¡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