a christmas card

I awoke this morning to the sounds of classic Christmas songs and the rare occurrence of a warm December sun filtering through the ironwork of the bedroom window. Any other year, I would grab my sister's hand and jump on my parents' bed to wake my dad up. Yes, at the age of 27 and my sister 24, we still do this. Her boyfriend joined us last year when we were in Southern Utah at my Granparents' home. I don't wanna grow up... I'm a Toys-R-Us kid...


This year, I spend my first Holiday Season on the equator and 9,000 feet up in the atmosphere. Christmas Eve was spent sipping Jack Daniels (a rare treat here due to the incredible liquor taxes) and dancing with my bar mates. As we all know, teachers are tremendously underpaid; so I took a job bartending a few nights a week to put a little plata (money) in my pocket. The Irish owner and Scottish manager have taken me under their wings and I am well on my way to, well... Probably becoming a certified alcoholic. With all of my fellow teachers being back at their respective homes with their families, I joined my kilt-wearing boss (yep, you read that right. It's awesome.) and our motley crew of bar owners and we inhabited one of their bars in La Mariscal (the bar & club district).


Not my typical Christmas Eve. I have grown accustomed to drinking wine and Irish Coffees, watching "White Christmas", reading Twas The Night Before Christmas, sitting around the Christmas tree, and opening a single present, per tradition. Instead I drank Jack Daniels on the rocks, danced to Flogging Molly, took vodka shooters with a Texan and an OU fan (sorry, Dallas folk), and ate salchipapas (garlicky french fries with mayonesa and Ecuadorian ketchup, a fruity red sauce).


With Mariah Carey's "All I Want For Christmas" (the most debated Christmas song of all time) drifting through the halls of my apartment, I began to futz around, dabbling in a little bit of everything on my list of things to do before I leave for the coast tomorrow: packing bikinis and flip flops, cleaning the kitchen, facebooking my friends and family, dancing in my underwear... Hey, I live with two guys, this is the only chance I have. Don't judge me.


My stomach decided that Jack Daniels is not a suitable dinner, nor does it carry over for breakfast, and I grabbed my keys and shuffled down my empty street to find the one place in Quito that might have a person manning the stove or a counter. The insanely empty streets were only occupied by the warm, equator sun and this gringa with a rumbly tummy. Even Jerry, the local tienda German Shepherd, was probably lying underneath the family table waiting for the 10 year old son to drop some pavo (turkey) or papas (potatoes). Only the guard halfway down Echeverria, who always calls me niña or mija, was around to greet me warmly as I wandered to Ave. America. Crossing the massive intersection was remarkably easy with everyone being occupied with families, and the absence of the unrelenting horn-honking was the best Christmas preset ever.


As I handed over my $1.50 for a large bowl of pork, mote, mice (corn), avocado, tomatoes, tostada (roasted corn), onions, potatoes and plantains and smiled at the thirty-something woman who stood proudly as the lone vendor in the streets of Quito. As I walked back to my apartment to once again bask in my favorite Christmas songs, no longer blinded by hunger, I started noticing there were a few stragglers making their ways here and there. A small girl of probably 7 and her mother, presumably, ate the same sustenance that I carried, but out of small, yellow, plastic baggies (fairly common when eating in the streets, as it creates less waste) and sat silently on a half wall in front of the closed farmacia. This is their Christmas.

Christmas Breakfast

I thought back to running down the stairs at 7:00 in the morning, though I'd been up since before dawn out of pure excitement, and my parents video taping my sister and I freak out over packages and stocking stuffers. I remembered the huge turkey dinners and endless amounts of sides surrounding the grand bird. I sifted through my Christmas memories, even those with past loves and their families, and I was filled to the brim with gratitude. I have been so fortunate in not just my holidays, but in my life.


The smirk I had on my face as I giggled to myself about having fritadas on Christmas morning quickly disappeared, and for the first time in a long time, I gave thanks to the universe for my $1.50 styrofoam bowl and little green plastic spoon. I walked home silently, no longer humming "O Come All Ye Faithful" and waited until I was in my home to properly appreciate every delicious bite of my Christmas breakfast. Yes, I miss the traditional cinnamon rolls (I CALL MIDDLE!) but, I must admit, this was one of the best meals I have ever had. When I finished, "Carol of the Bells" rang through my ears and my heart, and out of gratitude and understanding, I wept. I smell like cilantro (and probably a little whiskey), my alarm won't stop beeping, I am alone in a foreign country, and I couldn't be happier with knowing this is where I am supposed to be and yo tengo mucho suerte... I am so very fortunate.


Wherever you are, whatever iPad 2 or Kindle you unwrap, be sure to hug those that surround you for just a few more seconds. Hug them for me. Give extra kisses to parents and grandparents. Kiss them for me. Bask in the sunshine, sip a Bloody Mary (another Christmas morning tradition in my family) and actually feel the sun. Stand in the snow a bit longer, so your hot chocolate or Baileys & coffee (love you, Mom) tastes that much sweeter and warms you to your core. Raise a glass of Egg Nog and appreciate your family, your life, and the simple, beautiful things.


From Ecuador, I send my love and best wishes. My 2012 be the year you finally say "Yes" to your heart and to helping others find theirs. To my family, both blood and acquired by living, you are missed, you are loved, you are appreciated.

Suerte y amor para todos....


xx.a

home is where the whiskey is

It is often said that home is where the heart is. There are elements of truth to this sentiment, however it raises additional questions as to the literal and metaphorical meanings of this saying.


Let's start with "Home". The literal version, being where you live, is fairly obvious. However, over the years, I have noticed that I haven't always used the term 'home' to describe where I lived. I often said, "I left it at the apartment" or "I'm at the house" instead of labeling my residence by an emotional term: home. I really liked where I lived (sometimes), but it felt as though it was a fallacy to thrust such a strong, evocative term upon them... It was if I were to call a man I had just started seeing my 'boyfriend' and it would change the entire dynamic of the relationship. I feel as though I need to "date" a place before committing to it, let alone dropping big words like "home" and "love".


Someone very close to me said that in all his travels, his bed was the most important thing. When he moved to Melbourne, Australia he prioritized his bed as the most important aspect of his residence: it wasn't home until he had his preferred bed. My back agrees with him. I told him I needed a place to call my own: a door to shut to be alone and a place to put my stuff so I could live & explore.


I remember my first house in Santa Ana, California relatively well, especially considering I was 4 when we left it. It was a sweet, one story home on a street lined with huge trees. It had a brick front porch (laid by my parents I believe) and when you walked in, the dark carpet lead you to the hallway on your right with all of the rooms, as well as the living room straight ahead. The kitchen had linoleum floors and I remember staring at them when it hurt to eat my chicken nuggets and, shortly after, my mom told me the doctors needed to take my tonsils out. I remember a dark brown, wood coffee table that I pushed my baby sister off of onto that dark carpet and got in trouble. It was that same table I hid behind my dad when we watched E.T. Extraterrestrial because that damned alien was going to chase me. It was this home that I remember putting on heels and packing a suitcase to go to work just like my parents, though child labor laws discriminated against me. I have these memories, I can see the house, I remember Jesse, the little boy next door, but none of this makes it a home.


My house since March of 1989 feels like home. That house saw twenty birthdays, three proms, countless dates, a half dozen boyfriends, my first kiss with a girl, my second kiss with a boy, my absolute worst day ever, some of my favorite days ever, life coming into the world, life leaving the world, and life moving on. I remember my sister and I being in trouble and we sat in our doorways and communicated silently about absolutely nothing, just to do it. I remember sliding down the once blue carpet of our 14-step stairs on my bum making random noises just to see what it would sound like as I went faster and faster. I know the slope of the front yard well enough to be able to close my eyes and let the grass tell me before I stub my toe on the cement sidewalk for the hundredth time.


Conversely, it is not just that I grew up in this house in Corona that makes it home: it is in fact, my family. Our memories make it home. Returning to this vault of memories after five years away, my room was completely different from paint to pictures; but I still slept better than I had in years. The energy, the memories, the love...


Since I left home at the age of twenty, I have lived in 11 apartments and houses, including my place in Quito, Ecuador, where I currently reside. That's seven years, folks, and a lot of shifting, packing, storing, moving, unpacking, repacking, and stacking. I. Hate. Moving.


I do, however, love traveling. Lately I have been pondering the reasons why I am so comfortable being über-independent and why I crave traveling the world as much as I do. I'm 27 years old, shouldn't I be looking for a mate and to settle down with all the trimmings (i.e.- house, car, kids, etc.)? I have pondered if the fact that the only constant in my life over the last 7-10 years has been change has allowed me to grow accustomed to inconsistency.


"The only things certain in life are death and taxes."


And change.


I moved to Ecuador two short but life-filled months ago to teach English as a foreign language. I visit various companies and teach their HR departments, general managers and top executives Business English. Every day is different for me: the classes I teach, the people I meet, the things I see. Every week someone in my life leaves or a new person enters. The temporary nature of the career may be exactly what I need to get my fix of change without denying myself (or others in my life) the importance of steady life.


In all of the eleven places I lived in the last seven years, the one that felt most like home was the only place I lived alone, my apartment in Irving, Texas. It was absolutely mine from paint to pictures. Now, here in Quito, I find myself feeling at home more and more as time goes by. Perhaps, it is the two incredible people I have found myself living with. Both of my roommates, though respectfully different, managed to charm their way into my heart. Today, I found myself chatting with them both as one streamed American NFL games and the other prepped to shoot a music video and I was sewing their clothes that needed mending and offering to cook breakfast. When did I become a housewife to an American and an Ecuadorian? I'll let you know when I finish the laundry and the dishes...


That brings us to "Heart". All of those things make me happy. I am beginning to think that people have a huge influence on whether a domicile feels like a residence or a home. But wait... That can't be. I am ridiculously hesitant to depend on others for anything... Especially my happiness. So, where does that leave me? My heart- my true soulmate and companion in this life/ is always honest with me and I listen to it way too much- shows me what makes me happy. When I am happy, I am home. I suppose that at this point I must admit that a cliché is actually something I can't scoff at, dammit.


What makes me happy? Jesus, that's the question of the century. The list I have developed is a red hot, dichotomous mess. It's awesome. Perhaps it is a little more personal than I'd prefer to venture in this blog, but those AP Lit students out there can tap their deductive reading skills and make their own conclusions from previous blogs. Basically, anything involving travel, friends, food, whiskey, wine, beer, art, surprises, writing, or education is a fair shot. If you can combine any of those, you're in great shape.


There are things that I miss dearly that make me feel at home: whiskey (so expensive here I can't afford it) In-n-Out Burger, Sriracha, Tapatio, good cheese (that melts), Pho, Pandora, good spaghetti sauce, being able to carry my iPhone in public, buying booze on Sundays, and Red Bull. Some have decent substitutes and some do not... Please, dear readers, go out and indulge in these in my honor.


As I have traveled to eight uniquely amazing countries, I have left a part of me there, as a thank you to the country and its culture. I have also managed to take with me a new part of me that I was unaware existed. If I am leaving a part of my heart in places like Japan, Ireland and Italy... Is it then possible that my home- which resides with or within my heart- is then everywhere as well? I believe, with all my heart-pieces, that it absolutely is.


My home, with my family, will always be such and I am grateful. My home, within myself, is something I need to remember is very real and very beautiful. My future homes- be it alone, with friends, or a mate- will be a fantastic chapter in my life and I am eagerly (but patiently) anticipating that time.


I know not where my next house will be, let alone my next home, but I do know that wherever it stands, it better have room for my heart. And a bottle of whiskey.


Missing home, but making a new one... Hearts and stars to the States.


xx.a

Quito, Ecuador.... My new home....

¡SIGA! ¡SIGA! ¡SIGA!

Every day I leave my house in La "Y" (pronounced: 'La Yay') and wander down the broken asphalt of Echaverria to our giant Roundabout-o-Death in hopes of a miraculous break in traffic so I can scurry across dodging cars, motorbikes, buses, horns, and sly comments in Castellano (Spain-influenced Spanish).  I walk down to the corner, past the tienda where we buy our beer, eggs and bread, and stand amongst other Quiteños and hope the next electric blue, smog machine that comes barreling down the feeder road is headed my way.  

My limousine.  I like to share. 

I am fortunate enough to have been born a woman, in that the bus will almost completely stop for me when I am attempting to get on.  When I am strapped into 3+ inch heels, this is a blessing beyond comprehension by the male brain (well, most male brains, but that's another story entirely).  The humor in that we as women are given a hard time about the buses treating us well (they also stop for people who look like they could be 100 years old and anyone carrying a child like a football or basket of bread) is that once we are on that first step, the bus driver- conductor- is off.  Most times, it feels as if he has skipped first gear entirely and thrown the blue beast into second gear and we are handing our twenty-five cents over to the controlador (fare-collector) who wanders up and down the aisle.  How they remember who paid and didn't during rush hour is beyond me, and I have a knack for faces.  

During rush hour, getting on the bus is an Olympic event.  Usually, I must climb on amidst countless other (not to mention over-capacity) Quiteños and squeeze in between a middle-aged man who, coincidentally, falls at the appropriate height to function as a guard for the money stashed in my bra, should I need him to, and an indigenous woman with a baby strapped to her with a bed sheet and a bag of some unnamed vegetable either on her head or squared between her short, sturdy legs.  The crowd is not conducive to personal space, let alone the aforementioned jerking of the bus, which causes you to get to know your immediate traveling companion in the biblical sense.  

Standard method for carrying babies, though typically more complex in the wrap. This one looks like he can breathe, which is an anomaly.

On the off hours, you should find a simple plastic seat with your name on it.  Those who sit in the aisle do not rise or scoot over to allow you to pass by and lower yourself onto the window adjacent seat; they simply scoot both knees to the aisle and keep their glazed stare on the passing buildings or on the sales person selling choclates, caramelos, dulces, and chicle.  No one wants their bag sliced.  The dull roar of the engine and warm sun beaming through the messy glass makes for a nostalgic ride, like when we were babies and our parents, worn out from pacing us back and forth while we wailed, would strap us into the car and drive us around the block until we were lulled into a peaceful slumber. 


Sometimes there are entertainers who enter the bus, much like those selling soccer nets, sweets, ice cream, music, hats, chips, etc.  I have seen two boys under the age of ten come on to the trolé and blow the windows out of it with two classical guitars and voices that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up out of respeto.  Conversely, I have had a tall, goofy man with skin the color of lacquer come on with a jump drive and speakers and rap the same three words over and over and then stick his hand in my face for his due diligence.  Back it up, buddy. No me gusta.

¡SIGA!  ¡SIGA!  ¡SIGA!

It means "Go ahead..." but it comes across as, "Get on the goddamn bus and get away from the door".  The laid back, round-to-it attitude of the Latin Americans disappears as soon as that electric blue tank rolls around the corner of the redondel and screech to a halt- never where you are, mind you, but about ten feet away and around ankle-breaking potholes- and you hear ¡SIGA! Shit.


Every parada where countless ¡SIGA! exclamations are poured out of the open bus door onto the grimy streets of Quito, I see people get off the bus and return to their private lives; filing into twenty story buildings, wandering into local restaurantes or exchanging kisses and handshakes with loved ones.  At stop lights, local performers wander between vehicles juggling bowling pins, spinning poi, throwing balls over buses to their counterpart, riding unicycles, you name it. Older indigenous women meander the lanes with newspapers, fresh corn on the cob, lottery tickets and handmade items.  Pedestrians scramble to cross the asphalt before the light changes to green and horns begin to blare out of sheer habit.  Drivers pitan (honk) and have zero remorse... Think NYC with flavor. 

Exiting the bus is by far the least stressful leg of my daily adventure, I bid a lighthearted Gracias to the holder of my destiny as a thanks for not killing me between La 'Y' and Estadio Olympico (where my employer is).  As the bus rolls away, I always find myself feeling as though I left a part of myself on the bus... With the child who was turned around in their seat looking over their mother's shoulder at the gringa smiling back... With the old man with the brown fedora perfectly framing his experienced face and snow-white hair that has probably lived two or three lifetimes.... With the woman wrangling three children who want nothing more than ice cream from the man in the bright red uniform on the bicycle...

I am amazed at the pace of the daily life here in Quito.  The incredible people who unknowingly cling to their culture inspire me to look deeper into mine, as well as to create my own.  I know in my heart, that every day I am fortunate to be here in Ecuador and that this was by far the best decision of my life.  My "Year of the Yes" will continue into 2012, without a doubt, and I will continue to ¡SIGA! every chance I get.  A massive part of my blessings are derived from the people I have met here... But that is another blog, as they deserve recognition, if for nothing else, just for helping me find my home here in South America. 

Go forth... ¡SIGA!

xx.a

¡SI SE PUEDE!

When I made the decision to move to South America, I knew a massive lifestyle change was in order. This meant more than giving up In-n-Out Burger, more than missing out on watching TV shows with my folks, and more than leaving worldly goods behind in the states. I traded my car for a bus and 'trole' system, I traded Red Robin for Seco de Pollo at a corner shop where they remember your face, and I traded American football for fútbol de Súdamerica... Well, I still stream the NFL with my roommate, but that doesn't mean I can't love both.

I knew when I started applying down in good 'ol Latin America that I'd need to stick with the national team of whichever country I inhabited for the next year. The bright, primary colors of Ecuador's national team bring a sense of pride and quality to the match- which is awesome because I can't foresee myself getting behind a team wearing pastels.

My roommate, Ian, and I decided we were going to take advantage of our schedules while we could and jumped a city bus for the 10 minute ride to the stadium. Everywhere you looked, Ecuador was represented by the shirts on their backs, scarves around their necks, paint on their faces, and the gleam in their eyes. The local business along Naciones Unidas (the main avenue leading up to the stadium) opened their parking lots to vendors with massive tables piled high with royal blue and sunshine yellow merchandise. Jerseys, hats, jackets, scarves, bracelets, vuvuzelas, wigs, and anything else you could imagine. I bought Valencia's #16 bright yellow jersey and Ian purchased a royal blue zip-up jacket, both sporting "ECUADOR" across the back and both of us bargained in soft, yellow scarves from Otavalo to complete our sportsmanship.

We dipped in to a local liquor store and purchased large Pilseners and walked the last block to the stadium. I'm pretty sure that every police officer in the city of Quito was out in full force- on foot, motorcycle, and mounted on horses- and they are my favorite. Well, the men are, because when I smile and say, "Buenas tardes" they always smile back, tip their hats, and unleash a plethora of kind sayings and well wishes. The women on the force are not so friendly... But I'm working on them.

Ian and I stood under a large tree directly in front of the stadium drinking our cold beers and people watching a sea of brilliant yellow and blue, sprinkled with red and white Peruvian supporters. Various chants rose up in to the clear blue sky, filling the warm, thicker than normal air with energy and anticipation. Two dozen police officers with dogs in tow- well, lying in the shade blissfully- occupied the area behind us, while a promotional team comprised of two good looking men and five ridiculously hot women painted faces and posed for photos directly in front of us. Of course, we elected to have our faces painted with the three stripes of the Flag of Ecuador; purely for sportsmanship, of course.

We ran into a few friends who were leaving for Buenos Aires the following day, shared our beers and rum with them, and wished them well. We managed, per usual, to make a random friend in a matter of moments during our chat and followed the Kiwi into the stadium to stake our claim on spots for the match. Our Kiwi friend led us to two tall, mustached gentleman- one from Colorado and the other Toronto- who I nestled in between (standing a foot shorter, it felt, and I enjoyed my break from towering over people) and pressed up against the concrete half-wall and ordered a beer. Game on.

Looking around at 30,000 fellow fútbol fans screaming, laughing, drinking, eating, babbling on about who knows what... It was invigorating. I felt alive as the sun kissed my skin and warmed my hair, the wind blew softly on occasion, moving my scarf and hair about in its own fashion, and waiting with baited breath for Ecuador to sex the ball into the net.

Goal.

A shower of beer came down on us as quickly as the ball entered the Peruvian goal and the drum, lucky for us it was two rows directly in front of us, shot up in the air and a man in his late twenties with a jester hat raised a clenched hand holding a drum stick and beat the living hell out of the drum. "¡Soooooy Ecuatorianooooos!" All 30,000 sang in unison. Goosebumps. Shredded newspaper fell as confetti and fans hugged, kissed, cheered and ordered more beers. I shared my beer (a very common and appreciated gesture here) with the jester hat and we all cheered again.

Goal.

Could this really be happening? If Ecuador were to lose this match, they would be eliminated from the runnings for all the cups coming up and leading to the World Cup Brazil 2014, I was told. They lead 2-0 and players from both teams were being carted off the green grass if the field every few minutes. The game was so good, even the 'seguridad' placed around the field were watching the match, relying on the massive concrete trench and barbed wire fence to keep unruly fans in the stands.

"¡VAMOS ECUADOR!"

The smell of sweat, beer, and fútbol filled the air and we were loving every second of it. Ian and I were helping the drum crew pass beers down from the vendor and they invited us to join the celebration on their level. We quickly and clumsily scaled the half-wall I had formed a relationship with by this point, and joined the fun a little closer in. Directly behind the goal is not a bad place to be, I must admit. They handed us beers and we cheered louder and harder than before, and both of our Spanish improved a fair amount during this match, oddly enough. 

The whistle blew, precious Pilsener went into the air, joining more shredded newspaper confetti and there was a deafening roar. Half a dozen men in bright yellow jerseys grabbed massive, dated looking fire extinguishers and aimed them directly over the crowd. (Note: These things used to terrify me, thanks to my good friend, Nik, I felt a sense of empowerment knowing that this white foam would rain down on me and I owned it. Thanks, Nik.) Much to my surprise; red, blue, and yellow rocketed out of the hoses and showered us with fanaticism. The jester, wearing what was a white shirt, now looked like a smurf, having caught the brunt of the blue concoction and was thrilled to be blue. Ian lunged for the victory drum, cheered enthusiastically and thrust it solidly into the air. The jester grabbed his instrument of enthusiasm and began the victory chant... And Ian was the foundation.

Covered in beer, fire extinguisher residue of all colors, sweat, and the city... Ian and I walked home through the park watching the clouds that seemed to be turning red in ,support of Ecuadorian victory, against the blue sky. The buses were filled with happy tired fans, people on their way home from work with longing looks in their eyes at the missed adventure, and us: two gringos who took the opportunity to be a part of the culture that is hosting us for a year, and will never be the same. Gracias, Ecuador... Si se puede.

xx.a

no gringos were harmed in the making of this blog

Let's start simple: I like a lot of things. I like adventure, hot showers, delicious new foods, inside jokes, massages, painting, a good beer, a good whiskey, making people laugh, surprises, photography, kissing... The list goes on. Trust me. The things I do NOT like is much shorter: Rude people, being cold constantly, headaches, negativity, liars, oranges, and ignorance.

After a fantastic night of drinking, dancing, and making new friends, my roommate, Ian, and I woke up early to a cold, dark apartment. We have electric showers. Did I mention how much I love hot showers? And despise freezing my tots (yes, tots) off? Damn. So, sans electricity, we bundled up, grabbed some treats from the local bakery and scurried to the first of a few bus stations. The overcast morning partially disguised the beautiful Andes mountains, but the bolder peaks managed to stand strong for their 15 minutes of fame here and there. After a few changes, we settled in on a relatively clean, electric blue bus with matching velvet curtains & velvet reclining seats. I kept damning the luck that our camera got picked off our group in Tulcán the first weekend I arrived.

The dilapidated houses and strangely colored businesses lined the streets of northern Quito, and each took a part of me as I stared out the window over Ian's folded arms while we were flying by them. This bus was not exempt from the street vendors selling powdered milk, candies, Seco de Pollo, sodas, bootleg DVDs, music, and other, usually unidentified, items. 

The white fringe in the front window of the bus swung back and forth in unison with the passengers as Barbie Princess en Español with talking gatos (cats) played loudly between bursts of static on the TV behind the driver. Standard popular Ecuadorian music played relentlessly from the driver's stereo on the other side of the TV. Paired with the city traffic and the repetitive lists of what was 'se vende' (for sale) marching up an down the center aisle, our situation did not bode well for grabbing a few Z's. I ignored my headache the best I could, shoving it further and further back in my head until I managed to make room for the sweet thoughts of coconut drinks, textile shopping, new foods, and another new adventure in Ecuador.

Otavalo was absolutely charming. A small town set in the Andes, about 2 hours north of Quito, was sprinkled with all sorts of people. Saturdays host the biggest and best market, wherein local vendors, indigenous families, adventurous tourists, hopeful children, and random backpackers alike venture out to find the ultimate treasure.

Every textile invited me to run my fingertips over its threaded nature; the most brilliant cotton weaves, the softest alpaca wraps and scarves, the most intricate woven bracelets... It was all too much.

Musical instruments begged to be strummed, beaten, blown, and played at every turn. Wooden Andean pan flutes (WAY harder to play than anticipated) wrapped in an array of brilliant braided knots, small, solid guitars- either painted or carved to bewilder the eye as well as the ear- and brightly styled maracas called to me. I cannot wait to get my ukulele and start learning!

Ian is a haggling god. With that being said, I was prepared to see either this man swindle old ladies or be pushed around by them, but I was surprisingly impressed. He managed to secure amazing deals for his family gifts and still leave the vendors happy. I started taking notes immediately. By the end of the day, thanks to Ian, I too had scored some sweet deals in the middle of the Andean mountains in Ecuador. My life is rad.

I felt exhilarated and needed to taste more. Literally. I snagged this random food cart as it was passing by and asked for this softball sized monster of a snack. "Papas Rellenos, sesenta centavos, por favor" he chirped. I like me some papas, and sixty cents will sell me on most anything, so I threw some ají (salsa/hot sauce) on top and wandered back to Ian. We parked it on a curb behind two thirty-something ladies selling bracelets and scarves and bit into what has become my new favorite food in Ecuador. A hard boiled egg, buried in tasty flavored rice and tender beef, wrapped in a spiced tortilla and in my belly as fast as I could get it. Don't worry, Mom, I shared like you taught me.

Papas Rellenos

To my dismay, we were never able to track down the coconut drink vendor, but at least I have another reason to return in the future. Oh, and the fifty things I want to buy.

In the center of the open market were food vendors, selling everything from fresh fruits and vegetables to chicken heads and feet (one was looking at me...) and spices. Indigenous women wrapped in jewel tone shawls and donning fedora hats with peacock feathers or colorful hair wraps cooked contently for anyone who would stop. We decided to sit down on the toddler-sized stools in front of a small table with a massive pan over gas burners. Potatoes, a few veggies, and what was described as "Carne" by the small, but plump, indigenous woman (we called it "Mystery Meat") on a small plate for 'una dolorita' and we were set. Small, stray dogs wandered up to us and gave us "the look" but I informed them I don't speak very much Spanish and they'd have to try another table. Yes, it actually worked. Ian ate more than I did, but we both waved cautious white flags in the face of the Mystery Meat as a preemptive strike against food poisoning. (No gringos were harmed in the making of this blog.)

Paintings, hand carved wood, pipes, kitchen ware, bitchen hammocks, clothes, candy, spices, hats... Otavalo had everything and I wanted to build a home with everything I saw. I pried myself away from the market, having only purchased a small, hand painted bowl for myself, and Ian and I loaded onto another electric blue bus. Fed, walked, and played with, we were both ready to nap. Anyone see where this is going?

This time, there were no reclining seats, no charming, old Ecuadorian movies to win me over... Instead, we were plagued with Jean Claude Van Damme's "Cyborg" dubbed in crappy Spanish voices absolutely blaring over the shoddy speakers on the Blue Bus of Death. After 2 hours of horrible explosions and grunting (I am not going to clarify if that's the movie or the bus. Use your imagination.) we ran from the bus and I looked adoringly upon my new treasures from the Middle of Nowhere, Andes, Ecuador.

Until we meet again, Otavalo...

salsa is delicious but hurts my feet

Admittedly, I wasn't feeling pumped yesterday, which is rare for me. I should've known all I needed was a little YOTY in my life. (Note: YOTY = "Year Of The Yes", where I say 'Yes' to everything physically and financially possible for 2011. This has brought me much joy, as well as a few battle scars.) So when I finished a delicious lunch of Seco de Carne with my fantastic roommates, we all returned home for a siesta, and I was pretty much set on staying in and reading. What was holding me back? I have some family stuff going on, but I'm 3,500 miles away and I need to take advantage of this very moment in my life.

So, I took a nap, fixed a rum drink (extremely popular here), threw on some make-up and a snazzy shirt, and marched down the hall in heels, shaking what my mamma gave me. Boom, let's do this. My American roommate didn't join us this evening due to obligations, however my Ecuadorian roommate led the way as his beautiful and hilarious friend, Alejandra, drove us to the Club District.

As a tall, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, freckled gringa (in heels, dammit) walking into a Salsa club... Ya turn a few heads. Now, I was told by a couple of Ecuadorians back in the states that I would never find a boyfriend in Ecuador because they will not find me attractive or sexy.

Bullshit.

Let's be clear; I am definitely not looking for a boyfriend (or otherwise) during this chapter of my life. However, that's a strange thing to have floating in the back of my mind as I step of the plane:

"Wow, Amie, you just move to Ecuador. Alone. Hell yes. You're a badass and you're living your life... But get used to it because the Andean men won't look twice, gringa."

So, as we strolled to the bar to get our drinks, I felt eyes upon me. And by "upon me" I mean "molesting me". Hmmm... Could those strange men have been wrong? Meh. I'm here for Salsa music- and dancing, hopefully- not the approval of the men of Quito.

I took in everything I could... The concrete floors, open-faced brick walls, the modern looking bar with an orange glow emanating from below, and even the disco ball that rotated slowly above me. My crimped hair fell over my shoulders, but the turquoise lace long-sleeved shirt and tight jeans probably gathered more attention than my freckles this time around.

A slightly older gentleman approached me and reached out his hand for mine. "¿Quieres bailar?", Marco asked me. I smiled and informed him, "Primera vez"... It was my first time. He was kind, taught me a few moves, and then asked to see what I could do. His white shirt, unbuttoned a few buttons to reveal salt and pepper chest hair and a massive silver cross, moved with him and he was leading me around enough to help me fit in. Part of me felt alive, part of me ridiculous. Either way, I knew I wasn't going to have an early night.

Thankfully, I have rhythm for a white girl and didn't embarrass him (or myself) too badly. My roommate & Alé ran into some people they knew and my favorite part of the culture became eminent: The introduction.

When Ecuadorians introduce one another, or even greet each other, they always say "Hola" or "Mucho gusto" and kiss on the cheek. Men and women or women and women, men will shake hands, and often hug if they are akin to one another. I've met dozens of people thus far, and the side-kiss has yet to get old. I look forward to the moment where my roommate introduces me and I am welcomed into the moment with a complete stranger.

We greeted and kissed one another and my roommate leans over and informs me that the men he just introduced me to are professional Salsa dancers. Grrreeeaaaaaat. I'm the white girl from LA who speaks un poco de Español and you brought me to a club (pronounced: cloob) with the pros? Ppshh. Screw it. You only live once.

Saíd (Sa-yeed), with clear eyes, mocha skin and a ridiculous upper body, took my hand and led me towards the disco ball... Damn, why the best of the group? Why the instructor? Why not. "Primera vez..." and Saíd smiled a big, Ecuadorian smile and said with a slight accent, "I teach you, Amie, don't worry". YOTY.

I was told I had rhythm, the hips, the legs, and I could feel the movement of the music. Me? Hell yeah! Let's dance til I can't feel my feet! Oh, shit, I can't feel my feet.

I took a brief break, threw my sweaty mess of a hair up, and watched my roommate twirl around a little Latin lady on the dance floor while I talked to Alé. Then a much older man, we'll call him 'Tío' because he looks like someone's creepy uncle, took my hand and dragged me on the dance floor. I am a lady, and I tried to make the best of it, but Tío was some sort of mess out there. He kept yelling, "Let's go!" uhhhh.... Go where? This dance floor is packed and you've kicked me three times. I thanked him and wandered off to find my posse, and as I begin chatting up Alé in an attempt to catch my breath (damn altitude) this pale, blonde-haired man with red pants on asks me to dance. Sabestián, he informed me, is from Quito and was a decent dancer. He spoke to me in perfect Spanish through two songs, surprisingly I kept up, and bought me a drink, which apparently comes with a phone number.

Saíd's fellow dance champion, Orlando, grabbed my hand and snatched me away from my hipster Quiteño. He spoke quick, nasty Spanish and I didn't understand a single word, so I just answered with the typical answers in English and relished in the consistent surprised faces when I tell them I will be there for a year to teach English. Kike, another professional dancer, didn't understand a word I said, and his ebony, muscular body wriggled all over as I towered almost a foot above him. This is worse than Tío's sweaty palms and incessant yelling.

Women's long, dark hair swung around all throughout the dance floor and men's shirts clung to them, drenched in sweat. The live band- comprised of a half dozen Ecuadorians, a handful of Cubans, and a Russian bass player- sounded off endlessly with beautiful brass sounds from the stage. The lead singer, a bald and chubby man with squinty, kind eyes, had his goatee braided and adorned with multicolored beads.

Around 2:00 am we finally pried ourselves away from the hips and kicks of Salsa at El Aguijón and, dripping with sweat, head back home to ease my aching feet, relish in trying something new, and laugh at how many times Saíd dipped me. The lights of Quito remind me that I'm here for a year and I need to remember to say "Yes" and appreciate how random and amazing my life is. The first time I go Salsa dancing, I go in Ecuador and am taught by professionals. I. Love. My. Life.

xx.a

french-canadian women and ecuadorian men

My plane sat on the tarmac in Houston, Texas awaiting our turn to take to the sky. The sky was glowing bubble gum pink and the plane filled with a warm, gentle light as people fidgeted and adjusted items and settings to ensure their flight was to their liking. I didn't move a muscle. I sat with my coat and scarf in my lap and a small mile on my face, as if I knew something wonderful that noone else knew.

I spoke candidly with a French-Canadian woman, presumably in her 60's, who had lost her husband five years earlier and decided to travel the entire world in her days of retirement. She was very clean, sweet, and had pearls around her neck. She had moved to my empty row to escape being squished between two of her travel mates, which reminded me of the book I have been reading, 'A Woman Alone' which is comprised of short stories from women who have traveled all over without accompaniment or regret. My smile grew slightly.

Her gentle, feminine hands were manicured like my grandmother's, and though proved that she definitely took care of herself, showed experience. One day my hands will look like hers, and it will be an honor. I will wear this badge of experience and adventure with pride. Until then, she really reminded me I need to take better care of my skin.

The French-Canadian woman and I chatted about travel, food, experiences, people, and the things that made us happiest. As she asked me questions about my life, I was honest (even if reluctantly) and wondered, "Would she approve if I am honest?" Wow. I had come to respect this woman like a family member. Why did I care if she approved of me living with two gentlemen? To no surprise, she thought it was fantastic and applauded my bravery in my endeavors.

As we flew over endless water, we watched the sun set, experiencing oranges and reds never seen before by these eyes. Thunderheads created stunning silhouettes out of our window and we would occasionally stop chatting about her apartment in France or my Spring Break in Japan to just admire.

As the sun finally disappeared into the blackened Gulf of Mexico, I knew it was just me, the French-Canadian woman, and 70 travelers without a clue as to the dance I was doing on the inside. I sat quietly and soaked it all up. The massive belly laugh of the handsome 30-something Ecuadorian man to my left and a row behind brought a smile to my face every time he made a joke at his friend's expense, half in English, half in Spanish. I cocked my headed to the side every time the cat let escape a 'meow' from under an unidentified passenger's seat, as I kept forgetting it too was on an adventure with us. I sat in stunned disbelief at the silence of the half dozen babies on my flight, and prayed I didn't jinx it. I tried to pick up as much of the Spanish conversations as I could, then responded to them in my mind, hoping I'd gotten it right, but being showed up by the native speakers. I tried to guess who was Ecuadorian and who was a fellow foreigner by looking for passports and language guides or listening for murmured words over the buzz of engines of my 737 delivery vessel.

Yet, there was a strange calm to my venture. I wondered if perhaps, when I woke up in the morning, that the little girl inside me would burst out. Do not make the mistake of thinking I wasn't ecstatic, because I was thrilled! I believe I was just overwhelmed and still in disbelief.

Immigration was a breeze, in fact, the immigration official was a young, handsome gentleman who wrote his phone number on my paper work and asked if I would teach him English & he would teach me Spanish. Nice, Ecuador, way to welcome a lady...

My roommates, Bryan and Ian, picked me up at the airport and exceeded all of my hopes and expectations. We promptly opened the bottle of Captain Morgan rum (which you cannot buy in Ecuador, so I brought as a token of my gratitude) and got to know each other. At 5:30 am we all decided this was a great match for roommates and went to bed.

This morning, I awoke to smooth jazz colada morada, chamomile tea, and a fresh start in my life.

xx.a

me voy

Here I go. Literally, I'm walking on to the plane docked at LAX that will deliver me safely to the newest an most exciting chapter of my life in Quito, Ecuador.


For those of you who know me (or have at least read my blog posts) know I love planning and organizing... But I have a hot, torrid affair with adventure and spontaneity. This chapter of my life combines this dichotomy better than I could ever have constructed myself, and I am at peace with the balance life has presented me.


Things I know...


-I'm moving to Quito, Ecuador. Now.
-I will be teaching business professionals & executives.
-I'm happier than I have ever been.
-I can't drink the water.
-I will not be living in a grass hut, contrary to popular belief.
-I will not be riding a goat, llama, or any other animal to or from work.
-I speak enough Spanish to get in trouble... Not sure if I speak enough to get back out, though.


The list of things I am unsure of is so much longer and more detailed, I'm worried it will stress my readers out and I will have countless Facebook messages and a plethora of blog comments inquiring as to whether or not I was of sound mind when I signed up for this gig. So I'll share with you the ones that make me giggle & provide a sense of how beautifully unclear my future is in Quito.


I don't know how many times I will get lost, how many times I will mispronounce someones name, or how many times I'll wake up and breathe the clean, thin Ecuadorian air and break into a huge smile knowing I have made the best decision of my life.

Honestly, I don't know what I don't know: I am prepared to be unprepared. I cannot fully express how this anticipation moves me in ways I've never felt before. I am moving to a country of which I had zero knowledge of, save its geographic location and couldn't be more thrilled to get to know this world like a new lover. I want to explore her curves, stare into her eyes, laugh with her until the sun comes up, and kiss her sweetly at the perfect moments.


I thank you all for your love, support, encouragement, cards, help, laughs, well wishes, and reminding me that I'm loved on a daily basis.


I will miss my Huntington Beach crew and our Barbie Dream House, vino-fueled photoshoots, scaling the wall like a professional amateur, and walking everywhere there isn't a random truck...


I will miss my LA advertising ladies and our endless laughs, Palm Springs Parties, and industry parties we "have to" go to...


I will miss my Suncrest Crew and our late night driveway sessions, toga parties, Jack from the bottle, big neighborhood dinners, beer pong, stripper poles & GOOD FOR YOU!


I will miss my sweet southern boys and our shit-talking, beer shotgunning, BBQing, days on the lake, Sherlockls, Boston's, and football Sunday Fundays...


I will miss my sassy southern ladies and our ridiculous (drunken) dress-up sessions, Ladybirds, Crown with Sprite-back cut a bitch, stories that happened and we still don't believe...


I will miss my family and our Hearts & Stars, Build Me Up Buttercup, guitar playing, beer brewing, 20+ years of inside jokes, and unconditional love...


I already miss my Australia, Iowa & Sacramento people. Know you're all in my heart.


Mom, Dad, Lindsey, Chris, Lyneia, Chase, Ian, Nik, Lara, Lindsey Sang, Kevin, Finks, Holly, Jason... There aren't words.


Thank you all for blessing me by being in my life, and thank you for staying there as I travel this great world of ours. I love you all so honestly, and always will.


Adios, amigos...


xx.a

vulnerability: a four letter word

Vulnerability is one of the most dichotomous words in the English language. With over a billion words in our convoluted communication system, that's saying a lot. Vulnerability refers to the susceptibility to physical or emotional injury, or refer to a person who lets their guard down, leaving themselves open to criticism. Conversely, vulnerability can be a romantic and noble concept, discussing the permission granted to those we believe won't damage us beyond repair. It has become a four letter word. People are more comfortable swearing in church and being criticized than standing for something and being unsure of the outcome.


We constantly attempt to issue permission to people in regards to vulnerability. We "let down our walls" or require our potential friends or mates to break them down wrecking-ball style. The question is: Why? It's understandable (and a little cliché) that no one likes to be hurt, but have we all forgotten that sweet isn't as sweet without the bitter? How are we supposed to appreciate the warm kiss of the sun without the cold shoulder of the storm?


So, when we decide to take a chance on people, we open ourselves up and allow them to touch a part of us and change us forever. There is something to be said for allowing the UNusual suspect in, in an effort to broaden your horizons. I have always followed the mantra:


Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.


This way, I stay positive and give people a stellar chance to show me they're innately good, all the while protecting myself from irreparable damage and heartache. I allow myself to be vulnerable to the person, not people, as the individual is responsible for their actions, not mankind. Just because some dickead in your Psych class didn't call you after your hook up, doesn't mean that all men are jerkoffs. Heck, he might not even be one:


Seek first to understand, then be understood.


I have been burned badly- we're talking third degree here, people- but what is the point of living this short and sweet life pushing people away? Even more so, why meander through the streets allowing your only connection with your fellow man be the accidental bump of the shoulder and an unintelligible grunt of what is only assumed to be an apology, but who really knows?

I was recently reminded that vulnerabilities are not limited to susceptibility of an attack from an outside force or the romantic heart strings that might be plucked too hard. It is also standing up and applying yourself to a new vocation and hoping you've done well enough to be approved. It's smiling at a stranger in hopes they don't just glance away awkwardly. It's speaking to someone at an airport, then switching seats onboard to continue your newfound connection, whatever that may end up being. Just enjoy it. Don't make a federal case out of everything, appreciate the moment, and know you'll look back and it will have been what it should've been... But don't pussyfoot it. (Yes, I said pussyfoot.) You can miss out. BIG TIME. I have only one minor regret in my life and it was something I did NOT do, not something I did. Most people regret the things they didn't have the balls to do, not the little mistakes they made.


So, go do it. Let yourself be vulnerable, no matter what it is. Dudes, call the girl for a movie, she'll appreciate the forwardness. Ladies, you can call, too, but don't be afraid to grab a 12-pack and surprise him with a pizza night on the couch and some making out. Bosses, take a risk on the applicant who really needs the job. People, apply for the job, even if you're not sure. Humans of all races, sexualities, & religions, open your minds and let's move passed tolerance and into acceptance. Open a door for others, dance like you don't give a half a damn, kiss her when she gives you 'that look' and let go of the traditions that bind you. Take a chance, be vulnerable. Be epic.


xx.a

Ecuador Bound!

It's been years in the works, 100+ hours of certification, months of planning every single step, months of improvising when said steps were different than anticipated, countless sleepless nights, hundreds of questions (some of which remain unanswered), thousands of prayers... But it is finally a sweet reality.... 

I am moving to Quito, Ecuador to teach English! 

I physically am incapable of speaking these words without breaking into the biggest, nerdiest grin humanly possible.  My heart has never been so full and happy, nor has my deepest self ever been so sure of this being the right path.  I am beside myself in joy and am proud of all of my accomplishments, as this is something that I did by my own free will, but also with the support from friends and family, and for that I am supremely grateful.  

I will be teaching English to business professionals on the Equator, two miles in the air.  When did my life become so fascinating?  Well, truth me told, it was pretty damn cool before when I was traveling the world modeling, studying in Europe, achieving scholastic greatness with a triple-major, double-minor degree, producing television and radio commercials for brand giants like KIA and Universal Studios in my native Los Angeles, rocking a massive corporate restaurant chain in Dallas, becoming certified as a Professional Organizer, and nannying for one of the best families I have ever met.  Lord knows I love to take things to the next level, so why not teach English in South America?  

As I revealed my amazing news to my family and closest friends, I discovered that there were quite a few misconceptions as to what kind of place Quito and Ecuador as a country are.  Some people thought I was going to be in an urban metropolis dominated by cement giants.  Others believed I was going to walk to a classroom down a muddy road and live in a grass hut.  I Googled these images (thanks, Google!) to give you readers an idea of where I am headed, and to preemptively answer questions regarding my new adventure.  You can find all the information about Quito & Ecuador aquí and find a little love for Latin America until I get over there, settled, and start posting about how things are coming along.  

When I started blogging a year ago, I had no idea that my blog would have well over 2,700 hits thus far, that I would be moving to a foreign country other than Japan, that I would be surrounded by and involved with the most amazing people on the planet, and could possibly be this happy!  I am truly a blessed individual.  Every struggle, every heartache, every heart break, every disappointment, every wrong turn, every mistake... They all were stepping stones leading to this monumental moment in my life where my heart is screaming "YOTY!" (Year of the Yes) and I am forever changed.  


I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestioned ability of a man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor.  -Henry David Thoreau 


Soy verdad agradecido para el amor y apoyo demostrado por usted... And off I go to practice my Spanish...  xx.a

I want to be contagious.

Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could not hear the music.   -Angela Monet


The written word is one of the most beautiful forms of expression on this sweet planet, yet I cannot help but feel as though they just cannot fully convey the emotions I feel.  They say a picture is worth a thousand words... This is true, but sometimes even a photograph cannot fully express what is living in my heart.  (That is saying a lot, coming from a photo-obsessed blogger!)  


Strangely enough, I have discovered that, at least for me, it was more difficult to express joy in my writings, paintings, and music than sorrow.  I am naturally a happy person, so this baffled me upon my revelation.  Why would this effort be more difficult if it is natural?  So I pondered my findings over a cup of fresh coffee and a bowl of watermelon cubes while enjoying the early morning breeze through the backdoor screen.  I strive daily to express the joy that I have found in my life- especially over the last year- both as a form of gratitude to the universe, as well as to lead by example.  The negativity in the daily life of people I am surrounded by astounds me.  Quit your bitching, count your blessings, say thank you, and start appreciating your life, people!  It's easier to express discontent or pain because those emotions are stronger when you allow them in.  Since I have parted ways with my old self and the negativity associated with her, I find that the happiness and excitement that is now a constant light in my chest is dominating my creativity.  


Every man dies- Not every man lives.  -William Ross Wallace 


That being said (thanks for riding out my ramblings today) I have to remind myself not to get frustrated when my paintings turn out differently than imagined or when I cannot find the words I need to connect an intangible emotion to a cognitive understanding.  


I paint to create something beautiful I can pour emotion into. 
I write to express ideals and ask questions.
I photograph to capture things that move me.
I sing to open the doors to my soul.
I play guitar to find balance.
I learn languages to connect to other worlds. 
I teach to help mold the minds of a new generation.
I adventure to feed my soul & connect to the universe.  


All these things are beautiful in their own respective ways, and I am so fortunate to have the ability and drive to create in these fields and feel a sense of accomplishment and be filled up with peace and happiness.  My newest adventure is moving abroad to teach English.  This venture combines so many of my loves: travel, teaching, adventure... Plus I will be able to write, paint, photograph, and perform wherever this life takes me.  


There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. -Albert Einstein 


Making someone laugh brings me more inner happiness than I could ever even begin to explain... That is a miracle to me.  I could list two hundred other miracles I am thankful for, but there are two I am focusing on in my life right now: 

1. Every single person I interact with.

2. My new adventure.

Applications are out, kids.  There is no turning back now, not that I would if I could!  I have applied to some amazing countries... Argentina, Brazil, Ecuador, Costa Rica, and Thailand.  This is the first thing I have ever done in my entire life that is for me.  The level of support from the people in my life is outstanding, and I am forever grateful.  I will have to devote an entire blog post to just thanking you crazy people for putting up with me!  I hope that this massive, life-altering step I am taking inspires you all to live your dream, or even start a new one.  I want to be contagious.  I want you all to catch this incredible passion for life and rise with the tides!  I began this post with stating that sometimes my media cannot truly express the light inside of me... I just want you all to feel it for yourselves.  I hope that you can find something in one of our interactions- even if only for a moment- that moves you.  That is the greatest joy and greatest gift I could ever ask for.  


Find some inspiration in something.  Anything.  Start getting out there and making magic happen... Find that inexpressible inner light & inner joy.  Then do your damnedest to express, to share, to inspire, & to give back the positivity into this crazy-amazing universe of ours.  


xx.a