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.