the altitude coaxes them to grow tall and elegant, their petals unfurling in perfect symmetry. There, in lands shaped by volcanoes and kissed by equatorial sun, roses bloom not as fleeting wild things, but as meticulously tended treasures. Long, slender stems stretch toward the sky, while rich hues deepen with every cool Andean night.
It is strange for me to be closer to their origins than ever before, yet still distant. I have long known these roses not as they grow, but as they arrive: bundled in crisp paper, their fragrance unfolding slowly as they adjust to the warmth of my shop. They come to me already part of another story, a whisper carried on the breath of refrigerated cargo planes, from hands that trimmed and gathered them in the early morning hours to hands that package and ferry them across borders, across continents.
Before the 1970s, roses in the United States bloomed in local fields, in greenhouses in California and Florida, before the world shifted and petals found new pathways. Trade agreements opened doors, and South America became the heartbeat of the cut flower industry. Now, nearly 80% of the roses sold in the U.S. begin their journey in the highlands of Colombia and Ecuador, harvested before dawn, swiftly wrapped and sent through a delicate web of transport, where they travel, still half-asleep, toward the hands of those who will love them.
And yet, what is the cost of beauty so carefully constructed? The industry has provided livelihoods for thousands, but its roots tangle with concerns: fair wages, sustainability, and the heavy hand of pesticides. There is an ache beneath the bloom, a reminder that even the softest petals can carry weight. It is why certifications such as Rainforest Alliance and Fair Trade matter, ensuring that these flowers, in their long journey from one world to another, do not leave harm in their wake.
Back home, in my little shop, I used to wonder if those who bought roses knew just how far they had come. If, when they held them close, they could sense the mountains in their veins, the hands that guided them from soil to sky, the miles they traveled to bring love to a doorstep, a bedside table, a waiting embrace.
Even here, thousands of miles away from my shop, I still think of them: of the way their scent would linger in my shop long after the last bouquet had found a home, of the way their beauty was both fleeting and eternal. Roses do not belong to one place; they are wanderers, crossing borders as easily as love, as memory, as longing. And perhaps that is why they remain, always, a gift.