I'm in Love

December 1, 2014

I am overwhelmed with gratitude to the people of Ecuador. They are so kind and gracious with my slowly-progressing Spanish. Without their help, I might still be wandering the streets of Quito, or at least a lot poorer from using my money to find a cab instead of taking the common transportation--a bus. Yesterday, on our way back from Banos, Caley, Emily and I had to take the Trole bus--also known as the "sardine can" bus, for good reason--from Quitumbe bus terminal to 6 de Diciembre, about a half hour's ride to the north. We weren't even sure if we'd boarded the correct bus, or how long we were supposed to stay on the bus. With our patchwork Spanish, all we'd been able to extract from the information booth was a map with all three bus lines marked in red, green and blue. The problem was, all three lines intersected with each other, and we weren't sure if we had to get on a different bus or stay on the present rocking, plunging beast. My arms ached terribly from holding on to the rail above; and from having my body jerked to a stop and hauled in the opposite direction every time we made a stop or started moving again. 

To clarify our present location, I asked one of the gentlemen who had just hopped on, "Cual estacion este?" ("Which stop/station is this?"). He stated the name, and when we pulled out our our map to confirm this new information, he pointed to the stop and explained that we were on the first of three buses on that line. Each of the buses run a third of the total route to the end destination, some tens of kilometers to the north. This is to consolidate space on the road and time in-between buses. He continued saying that he would show us which stop to disembark at so that we could catch the next bus. It took some repetition on his part accompanied by pointing and gestures and broken Spanish phrases on our part, but we finally understood. We were exhausted after a busy weekend of travel; my brain was beginning to feel like a saturated sponge--no room for extra comprehension or translation ability. However, it felt good to understand and be understood.

He showed us where and when to get off, and after explaining this, he wished us well and exited at his stop. We were incredibly grateful. Without his kindness, who knows how long it would've taken us to find our way and realize we had to change buses in order to reach our final destination. As it was, it was almost dark by the time we arrived at our stop. When I finally made it home, I was surprised at my own sigh of contentment and relief in recognition of the Quitenan street names. That's when understanding slowly descended upon me: Quito is beginning to feel like home. 

I love the way the city starts to shimmer as lights turn on at dusk, illuminating the night as the last rosy remnants of the sunset slip behind the westerly Pichincha mountains. There's somehow a mysterious, yet soft, cozy feeling to the city, which is magnified and made sweeter by gentle rains that wash away the filth of the streets and the smog in the air, and leave the city clean and the air clear. When my taxi driver inquired about my stay in Ecuador, my words tumbled over each other in my haste to enunciate my sentiments. I gushed about my affinity for Quito and all of the other places I've visited in Ecuador. Each day when I arise, I sigh in satisfaction at the sight that greets my eyes--morning mist obscures the rising sun; hulking, dark mountains tear the sky with their jagged peaks, protecting the dwellings that nestle in their rocky folds below;

the birds never cease their uplifting melodies amidst the clamor of an awakening city. I am filled with an immeasurable sense of gratitude that I have been so blessed as to call this place "home" for the past month and a half. As I was raised in the countryside, I never imagined I could develop such a strong emotional attachment to a city like I have developed for Quito. I can no longer deny it: I'm in love. With Quito. 

"Banos" Means "Bathrooms", But It's Also the Name of a Beautiful Place....

November 29th, 2014

"Woah!" I whispered excitedly to Emily--"did you see that!?" She and I crouched down on the well-beaten, damp jungle path, cameras aimed and ready. "Yes!" she breathed, then carefully raised her camera to snap some pictures. We could barely see it through the dense foliage, but the unmistakable flash of orange we'd glimpsed hurtling toward the trees was slightly visible through the jungle overgrowth. "What even is that?" Emily inquired, as she expertly tilted her camera so as to capture the best possible angle. "It looked like some sort of giant parakeet or breed of parrot. How awesome is that?!" I enthused. "Super cool," she agreed. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before our bird friend was startled by the sound of another person's footsteps on the path and darted away in a flurry of orange and black wings, just as suddenly as it had appeared. "Dangit," Emily muttered, flipping through her photos, "This is the best one I got." She showed me a picture of the bird's bright orange wings--its head, sadly, was blocked by a giant, green leaf. "Oh well," she sighed, "that was still really cool!" And it was. It was one of the most exciting natural encounters we've had so far this weekend.

Of all the jungle treks I've had the opportunity to be a part of, you'd think that by now I'd have seen plenty of wildlife besides bugs and flies, but alas--no such luck. Then again, we've mostly visited popular tourist destinations, which are sadly devoid of much wildlife. Thus, we were thrilled to have seen a parrot(?) in its natural habitat. A rare sighting. We were on our way back from visiting Pailon del Diablo, one of the most awe-inspiring, powerful, roaring, twisting, foaming giants of nature I've ever set my eyes on. It rightly gets its name, "Devil's Pot", from the churning, violent depths carved into the rocks all around it at the bottom of the waterfall's surge. The pressure is so high at the base of the waterfall that any attempts to swim across or dive down would be met with a painful, crushing death.

 I can hardly describe the awesome, powerful beauty that surrounded us as we marched down, down, down to the base of the waterfall. Though paths have been cut through the rainforest, paths that thousands of tourists' feet have worn down even further, the jungle has such a wild, mysterious, untamed feeling about it. As if no hands of man could ever truly subdue that power of life that is the heartbeat and breath of the jungle. All around us, mountains rose upward, piercing the clouds above. I half expected King Kong to crash over the nearest peak, tearing through the underbrush and destroying everything in his wake. Obviously, this didn't happen, but it definitely seemed like it could happen. Anything seems possible here in the jungle, because everything is so exotic, so fresh, so LARGE. It's the kind of beauty that prompts one to wonder aloud how the new heavens and the new earth will ever surpass this because it's so incredible. It's the kind of place that takes one's breath away, not just because of the steep climb at a high altitude, but because it's so pure, so pristine, so untarnished. It's the kind of place that evokes joyous songs of praise and whoops of exultation because of the inescapable feeling of freedom that accompanies viewing this landscape. And there's a sense of danger as well--Volcan Tungurahua sleeps just above, an ironic protector of the busy town below. It erupted only a couple of months ago; inhabitants of Banos fled to nearby villages built on higher ground, expressly for the purpose of sheltering them from the lava flow and cascading rocks.

I sighed, content with the view. "Are you ready to go yet?" Emily's voice broke through my daydreams of King Kong and burning lava. "No," I admitted, "Let's stay here a little while longer. I want to soak it all in." Soak it in I did. We were definitely damp with waterfall mist and rain by the time we began the return journey.

But these feelings of exhilaration are just the beginning of our adventure. Tomorrow, we visit Casa del Arbol and the "Swing off the Edge of the World", and plan on enjoying a colorful parade in celebration of the annual "Viva Banos" Festival. I smiled. I was ready to go, ready to move on, ready to greet the next experience with arms splayed to embrace the wind and a grin as wide as the world I'm able to live in and experience and love more fully than ever before...."Alright, Emily," I whooped, "Let's go!"

Coffee Shop Musings

November 26th, 2014

I'm the only one here who is here alone. I sit in the back corner of the quaint, well-lit Corfu, my favorite bakery/coffee shop here in Ecuador. As I sip on my latte, I'm confronted with the truth: In the United States, what I'm doing is perfectly normal--sitting in a coffee shop on my own. But here, it's not normal. People come to coffee shops to be with other people, not to sit alone. I guess that makes sense. In a highly individualistic country such as the United States, obviously it would be normal to see people sitting around in coffee shops with only their coffee, food, and technological devices to keep them company. Clearly, I still see people spending time with other people in coffee shops in the States, but there it's just as common to see people alone. I'm not saying that everyone here appears in cafes accompanied by friends and without their smart phones, etc., but it's not a frequent a sight. I am the anomaly here. I like the ever-present community aspect of life here. And, as I've mentioned time and time again, I love the pace of life. It's much better-suited to me than the constant rush and blur of life in the U.S..

It's not incredible that here in Ecuador, where I feel the weight and pressures of performance and constant scrutiny and judgment lifted from me, I feel BETTER in life, better in the classroom. I'm more motivated to do a better job. The thought of returning to the United States nearly sends me into a panic. Something I'm starting to realize now that I'm removed from my culture is how worry-laden the United States' society is. I believe this is a by-product of our constant desire to be in control of our own lives. When there's such a strongly-rooted drive to be individualistic  (a sentiment that has, in my opinion, permeated our society down to the core and ruptured our families and communities) then the outcome is worry. If that's the goal of a culture, then that is what will happen. Because the people in that culture want to rely only on themselves, the individual, to succeed, then the consequence is inevitable worry about all the responsibilities and things they should actually be relying on GOD for, not themselves. Happily, there are many exceptions, but the pressure to perform, to "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" is a reverberating, infinite drumbeat that pumps poisonous blood through the heart of America.

"Land of the free, home of the brave", I sing every Monday morning during Colegio Americano's weekly civic moment. I feel incredible national pride every time I belt out these legendary lyrics. I appreciate so many things about my country, but I cannot, and refuse to, put my faith and hope in a broken society. However, I will never begrudge the freedoms I possess as an American citizen--the freedom to print controversial words without fear of death, and to worship my Creator without having to hide my love for Jesus Christ or be frightened of torture. When I do return, I will relish these freedoms anew. And I will pray that I can be free and brave, as our national anthem declares. Free from worry. Brave enough to fight against the individualistic tendencies imprinted upon me from my youth because of where I grew up. Free to resist the pressures of conforming to a work-crazed society. Brave enough to deny independence and instead accept dependence upon my Provider, Savior and Fulfillment. Free to integrate the lessons

I've learned here in Ecuador into my daily life in the States. Finally, I pray that I will be brave enough to choose to live life with a willing attitude to continue learning and growing from the myriad of cultures that surround me in the United States. What a joy!

A Glimpse of the Eternal

November 23rd, 2014

Everyone needs to come to the jungle. Let me re-emphasize that: Everyone NEEDS to come to the jungle. Nowhere else in the world are there such luscious views, such a plethora of insect species, such an abundance of plants and animals, such a sweetness of atmosphere. Our bus slowed down incrementally, and I jolted awake. After a long week at school, my exhaustion got the better of me, and I drifted off during the short, hour and a half bus ride to Mindo, a small jungle town located at a mere 5,000ft. above sea level. I felt the difference immediately upon awakening--my lungs felt almost twice as large as normal. This proved to be an incredible blessing, as the next day, David and I hiked for three hours through the winding jungle pathways to soak in the beauty of the waterfalls, flowers, moss-covered rocks, and glittering, pristine pools that are scattered throughout the jungle.

It was probably the most relaxing weekend I've had the entire time I've been in Ecuador. I suppose it helps that my boyfriend was with me, and he could finally experience the same beauty of the country that I've called "home" for the past month. We enjoyed a lazy, unhurried breakfast, accompanied by the delightful twittering of jungle birds, the sight of numerous brightly-colored hummingbirds, and the playful antics of a striped, beribboned kitten. If only all of life could be this beautiful, this relaxing.

Thirty minutes later, we were slightly regretting our decision to ride in the truck bed on the way up a serpentine, dusty road to the cable car that would carry us across the valley, which was situated a precarious distance below. As we bounced along the road (I feared for my life at almost every turn; the road was barely wide enough to accommodate two vehicles, and with all the tight turns our driver made, I was terrified that we would crash into an on-coming truck. Thankfully, though we got close to hitting another car, we weren't harmed), David and I got acquainted with our hiking partners: Rein, a tall, blonde woman from Iceland, on a three-month tour of the Incan ruins and jungles spread across South America, and Charles, a bearded, probably 30-year-old German who had just arrived in Quito the previous day and was on a quest to find animal shelters where he could volunteer. We were glad for their company, and were able to assist each other with picture-taking and climbing the boulders in our path. I remember looking up at the sky, frequently, and thinking, This is so incredible, it can't be real. Every turn brought some new delight, some new feast for the eyes. Beauty unparalleled. The whole forest lives; each plant's breath seemed to sweeten the air, the cascading, icy water refreshing to the weary feet of fatigued travelers, bringing revival. The birdsong is pure and joy-filled and has the power to strengthen and bring light and life to any downtrodden soul. I leaned over to David at one point and said, "If this is how beautiful a sin-wrenched earth is, I can't wait to see what heaven will be like!"

Indeed, in the midst of a broken world, it's rare to come across a seemingly-unsoiled environment such as what we experienced in Mindo. Yet there it was--a sanctuary, a refuge of life and purity--a glimpse of a glorious new earth. I'm convinced that God has given me this awe-inspiring hike to remind me of His wisdom and omniscience in creating earth, and to renew the hope in me that this world is but temporary, and the world to come will be far richer, vaster and more immeasurable than anything we have yet seen or encountered.....

Moments and Pictures

There haven't been many situations where I've been afraid for my life, but now was one of those moments. "Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down," I muttered to myself. "You'll be fine--millions of people have done this before," Anna's voice chimed from behind, encouraging me onward. "I know they have," I wailed, "and that's what terrifies me!"We were standing on a rickety wooden bridge; below was the concrete ceiling of La Basilica, sloping dangerously downward on both sides. I gripped the ropes on either side of me and tried to continue as fast as my irrational fears would allow. Little did I know that this was only the beginning of a dizzying ascent awaiting us ahead....

Anna and I arrived at La Basilica a bit after 11am, and thankfully this was before most of the crowds invaded the historic stone building. La Basilica is the most awe-inspiring gargantuan, solid chunk of stone I've ever beheld in my short, sweet lifetime. I've never felt more minuscule, more fragile more temporary. I've stood next to the Sears Tower before, but that's a sleek, modern feel and La Basilica holds all the mystery and grandeur of years' worth of time and history. To me, this is far more impressive than just another mundane skyscraper, no matter how tall it is. And when I traipsed the floors of the Sears Tower Skydeck, I had reached the towering heights by means of an elevator. There were walls and panes of glass to enclose the area as well, giving me a sense of safety and security. No such luxury here. If I was freaked out by the wooden bridge, the black almost-vertical stairs ahead of me presented a much scarier scenario. The worst part--there were three flights. Somehow, I made it to the top, trying only to look upwards, going a quickly as safety would allow. I was practically knocked off my feet when I got to the top--not just because of the wind and incredible view of the city, but because I spotted a woman in 6-inch stilettos right across the viewing deck. "How on earth did she get up here and not die?!" I whispered to Anna, "I had a hard enough time and I wasn't even in heels!". "No idea," she laughed and shook her head. We watched as the young woman's boyfriend chivalrously led the way back down the stairs-like-ladder. I wanted to see if she would take her shoes off for the descent; but no, she kept them on. Somehow she also made it down alive; we saw them again at the bottom. The abundance of high heels here astounds me. It seems to make no sense--the hills around every turn, and standing on public buses and the need to walk everywhere--I don't understand it, but I see women in heels practically everywhere.

I was glad that Anna and I had walked around the outside of La Basilica before going up. We marveled at the European/Gothic-style architecture and Galapagos Island-inspired gargoyles. Each gargoyle is a different species of animal found in the Galapagos. I've never been to Notre Dame or gawked over the splendor of European cathedrals, but now I'm beginning to understand the allure. I've heard multiple friends of mine exclaim over and gush about fabulous churches and cathedrals in other countries, and I can finally relate. What stature! What magnificence! I was in awe.

This is not the only awe-inspiring view, though. I have the opportunity to relate one final snapshot of my life here before it's time for cafecito (the bread and coffee dinner we have here in Ecuador. Lunch is the main meal here). A few nights ago, I had cafecito at my host aunt's house. Her apartment complex is perched on the western side of the city, and offers an incredible glimpse of the main snow-capped mountains visible from Quito--Cayambe to the north, Cotopaxi to the south, and the Illinizas trio to the south-east. Quito is SUCH a beautiful city. I am struck by that revelation almost every day when I wake up. From the heights of my host aunt's dining room, I was graced with the most beautiful sight yet. Twilight slowly descended upon the city. The colors on the eastern horizon, reflecting the sun's fading light, changed colors slowly; orange melted into pink and pink slowly faded into purple. The lull of Spanish conversation in the dining room behind me, occasionally punctured by a child's squeal of joy sounded like a sweet melody to my ears. My hands embraced my comfortably warm coffee mug; its steam curled up in the fading light and disappeared into the air.

I sighed contentedly at the richness of this moment. I will never grow weary of watching the magic of the evening unfold. Lights in the houses, buildings and apartments flickered on as the city allowed night to spread its soft cloak of darkness over her. Lights shimmered, the city glittered, unveiling her captivating beauty. I don't know how to explain it--I couldn't turn my eyes from the sight--it was too ethereal, too enthralling. Like all perfect moments though, this one too had to end. But not before I'd gotten the chance to pause and thank God for His grace in allowing me to experience it. If there's one thing I'm learning to appreciate here, it's life. Moments. Seconds. Minutes. Time spent in company with others, days where I learn much Spanish and others, little. Days where I come home from school exhausted and wishing I was back home, and days where I'm yelling for joy on the mountain-tops, thrilling in freedom and perspective, glorious sun and wind. I appreciate life more here. In the States, I am too busy, too rushed, overworked and constantly tired; I am too exhausted and preoccupied to be able to savor moments like this one. Or moments like those last Saturday, on the top of La Basilica, where I could relish the freedom of having a day to myself just to exclaim in awe over churches, plazas and the gold-overlaid interior of La Camponia. So, though I only have a month left, I am determined to soak in all I can, travel all I can, experience all I can. The truth is, I may never have the chance to again.

Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes...and smells....

Saturday, November 1st, 2014, el Dia de los Muertos

"Errr-ooor-errrrr-oooorr-eeeeeerrrrrr!" I tossed in my bed, trying to drown out the crowing of the obnoxious rooster that was strutting around outside of our hostel room. "I want to kill that dumb bird," Emily muttered. I laughed. Being here at Loma Wasi is almost like being back on my farm in Wisconsin. Our hostel is teeming with chickens, dogs and cats; it's not the usual hostel experience. Emily (a fellow student teacher) and I were up late on Thursday night, trying to get plans laid for the long weekend. Everything on the beach and in Mindo, Banos and Cuenca was filled up. Lesson learned: Prepare welllll in advance before going anywhere on a holiday weekend. Thousands of people pour out of Quito to get away and party. Not Emily. Not me. Instead, we decided to rough it for the weekend and chose to stay at Luma Wasi--a collection of hostel rooms renovated by a local indigenous family. The family is extremely kind and has cooked delicious food for us and made us teas containing herbs fresh from their own garden. Luma Wasi is located high up on a mountain-side, offering visitors breath-taking views of nearby cities: Imbabura, Cotacachi, and Otavalo. After a delicious breakfast, Emily and I carefully pick our way down the washed out, bumpy dirt and rock road, bound for Otavalo's famed Saturday market.

Emily and I arrived the day before in Otavalo, hot and tired from our two-hour bus ride. Immediately upon stepping off the bus, my eyes, ears and nose were assaulted by unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells. Quito is considered by many as "trying to be a first world city in a third world country." Now I understand that this is why I've felt very little culture shock up until this point, since I've stayed only in Quito. Being in Otavalo and the surrounding area reminds me that I'm not in a first world country anymore. After the initial shock of hearing the clamor of sellers hawking their wares, the smell of rotting food and garbage, and the sight of numerous dogs lying, walking, or pooping on the road, my eyes were opened to see the beauty of the city.

Since we had arrived in the early afternoon and didn't have to be to our hostel until 6 o'clock, Emily and I had plenty of time to explore. We wandered around the city, aided by a guidebook loaned from a fellow student teacher, and were able to see most of the city in just a few hours. Some of the most notable and striking sights were the entirely gold-overlaid alter inside of El Jordin church, the colorful market square, and the unique food market. It was difficult to breathe in the food market though, because  of the strength of the odors of freshly-butchered meat, unfamiliar vegetables, and other unknown things. Everything was closely packed together, and it was difficult to maneuver the cramped aisles. We found ourselves staring at severed pig heads, pig feet, and plucked chickens everywhere we turned. There were numerous food stands that were crowded with locals sampling rice, meats, and vegetables of all different smells and colors. Bits of Quichua and Spanish were flung back and forth, adding to the din of clanging pans and sizzling food. It reminded me of Asia, and I was struck by the thought that this is probably how most people in the world live.

On Saturday, Emily and I avoided the pungent food market and instead meandered through the city's festive array of booths stocked with tools, weapons, clothes, blankets, trinkets, bags, and jewelry of every color and pattern imaginable. It was truly a feast for the eyes. In the four hours that we were there, Emily and I still didn't see everything offered in the market; it had to have been at least a full square mile's worth of merchandise, if not more. It was a thrilling experience. In retropect, I would have spent more time figuring out which booths offered the lowest prices on goods; we spent $18 at one booth, but a mere $11 at another booth for the same exact piece of merchandise. It was an education, for sure, and I'm far more confident about my bargaining skills now than I was before this trip. Still, the prices we settled on were very fair compared to anything similar in the States.

My favorite part of our Otavalo experience was the feeling of being in a time-warp. At our hostel, life seemed to operate in a different era. It's a simple, farming life. I saw people hand-washing clothes, making bread in brick ovens, and plowing the fields with a team of oxen. Nothing fancy, nothing extravagant. And there's such joy. It was surprisingly easy to relate with our host family. We survived through Spanglish, and Emily and I now joke that between the two of us, we'll be able to figure out anything on this trip. It's definitely been a joint effort, between communicating with the locals (bargaining always in Spanish), and directing our cab driver back to our hostel from Cotacachi. We had navigated that route only once previously, and that one time was at night, in the dark. We felt pretty accomplished after that. We'll have to see how tomorrow goes, though, because we're planning on taking a few different buses in order to get to Lago Cuicocha, a lake several kilometers away from Cotacachi and anything even semi-familiar.....



Sunday, November 2, 2014

This view is breath-taking, in every sense of the word. Emily and I are standing at the peak of our hike around Lago Cuicocha, a lake named for the two islands in its middle that look like guinea pigs. It's taken us an hour and a half to get this far, and since we are hiking at over 10,000 in elevation, I've never felt more out of shape in my entire life. It's a good thing I've been in the country for two and a half weeks, or this hike would have been near impossible. Regardless, it's DEFinitely worth the view. Up high in the mountains, we can look over the valley where the cities of Otavalo, Cotacachi and Quiroga sprawl below at the foot of Imbabura, the mountain directly to our east. The dark peak of Imbabura towers even higher than Lago Cuicocha, and is obscured by clouds. Later on in the afternoon as the clouds blow away, the moutaintop will become visible; right now it remains cloaked in its white garments, shrouded and mysterious in the distance.

Emily and I remain at our spot for a solid 10-15 minutes, soaking in the sun, the deliciously cool mountain breezes, and the refreshing sights and sounds around us. Birds occasionally enter our peripheral vision, diving into the depths of the bone-chilling lake below. All around us are plants and flowers and shrubs of numerous varieties. I'm sure this would be any horticulturalist's version of heaven; to us it serves as a delightful respite from the crowds, the smells, the pollution and the noise that accompany living in a city. All too soon, we descend from the glorious beauty back down to reality and a taxi ride to Cotacachi. Our journey back to the hostel is much less adventurous than our ride to Lago Cuicocha and the reserve. We caught a bus from the indigenous community to Cotacachi, then took a bus to Otavalo, then to Quirogo. In Quiroga, we hopped into the back of a pickup truck (owned and operated by the Lago Cuicocha ecological reserve), and sped up winding roads, the wind whipping our hair into tangles around our faces. There's almost no greater bliss than the feeling of sun, wind, and speed with the incredible beauty of nature visible on all sides.

In contrast, our bus ride back to the community was cramped; there was barely room to move. There was heat, and only some wind, and there were mixed smells of food and people jammed together. The jolts pulled at my arms, which grasped the overhead bars so that I would not fall back onto the elderly lady and her baskets behind me, nor onto the young gentleman in front of me. Somehow, I couldn't help smiling and laughing at the experience. It was so full of life, of reality, of motion. That's the way I prefer life to be, and so far, that's how I would describe life in Ecuador--full of life, color, motion, love and beauty.

Guaguas de pan entre otras cosas....

"Awwwww....you killed it!" my host sister cried out, as I ripped off a piece of my guagua de pan, the bread doll I was eating in observance of the upcoming Dia de los Meurtos and Dia de los Difuntos. Also known as "Day of the Dead" and "Day of the Souls", Ecuadorians celebrate these Catholic holidays by making sweet-bread dolls, or "guaguas de pan" (another Quichua term), which they then place in decorative baskets and sometimes deliver to the graves of loved ones who have passed away. However, they are also a dessert at the end of a meal that commemorates the event. In my case, we were enjoying these tasty treats with "colada morada", a delicious, thick drink concocted from various berries, including strawberries, blueberries, naranjilla, babaco and pineapple. The name literally translates to "strained dark purple", which refers to the color of this sweet beverage. "I did not," I insisted, as I dipped my guagua de pan into the colada morado. "It wasn't alive anyway," I assured her. She giggled at me as I popped the bread into my mouth and made a funny face at her, "Mmmm!" I exclaimed.


It wasn't long before my guagua de pan was all gone, my supply of colada morado was greatly depleted, and my stomach was full. "What flavor did you get?" my host brother inquired, as I sampled some of his chocolate-filled bread. "Hmm....I don't know. Something with berries I think!" It was delectable. A real treat. Of course, the full-blown celebrations take place next week, and I'm hoping to get out of Quito, along with millions of other Ecuadorians to celebrate the November 1st and 2nd holidays. This weekend, we celebrated with my host family and some extended family, enjoying a long afternoon filled with a three-course meal and a lovely sobremesa.

I was pleased that I could follow the conversation much better than last week. Already, I feel less intimidated by traveling on my own, and was able to use my emerging Spanish skills to catch a cab and meet a new friend close to downtown Quito on Saturday. She's a student teacher, just like me, and also happens to be from the Midwest. Seeing as she's been in Quito for almost two months already, it was helpful to have her navigate the streets and explore along with me. Our first stop was at one of Quito's numerous parks, La Parque del Ejido.

On the weekends, El Ejido is filled with vendors and artwork of all kinds. I am stunned by the variety of artwork available--everything from jewelry, to sculptures made out of bike chains, to elaborate life-like paintings, to blankets woven out of llama hair, to puppeteers. When we heard a Michael Jackson song blaring from the western side of the park, Lianna and I had to investigate. It was a puppeteer, deftly maneuvering the strings of a clown-like puppet. The slightest tug on the strings caused the puppet to dance wildly, with moves like Michael Jackson himself, in perfect time to the music. After enjoying the Michael Jackson magic, Lianna and I meandered on, enjoying the beauty of the art, the colors, the smells, and the feel of the golden sunshine warming our heads. There was no rush, no appointments, no work, work, work. We journeyed over to the busy La Plaza Foch and enjoyed an unhurried hour and a half at a coffee shop, comparing teaching and traveling stories. After a crazy first week of school, it was the perfect blend of rest, culture, and adventure to last me until next weekend, when I plan on taking a bus to Ecuador's beautiful coast for the long weekend....

Bienvenidos a Quito

The rain starts with just a few drops, then crescendos to an almost deafening roar. The sound is amplified by the establishment's tin roof; we are eating lunch at a traditional Ecuadorian restaurant called Taita Pedro in the valley of Cumbaya, not too far from Quito. "Taita" is the Quichua (indigenous Indian) word for "dad" or "father". I was honored to meet Taita Pedro himself, an 80-year old veteran who lived for 30 years in Maryland after fighting for the United States in the Korean War. He learned the art of cooking by peeling potatoes for the army and subsequently preparing crab meat for a restaurant near the bay.


Here in the restaurant that he pioneered,Taita Pedro himself takes part in the live entertainment; he shakes his maracas with much passion to compensate for the increasing sound of the deluge. The voice and maracas of Taita Pedro are accompanied by two incredibly talented guitarists, who serenade us with songs of Mexican origin. Their eyes light up and their bodies sway in time to rich melodies that they sing in deep voices filled with the emotion of the lyrics. Their fingers pick the guitar strings so quickly that my eyes are not able to follow the strumming. I cannot understand the meaning of the Spanish words that seem to tumble faster than the raindrops, but the music is enjoyable nonetheless. The rain is not surprising to me, nor is it surprising to anyone else. Almost every afternoon this time of year, foreboding, misty grey clouds silently slide over the western mountain peaks, and it's not long until the rain comes. To me, it joins in perfectly with the music.

The rain's arrival this afternoon hardly changes the atmosphere in the restaurant. Instead of a murmur of conversation, the Spanish chatter surrounding me heightens to a louder level to compensate for the downpour. I don't understand much of what is being said around me, but in some ways, the only thing that is unfamiliar about this scene is the language and the fact that I'm in rainy South America instead of snowy Minnesota. The love shown by the family as they greet one another--hugs and kisses, called "besos" or"besitos" are shared by all--is exactly the same love that I feel from my own family in the States, and the hours of conversation we enjoy remind me of enjoyable hours spent at my own grandpa's birthday party just a week before.

After the main course, I am treated to what has now become my favorite part of mealtimes in Ecuador--"sobremesa". It literally means "over the table", but this phrase refers to what occurs after the meal--conversation and enjoyment of each other's company. Now that it's Sunday, I've had the chance to experience sobremesa several times. The weekend has consisted largely of socializing over meals with family and friends, moving from one meal and sobremesa to the next. Everyone has been welcoming, gracious and kind to me, and no social appointment has lasted less than two hours at least. I find this change of pace relaxing so far, but, like the rain on the tin roof of Taita Pedro, I am sure my life in Quito will pick up speed quickly as I begin another teaching adventure at Colegio Americano tomorrow morning.....