Round 1: Dear Saint Anthony, Nicole is Lost and Must Be Found, It's Been About a Month Since I Last Saw Her

Living in Quito is hard for me, with the issue of safety topping the list. It’s not that Quito is any more dangerous than other large cities it’s the fact that every time I am about to do something some Quiteñan is bound to say, “Cuidadate, es muy peligroso”. It’s limiting, literally and figuratively. I stop doing the things that make me happiest, like running, volunteering and writing and more of the things that make me lazy, like drinking and perusing the internet. I lose myself in the dull drums of the daily routine, a waiting game really. In turn, my mind turns to a big mushy bowl of oatmeal and alas any focus I had of my goals is lost. So when I have the opportunity to dawn my adventure braids and get out of dodge, I do so, without thinking twice as I know the trip, lasting from one hour to a couple of weeks, will help me gain back the personal clarity and drive that were lost on the so-called dangerous streets of Quito.

You can only imagine what a simple five days in the Amazon did for my psyche, would do for anyone’s psyche. If you are at all like me, and I’ll willingly admit it I am one in a million, your imagination will go into overdrive the second the scenery starts to change and old Andean men, in fedora like hats, and barefoot women, carrying machetes as if it were the norm, greatly outnumber those in suits and high heels. And when you are greeted at the edge of an Amazonian river by a tall, skinny drunk man whose Spanish sounds more like that of a drowning sailor you know you are finally in for the type of adventure you have longed for in the past month, if not your entire life. Then, as you are waiting for the canoe to pick you up, the sun starts to dip behind the droopy trees and the buzz of the mosquitoes becomes loud enough for you to actually consider the fact that they might be able to eat you alive if not infect you with ten strains of malaria. It is here that you take in a deep breath, one that would make any yoga teacher proud, and let a permanent smile creep across your face. One that is so big your travelling companions ask if you have taken some drug that they don’t know about. You try to explain but you can’t find the right words and you are not sure they would listen anyway as they are, hopefully, starting their own adventures. By the time the long blue wooden canoe arrives the sun has officially disappeared and you embark down the pitch black river, encountering bats and the red glowing eyes of crocodiles. For thirty minutes you are forced to rely on your senses of hearing and touch than that of sight. You feel the humidity and are reminded of your summer in Pennsylvania, hear the river rushing and think of all the camping trips you went on as a child. Memories, that you thought had been erased, appear so clearly, as if they had happened yesterday. You are flooded with them, it’s as if you are dying and your life is flashing in front of you, most likely because you have to admit, you are a little afraid of those things you can not see. And suddenly, just as you arrive at the small, 10 thatched hut lodge your mind stops on one. The first time you watched Swiss Family Robinson, also being the first time you imagined yourself getting lost in a foreign place, happening upon monkeys and toucans that would become part of your family. The first time you realized that being lost, truly lost, may finally stop your prayers of being found. 

Round Two: “I am sorry, I don’t know where we are” says Mariana, our guide will be out in the new year.

Prologue: Perdido en la Amazonia

Part of every South American travelers experience includes riding on buses for extended amounts of time. Some people can't stand the lengthy, often times cramped and smelly, rides. I love them, so much so that I often take the seven hour ride from San Jose to Santa Barbara when visiting my family back in the United States. These rides offer a few things that one is hard pressed to get in a car of your own or even on a plane; uninterrupted time to get lost in your thoughts along with new landscapes to ponder over, not to mention time to read that book you've been putting off for a month or so (Mountains Beyond Mountains turned out to be perfect for the occasion). Two eleven hour bus rides through waterfall laden rainforests and a week in the Amazon provided me the opportunity to write quite a bit of those thoughts down. Typically I write to inform, sometimes to even entertain, this time the words that made it here are designed to convince. You see, I was lucky enough to see and experience the circle of life that takes place on the edges of the Amazon and the experience helped me to see how far away humans have stepped from that circle and in turn remind me that our natural resources can not continue to be taken advantage of. It is my goal to convince you to experience the Amazon for yourself or to, at the very least, help to conserve it from the encroaching modern world.

The Amazon, originally created in my head by my schooling and the Discovery channel was made up of dangerous animals and indigenous tribes that would attempt to shrink your head upon first sight, more like a plot in a Roald Dahl book than anything else. I knew it was an important place but never thought I would ever have the opportunity to go there so did not put much thought into its actual importance in this world. As I traveled along the highway and into the lush green landscape circumvented by small farming pueblos and waterfalls that put those in Yosemite to shame I realized how much of my world I was truly leaving behind. My experiences were not all good, it broke my heart to see a map of the Ecuadorian part of the Amazon with less than a 5th of the land preserved from human contact, about a third used for tourism and the rest owned by Texaco and Chevron. This was most evidenced by the oil line that followed the highway to the edge of the Cuyabeno river and the oil towns that would randomly pop up between the small farming ones secured by atypical chain link fences, keeping them safe from I don't know what. What was even more disheartening were the small towns that chose not to accept oil money but instead, cut or burnt down the surrounding forest for farming or raising cattle, in an attempt, I can only imagine, to survive.

Fundraising for nonprofits and selling history to teenagers has taught me that making people feel guilty will not convince them to do anything for you. Instead I will embark here on a quest to engage you in my brief story of the Amazon, to paint a picture well beyond what you can watch on any HDTV. I will intersperse my words with pictures but you must remember that my award winning sister is the photographer in my family and I, I am just a girl with a pen that only recently started to take writing even remotely seriously. I hope I will do the Amazon the justice it deserves.

Chapter One titled, Dear St. Anthony Nicole is Lost and Must Be Found, It's Been About a Month Since I Last Saw Her will be out in a few days, maybe.

Inspriration

Joseph, one of my morning students, is one of the reasons I will never give up on my life-long and extremely difficult quest to learn Spanish. He is a retired engineer, and a widow with three grown sons. He continues to study English for the sole purpose of holding a conversation with his grandson who lives in Miami. Joseph started in the Advanced II class but was quickly moved down into my Intermediate II course because, although he knew many, many English words, he could not formulate a sentence. Here, after many hours of hard work, you can hear his beautiful prose accentuated by his obvious love for his hometown, Riobamba.

PS - This is supposed to be a video...it's not working...spent way too long trying to make it work. If you are one of my silicon valley peeps or any computer geek and you know how to compress .mov files and then get them uploaded using an extremely slow connection please let me know. I have about 30 movies/letters I want to send out to those that wrote to my students about their favorite places. UPDATE...got it compressed to a .wmv file and even got the file uploaded but then it sat in processing mode for hours...help me please.

Reality

I fear I have been painting the roses a bit too red of late. In fact I think I may have led a few of you to believe that Ecuador is nothing but roses (yes, roses are their 3^rd largest export and cost only $2.50 for 2 dozen here, but that is beside the point). My point is, that you, my friends, have failed by allowing me to get away with the past two sugary blogs without at least one sarcastic jibe towards the silliness of the whole matter.  I wrote about my love for a movie theater for god’s sake. Are you not American? Have you lost the ability to make fun of someone?  The fact is Ecuador is far from being all roses.

I have been here for three months, chump change in the grand scheme of things, but enough time to set up a daily routine, start acclimating to my new surroundings and develop opinions about what I see.  Now we all know I am an optimist. I dream big, live passionately and find the good in all people, sometimes to my own detriment. What you all don’t know is that I am also a realist. The realist in me is purely introverted and keeps me humble as well as serves to gently and continuously remind me that, although I might be having a good day, there are many people who are not. In the past I felt guilty about this and poured all my energy, fruitlessly, into trying to fix as many problems as I could. As I have learned more and more about the world, myself and human nature in general I have realized that I don’t have what it takes to change the world. What I do have is a gift for facilitating learning in those that I meet. So, although my calling may not be to change the world, I live everyday having faith in the fact that I have many opportunities to awaken the calling in someone who will, and that is enough for me.

That being said I have created a list of the top three realities that will most likely wilt the roses I have previously made blossom for some of you. DO NOT misconstrue any of this to think that I am having a hard time or doubts about coming, I am not. This is the reality of Ecuador and it would be extremely selfish of me to continue sharing stories of my own personal gains without including what underlies daily living here.

Number 1) Asi es la vida is not necessarily a good thing. Yes, at one point I said I liked that people don’t complain but then I realized why they don’t complain and have changed my mind. As of last week Ecuador was rated the third most corrupt country in all of the Americas, behind Venezuela and Paraguay. Although the measure itself may be questionable, corruption IS rampant here. Corruption can be as small as nepotism in the government to large debt inducing oil contracts. There is too much money in too few hands and the working people are the ones that suffer to a point of learned helplessness, i.e. not complaining. History tells us, especially the history of Ecuador who has had no president, except for the current one, last longer than two years, that this type of living by the masses leads to revolt. The signs of revolt are starting to show again with a few groups continuously protesting issues such as water privatization, the general lack of social services, and the influence of large drug and oil companies on the lands natural resources.

Number 2) Mucha gente...The urban cities are over populated and the rural areas are ignored. Transportation is horrendous, poverty is more than obvious and the average person struggles everyday to pay rent with most people working two to three jobs to survive. Yet somehow there is still a large portion of people that own iphones and Blackberries…interesting to say the least. Rules are written to maintain a certain level of living standards yet no one follows them nor is there a governing body large enough or void of corruption to enforce them.

Number 3) Muy Peligroso. Corruption plus poverty plus over population=dangerous situations. Simple Maslows Hierarchy of Needs here…if you don’t have what you need to live (food, clothing, water, shelter) you will find a way to get it. I have found out that when the Tienda lady closes shop early and Piedad has me lock myself into the house during the day something violent has happened in the neighborhood. Daily stories involving taxi drivers, robbers, ATM machines and guns are commonplace amongst my students and to ignore these, as some volunteers do, would be a grim mistake. You do not need be scared at a conscious level at all times but you sure as hell better have that stress in your unconscious or something is bound to happen to you. Learning to live with this has been one of the hardest things for me and has made me appreciate the United States even more.

So next time I write about falling in love with an Andean blackberry or how wonderful my life is, remember this list. And know that I purposefully did not write about each item in the detailed capacity that I am capable of as I didn’t want to put a damper on anyone's otherwise good day.

Do not stop thinking of life as an adventure. You have no security unless you can live bravely, excitingly, imaginatively, unless you can choose a challenge instead of a competence. --Eleanor Roosevelt

Upon Falling In Love

There have been times in the past three months where I have found myself in situations that I do not want to be in, where I have been thrust into the throngs of a lifestyle that is not me. Most of these situations stem from my saying yes, as I should be doing, to most invitations from the few Quiteños that I know. The following is not one of those situations; in fact it is quite the opposite. I said yes to a last minute invitation that, at nights end, had me feeling tinglies in a silly place...

An Ecuatoriana friend asked me to accompany her to watch her Tango teacher perform at a small theater. The theater is one of my favorites. Walking in the atmosphere is that of a local coffee-shop with solitary candles on top of teak tables, hip waitresses running around serving mocha’s and wine, and posters of classic actresses headlining the movies of their haydays. Downstairs is one of two modern movie theaters that also doubles as a small concert venue. It was here that I spent the evening falling in love.

As I drank a glass of Argentinean wine and listened to the wonderful non-traditional Tango music in the small theater that sat no more than 40, I watched people all around me be in love. There was the new couple whispering sweet nothings and gently holding and caressing each others hands. The older couple, obviously still as much in love as the day they married. The wife of the guitarist knowing every movement of her husbands hands as he set the tone of the concert. The two German girls dreaming of the life they would have with the young, hip, long-haired Cellist. The Tango dancers, partners of nine years, that knew every curve and every movement of each others bodies. The singer, so in love with his craft that you couldn’t help but lean forward to hear every sing-song word that came out of his mouth.

And then there was me and I was in love as well.

Not with a person, nor a fantasy, or finally having a good glass of wine. It was the moment, the unexpected and new nature of my surroundings, the life and energy in the small theater. The realization that I did not want to be anywhere else in the world than watching the song and dance of passion take hold of the hearts of the rooms occupants. And I was happy and most likely glowing, as my friends back home would probably point out. But I was also content with the fact that the night would inevitably end, as it did, and I would return to the normal day-to-day routine of city living the following morning. Because, after having the realization that I did, I knew the next morning would be better, brighter and maybe even safer than the ones that had preceded it. That my insights into the hearts of others would keep me saying yes to invitations that may otherwise put me in situations that I would rather not be in.

An Ode to Dad...

For those of you that know my Pops you probably know that every morning he wakes up and repeatedly says to himself, “I feel great today”. Growing up he would come into the room that I shared with my sister and have us exclaim the same mantra at the top of our young lungs until we collapsed into giggles or screamed for him to let us stop. As I moved into my tumultuous teenage years and developed a monstrous chip on my shoulder I refused to partake in what I deemed a pointless and corny ritual. Now, as an adult, I find myself returning to my Dad’s optimistic philosophies and muttering “I feel great today”, at the very least, twice a week. I attribute my many good days of late solely to this and even more so to the days that are not just good but absolutely and unequivocally great. These types of days are ones where I feel life rushing through my blood, where possibilities and opportunities are endless. I just so happened to have one of these great days last week..

On my way to work, I realized something was off, different if you will, as I stepped onto the TroleBus. Key word being stepped, as there was actually room to step into the Trole, as in there was not 100 people packed liked sardines in this particular bus and no one around to stare at my body parts, what was I to do? This was strange but I took it as a good sign for the day to come and left it at that.

Upon entering SECAP I realized the electricity was out again (here's an article about the current Ecua energy crisis) and I would have to walk up five flights of stairs. It’s here that some may say I’m crazy, might question my sanity but I must beg to differ. The thing is I’m enjoying teaching with limited resources, including not having lights. It has sparked a creative and spontaneous flair in me that I did not know I had and I look forward to the daily challenge. It also helps that not one of my students, or any Ecuatoriano that I know, has complained about the looming few months of rolling blackouts. They may have a whining type of tone of voice but they rarely complain, as complaining gets them no where. Asi es la vida. I like this.

After class I head down to Plaza Foch, Quito’s Time Square, for what is supposed to be a quick meeting with my Field Director, Kate. Instead her, myself and a 2^nd year WT volunteer visiting from Ambato end up having 8 quite fantastic mochachino’s between the three of us while talking as if we have been friends for life. We have the kind of conversation you can only have once every couple months, it’s deep and real. Over the three hours questions are asked, advice is thrown, pasts are shared, and futures are pondered. We realize how lucky we are and although all three of us may have taken different and more difficult paths than our parents or friends or both, we are happy and we all agree, quite egotistically, that we are better people for it.

From there I grab a quick bite to eat before heading to my two hour Spanish class. Here Carla, my teacher, pushes me hard. I’m writing, I’m reading, I’m asking and answering questions for two hours straight, all in Spanish. She pushes me well past my comfort zone and trust me every last bit of teaching karma comes back to bite me in my behind but it’s good and I am learning, a lot.

Then I head over to the South American Explorers Club where I meet one of my night students, and now a friend for a few hours of tutoring (English for her, Spanish for me). I first realized that I wanted to be friends with Isabel when she told my night class about her families’ tradition of playing chess. I’ve always been intrigued by chess and asked her to teach me how to play. We have been meeting every weekday since then, although we haven’t gotten to playing Chess just yet. Isabel is one of the two Ecua friends I have and she represents one side of me that not many people recognize nor appreciate. She is intelligent, educated, independent (especially for an Ecua woman) and mostly curious. She is my link to Latin America culture, sharing books and movies, inviting me to the Indi movie theater and her Tango classes. It is good to have a friend like this. It is on this particular day that she tells me she has received a scholarship to get her MBA in Italy and will be leaving in late December. I know what this type of decision takes and I am more than happy for her, not to mention the fact that I will now have a friend in Italy (riding bikes through a small Tuscan village here I come). As the hour of our night class approaches we hop on the bus together and it is here that the best part of the day happens. After five minutes of talking I realize that I have just had my first real conversation in Spanish. I didn’t have to think about what to say next, it just came. Of course it disappeared the second I realized what was going on but something I never thought would happen did and I was so excited that I almost made us miss our bus stop.

As is the norm in my night class, I put my students right to work. While they were working and I strolling through the room helping I was able to catch glimpses of the yellow, orange and pink rays of the sun setting over Pichincha and briefly casting a glow into my classroom. Only in one other place has a sunset and landscape such as this created a calming, reflective happiness in me and I hope that when I leave Quito I will be able to find that place on the coast of California again.

If this were an average day, my writing would end here. But you must remember this was a great day and great days rarely end after work. I meet up with Kate again and we head to the Mariscal, where the lights are frighteningly out but the restaurants and bars are lit by candle light, quite the romantic feel. We grab some sushi and some mojitos as we celebrate another friends birthday and I once again find myself deep in conversation. As the small group heads to Salsa I decide to return home as I haven't seen Piedad in a couple of days and I want to savor the day rather than drink it away.

While I'm getting comfy in my wool blankets I think about my Pops and how happy he would be to hear about my day. And if he were to ask me right at this moment how I feel, as he did when we were little, I would have no reservations in screaming back at him, "I FEEL GREAT TODAY, Daddy-O!"

Who are you? Who, who, who, who?

Decided to share, what I hope, is a funny one with you as I’ve got a few long rants coming up on the brewing debate on the US education system and I thought I’d entertain you at least one last time before I got all serious and philosophical.***

As I race to finish up my Friday night class I pause for a moment to give myself a quick pep talk about the coming roar of reggaton, drinking and general debauchery that my young friends Tara, Sarah and Tara will no doubt have us partaking in.

The typical night out starts with me tackling the streets of the Mariscal toting my teaching backpack and ignoring men, if you can call them that, that shout statements I would not dare repeat here. I meet up with the ladies at some side bar where they have either brought along some of their students (strange I know, but their students are the same age as them) or have already met “new” friends for the night. We have a round of Pilsners along with some nachos, also known as a plane old plate of tortilla chips and share the weeks stories with each other. At moments, I am thoroughly engrossed by the things these girls seem to get themselves involved in on a daily basis, at others I find myself daydreaming about home, wanting a nice glass of California wine, the company of my friends and the humm of a small restaurant. As my normal bed time of eleven o’clock approaches I think about at least five excuses, all admittedly lame, to get out of the impending storm that is about to erupt in front of me and will have me questioning just who I am. I pick the best one, voice it to them and am immediately shot down -they know me to well already, I will almost always stay.

Moving from the bar to a dance club usually involves a loud discussion between one of the three girls, one of their “new” local friends or students and the bouncer, always ending with our group being ushered in as celebrities. With the Tara’s and Sarah you become the party, people flock to you, drinks are bought for you; new “friends” are made as “old” ones are thrown out. This type of attention I am not used to and I’m not sure I will ever get used to nor want to..

I make it through the night by dancing and hopefully finding at least one normal soul to talk with. The first of which is the norm and the later extremely rare but preferred. Let me preface by saying that I am not a dancer, I sometimes pretend to be but I am not. I get uncharacteristically self-conscious with my body, even more so when dancing with someone that I like or am attracted to. So I typically only dance when I’ve had a couple of shots of liquid courage and with strangers that I hold no attraction to. That being said there are two types of people that will dance with you here. One is the local who feels sorry for you and will make you their dancing cause of the night the other is the local who wants to sleep with the gringa disguised as the local who feels sorry for you and will make you their dancing cause of the night. To differentiate between the two is, luckily, fairly simple. Clue number one, you are repeatedly and insistently told you are a good dancer rather than being taught the steps to the song. Clue number two, somehow you are no longer doing salsa or Machala moves and all the other men in the club (again not sure if the label of man works here, especially since it seems as if there is an age LIMIT of 20 to be at these Clubs), are staring at the two of you with their jealous mouths gaping. It takes about one point fives seconds of seeing gaping mouths before excusing myself to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I do a quick rendition of MJ’s Man in the Mirror just for kicks, wipe the sweat from brow and start to plan my escape home. It will take convincing the girls to switch clubs and in route, exactly as we are passing a hot dog stand, strategically mentioning the fact that we have not eaten yet. As we are eating our hot dogs with pineapple sauce, potato chips and pickled onions (another guard against unwanted moves) we will discuss the happenings of the night thus far. If I am lucky I can convince one of them to go grab a cab with me, if not, I am stuck out until one of them remembers they have a boyfriend and wants to go home to pull the late night US drunk dial. Either way I have to wait until I can convince someone to walk with me to the taxi’s, as walking through the Mariscal by yourself, after 9:00, is equivalent to walking through a lions den that has 10 new baby cubs in it. You just don’t do it.

Eventually I get home and race the suns rays to bed as I try to answer The Who’s question, just who am I right now? The answer doesn’t take long and I'm happy with it. I’m a soon to be 32 year old, living it up in Ecuador, putting myself in situations that I otherwise wouldn’t put myself in at home, doing what I am meant to do, teaching, exploring and learning, and loving every minute of the challenges that those things bring.

P.S. Comments on age, especially regarding extremely young dance partners and soon to be 32 year olds, will not be tolerated! I know, trust me I know...

Pobrecito

As I was sitting in the back of a car with one of the worst colds I've had in years and two chain smokers sitting in front of me this past Sunday I started to do something that I rarely do, pool the poor me card. Not just one poor me card but a couple of them. The cards went something like this,

Poor me...Spanish is hard. Not just normal hard but the really challenging, makes me feel incredibly stupid, hard. I can't even remember the freakin' verb Hacer for god's sake. And I fully know that every time someone says I speak Spanish well they are lying, LYING. I can't do this, especially whenever I try to say something beyond Como te fue or Que pasa and  people respond in English because they want to practice their English. Bullshit, pure and utter bullshit.

Which leads into one of the other poor me cards...

Poor me...what the hell am I doing in a big city like Quito? I should be in the middle of the country with pigs and chickens running around in my front AND backyard.  I guess I am not such a big city girl after all nor am I a girl that does very well in the rain. And speaking of rain, why did not one single person tell me that it pours, not cats and dogs, but rhinos and elephants e-v-e-r-y  s-i-n-g-l-e day here. It doesn't help that I only have one pair of closed toe shoes and no money to buy another. Don't even get me started on how expensive everything is in the big city and the politics that make it this way. Nor get me started on the black soot that has started to make a permanent home on my ankles from all the exhaust or the constant city noises that last until the dark hours of the night or the fact that my students tell me that I live in one of the most dangerous sectors of the city.

Oh poor f*&^#$ me...

As my car ride progressed my thoughts got worse and worse as I racked up complaint upon complaint about my current situation. Typically, during these rare occurrences, I give myself a swift kick in the ass but the optimism and creative problem solver in me must have gone on hiatus because I just could not kick the poor me cards out of my head. I almost cried and I carried my bad thoughts all the way into Monday along with the cold that was still haunting me.

Monday morning class was  uneventful and as almuerzo time  approached the black cloud  was still following me. After lunch I headed to my  extra afternoon class at Colegio Nuestra Madre de la Merced. This was to be my last class with the teachers and that had me even more down. I taught painstakingly slow because I didn't want it to end. This school, these people feel like home to me and at that point the only solution that I could find to my problem was finding a piece of home. Eventually the end of class approached and it was time to hand out certificates. As I called up the first teacher she threw herself on me and gave me a hug like I have never had before. I do cry. They cry. They take pictures with their cell phones. Each one hugs me like they were my mom. They thank me for being their teacher, for making class funny (which was really me just being self-deprecating), for being patient with them. They invite me to all their school festivals, they offer me a job, they wipe my tears. As I start to pack up one of the teachers brings me back to the front of the room, she says they have something to give me. She starts by apologizing to me that she won't be speaking in English and then proceeds to tell me how much it has meant to them to have a fellow teacher in their school. I understand it all and magically my response comes out in real, full Spanish sentences and they understand it and we hug again. She then hands me an envelope filled with money, a gift from them all for new shoes (or a bikini as one of them shouts out). I hand it back, there is no way I can accept it, teachers here make less than I do teaching summer school. They refuse and shove it back into my hands. I know I can not win against this bunch. As I head out the door they make me promise to come back and I promise I will. And of course I will, how could I not, they gave me my smile back. They kicked my ass for me.

And oh yes, I did get new shoes but not from the money they gave me. That money will end up in the hands of another soul who actually has real problems, not ones made up by a self-absorbed emotional chick stuck behind chain smokers, with a cold, in the back of a car for four hours.

A Hair Tingling Experience

Originally I was invited by the Orellanas (Clara’s family – the Branham High exchange student from last year) to meet a Shaman this weekend. I was overly excited and obnoxiously telling everyone that would listen about my plans. In true Ecuadorian fashion plans fell through (it will be another month before I get to meet her) and I had to eat a little bit of crow. With my new found free time I knew I wanted to do two things, get out of the hustle and bustle of the city and be outside. The perfect opportunity arose when two of my friends said they were ready to tackle Rucu Pichincha, the same 15,500 foot mountain I climbed about a month ago. Now these two girls are not the hiking type nor are they the resourceful type and I was a bit worried about them taking on the mountain by themselves so I offered to show them the way.  Armed with layers, lots of water and some sandwiches we head up the Teleferiqo and start our ascent up the mountain. At the start the weather was warm, sometimes even sweatingly hot, a welcome respite from the torrential rain Quito’s been having of late.

From PichinchaTakeTwo

As we slowly progress up the trail, taking care to recognize any signs of altitude sickness or major change in the weather, we get to the point where the formal trail ends and the hard part begins. I take the lead trying to remember how I had gotten across and up the rocks and sand the previous time. Of course I take us up the harder route and, as we are struggling to climb up sand, a local Ecuatoriana motions for us to cut across and follow her as she knows an easier way. The local and I chat (in Spanish mind you) as she waits for her boyfriend and I wait for my friends to catch up. I instantly feel a connection to her and realize that she would be a great friend to have in Quito. She shows me the best route up and the girls and I start the last and most dangerous part of the journey to the top.

We traverse a couple of sketchy rocks and reach the top, this time being more magical for me as I actually (thought) I had time to take in the view and ponder the magnitude of such a volcanic mountain. Here is where the story shifts from a normal everyday hike to one of danger, adventure and fear.

As I am off pondering the meaning of life, both Sarah and Tara exclaim that they are feeling a tingling in their hair. I think nothing of this as both have had tinglings, weird feelings, pains and aches all day long. In the matter of a few seconds of them proclaiming this several things happen. One, the Ecuatoriana and her boyfriend arrive at the top. Next, thunder rattles the entire mountain, lightning strikes inches from us (the source of the tingling) and it starts to snow. Now I know last time I said it hailed, and it did, but only for fifteen minutes and the hail melted the second it touched the ground. This snow was different. It was an instant flurry of not snow flakes but snow balls, the size of grapes, okay an exaggeration, more like the size of luscious blueberries. The boyfriend immediately says “VAMOS!” and, as all five of us look into each others scared eyes, we realize the severity of the situation. The thunder is not stopping, it is bone rattling and after each rumble lightning strikes so close to us that we could probably reach out and touch it if not get struck by it. The Ecuatoriana and I make eye contact and we decide, without words, that I will lead the route down as she makes sure the girls and her guy keep the pace as fast as possible without slipping and subsequently tumbling to a 15,500 foot death.

I am scared but surprisingly not for myself. I’m more worried about my friends who don’t have gloves and could easily get frostbite. My gloved hands were instantly frozen when the snow started and these were gloves that kept me warm through the torrential downpours of Machu Picchu (the last time I was caught in the rath of  mother nature only that time there were porters and guides leading us to dry areas and keeping us safe).

For some odd reason (probably because of all my Red Cross training or maybe because I was wearing my Red Cross t-shirt) I stay calm and at one point develop an on the spot emergency action plan if one of us happens to get struck by lightning or slips down the mountain. For a good five minutes I grappled with the notion of sheltering in place under an overhang of rocks because of the lightening but decided against it because there was no end to the clouds in sight and my friends did not have the clothes to withstand the cold.  There were points where the thunder shook the mountain so hard that rocks were shaken from their long standing homes and tumbled down the mountain, one of which knicked Tara’s ear. Within fifteen minutes there was a good inch of snow on the ground and after thirty minutes about four. Luckily this made skiing down the sand portion of the mountain, now snow portion that much easier and under different circumstances might have even been a little fun. After an hour of slipping and sliding, lightning dodging and shoe skiing we make it to a point where we can slow our pace. My adrenaline is still pumping but it is not enough to realize that I have a shooting pain running from my right knee to my ankle amplified more and more by the freezing temperature. I have to dig deep, real deep to keep my pain under wraps as I know my friends, who have been doing surprisingly well considering the circumstances, will come unraveled if I say I can not go on. It is the Ecuatoriana, my angel, who realizes something is wrong with me and quietly makes her way to my side where she whispers the motivating words I need to hear to go on. Her boyfriend also needs these whispers and the two fall back a few minutes behind us.

After an hour and a half the three of us reach the Teleferiqo, soaked to the core. We jump on the first gondola and make our way down as Inca Rici, the Ecua sun god, ironically decides to break the clouds. We are in one piece, shaken, and wet but thankful for our lives and for the grand story we have to tell our family and friends. My one regret, I did not get the Ecuatoriana’s name or phone number, a true sign that I had an angel looking after me yesterday.

From Drop Box

As the seven o´clock bell tolls

To awake at the early hour of five o’clock means that you will inevitably stumble into the bathroom in such a dreamy state that you will forget, time and time again what it means to work the shower in this country.  Your dreams are instantly swept away when you realize how scalding hot the water is. This prompts you to turn the knob more than the millimeter needed to cool it down and once again you are shocked into awareness only this time by the frigid stream coming down upon you. It takes about a minute of the millimeter scramble to get to the perfect temperature although by this time only a dribble of water escapes from the shower head and it is easier to turn the water off and on as needed. 

In racing out the door you mutter something about having a good day to Piedad and Andrea. Always a little awkwardly as it has been a very long time since other people have lived the early morning hours of a teacher with you, so much so that you do not remember quite how to navigate the social norms of a sleepy morning. 
 As you step out your gate the moon, in a sunny sky, is just about to disappear behind the mountain you have previously climbed serving as a reminder that no matter how challenging the day may be you have had harder and you have always made do with a smile on your face.

The walk you are about to take has two parts to it. The first takes on the purpose of personal and peaceful reflection, two things that are hard to find a time and a place for. You have six blocks of downward zig zags through, what seems to be, Quito’s only quiet neighborhood, the only thing breaking the silence being the clippity clop of your outrageously trendy, extremely uncomfortable but culturally necessary shoes. Of which, alert the attack Chihuahuas that you swear will one day squeeze through their abodes fences and bite you with the veracity of a hungry hyena. As you approach the park and hear the church bells toll 6:30 you pick up your pace and prepare yourself for the second part of your journey.

It is here that you reach the streets with a never ending sea of blue busses, whistling policeman and the general bustle of many people holding the same purpose as you, to get to work on time. It is also here that you encounter the first challenge of the day, tackling the broken, often wet, pavement in the aforementioned outrageously trendy, extremely uncomfortable but culturally necessary shoes. You swear that the quick side steps and painful ankle rolls will either replace your klutzy nature with the poise you always wished you had or land you in the hospital with two broken femurs. You also have to contend with the constant stream of black diesel exhaust and young men who apparently have nothing better to do at 6:30 in the morning than to cat call and pst pst you.

And as you finally reach El Trole, or metro line, you realize how painstakingly insignificant you actually are. Where a seemingly nice old lady shoves you with the force of a gorilla into the bus, a tall mans behind nestles itself oh so serendipitously into the curve of your back and your breasts somehow seem to be in direct proximity and view of a man that has no problem with it. As your muscles constrict and contract with every swaying stop you remind yourself of the mountain and grasp inwardly for the peace of the first part of your morning. Finally you reach La “Y” stop and practically run the two blocks to SECAP where you brave the elevator five floors and greet the smiling faces of your students as the seven church bells start to chime. 

A Clearing Amongst the Clouds

The whirlwind that is learning, adapting and assimilating to a new culture, a new place, calms a bit in the classroom. Not to say there are not minor rain showers here and there but in the classroom I know how to handle them, which is in stark contrast to the lightning that strikes in the streets of Quito. The classroom is my home, my comfort. I am baffled at the resilience of my compadres, who are, not only taking in this new place but learning to teach at the same time. I would get swept away in the winds of the hurricane if I had to juggle both.

Although the norms are different, the people, the conversations, the learning, the laughing are the same in any classroom. They create a calmness -an acceptance in the optimism of humanity- in me. It is here that I can shed my raincoat, figuratively and literally. No matter if I am teaching suburban high schoolers in the US, orphaned boys in Guatemala city, high school teachers and nuns at a catholic high school, or young adults seeking to advance themselves in a classicist society, I am safe in the storm shelter that is my classroom. I learn from my students, they learn from me. We work together to create a clearing in the clouds, to see glimpses of the sun. And although that sun might only show itself for a second here or a minute there it is enough to give me the strength to brave the storm that I must face when I close the classroom door for the night.

Buen Provencho!

Imagine this, you wake up in the morning, clean yourself up and, as you are putting that last arm into your shirt, you are greeted by your house Mom asking how you slept and if you are ready for breakfast. Am I ready for breakfast?! Of course I am ready for breakfast and of course I slept well because I was dreaming of, not only breakfast but all the mouth watering foods I will encounter in the coming day. And if breakfast continues to have freshly squeezed juices from fruits with names I can not pronounce nor spell I may just have to give you repeated hugs in addition to the many “muy buenos” and “me gustos” I give you throughout the meal, even if that makes you think I am an even crazier American.

Then, as you are sitting through a training on no sé cuanto, you start to ponder your options for lunch, almuerzo de Indian, de Cubano, de Italiano, and most importantly de tipico all of which include a sumptuous sopa, meat, rice, and plantains, and all of which are generally under $3.00. This is heaven, pure unadulterated heaven. And if you want to go even cheaper than $3.00 you can get an Empanada de Argentina oozing with the creamiest of cheeses and slices of succulent jamon for just $1. One freaking dollar! And the restaurant is located just a hop skip and a jump from your afternoon Spanish class leaving you with a few minutes to catch up on some emails before being slammed with verb after verb after irregular verb.

As you wrap up your 10 hour day you realize that no matter if you go out with your fellow volunteers for drinks or you hop straight onto the Trans Planeta bus you will have a hot plate of food prepared for you the second you put the key in the lock of your new home. Not one day has gone by without a new dish to be had. From Muchines (fried yucca w/ cheese in the middle) to shrimp frittatas, or the most amazing ceviche, to a plain old plate of rice and lentils, you eat it all. Your favorites are the sopas. Personally you have barely mastered the making of one soup, Piedad, on the other hand, has at least ten under her belt. Man, the smells alone make your mouth water more than Marmaduke the dog.

And if by chance you are not home for weekend desayuno or almuerzo, you still know that this country will not let your foodie cravings down. It will surprise you with a fresh out of the oven creamy chocolate brownie, better than any you have ever had before. Then it will bring you a plate of ox tail that you can not eat fast enough. Oh the life, the life.

Now, this friends is what we call being food spoiled. There are no if’s and’s or but’s about it. To clear my conscious of any guilt associated with being food spoiled I offer to do the dishes every meal. It’s my hope that if I do enough of them that maybe just maybe I’ll be invited into Piedad’s kitchen and she will teach me how to make these foods that I know will haunt my taste buds for the rest of my life.