Jazz Singer

The room is so small I sleep with my duffle.

The apartment rent was up so I'm in El Centro until my plane leaves. Working Wi-Fi and cable TV with Spanish dubbed stations except one playing a concert.

Clean, classic ensemble jazz with a young woman fronting.

Women jazz singers are sexy. Her voice is low and smoky and I'm hooked. Got to have her CD.

NYC and I was 19. Safe bunk, free tickets to Broadway, and girls were willing to dance. I had just enough cash to act a fool.

Saturday morning I caught the train to Rockaway Beach. Opposite side, three seats to my right there was a young lady my age who had long hair the color of polished teak and eyes that were sun sparkled Mediterranean.

She made to get off the train and looked my way. I did what most 19 year old guys do when confronted with radiance – froze. She smiled.

I'm annoyed because the camera is panning the rest of the ensemble as each soloist runs his riffs. Young guys with old school chops. The singer is just feeling the music. No finger snapping dance. She's melody.

All jazz people are all melody.

They run the highways to get to the side roads. Coltrane, Monk, Davis, Byrd, Mulligan and the rest of the greats explored the smallest trails not caring where they went or if you followed.

This jazz singer doesn't notice her visual statement and when she sings again, the lyrics exude sensuality because she feels it.

I made it to the beach still seeing her in my head. This obscured the smells, tastes, and joy of toes in the ocean. Obnoxious people everywhere. Busted day but I had found love.

Scheming back in my room I realized that there was only one way to find her again. With no idea of what to say if I got lucky, I set off. Next day. Same train full of hope of the heart.

The singer says in French and English that she's a Russian native and came to Canada by way of Israel.. Clues but no name.

Amazon is open and my One Click poised to order her CD. The band grooves again and I am mesmerized.

Fearful of missing the credits I sit then pace (all of three feet) eyes to TV, thinking that, at the end, they must say her name. The singer introduces each of the six musicians for deserved applause but she won't tell me who SHE is. Neither does the program.

I consider leaving the station on full of hope that her concert will re-run but don't do that.

The subway train, for a month, moved with hopeful me aboard. Scanning females who resembled that once vivid memory of dark red hair, glittering blue eyes, and a genuine smile.

After so many years.

Paroxysm and Curiosities

I came late to the Catholic faith and fell in love with the mass. No matter the language in which it is spoken the ritual touches me.

The cathedral across from Calderon Park is the one I like best. The door is always open. Every weekend these guys pictured entertain tourists and locals with haunting Andes music in front of the church wall. The acoustic bounce is brilliant.

As I happened by, though, They played the melodies from Paul McCartney's "Yesterday", and, perhaps in homage to St. Patrick, "Danny Boy". Wonderful tunes that go straight to my nostalgic heart.

I turned the corner and entered the church. Mass just ended so I knelt in a pew about midway down the long aisle. A nun's choir sang the angelic recessional music. In fact, about half the congregation was religious orders.

Tingling with emotion I am muttering some Our Father's and Hail Mary's and asking God to make me less of a fool. One of the passing nuns, as tall standing as I am kneeling, gently touches my shoulder and whispers "Vaya Con Dios".

That does it. My face starts raining in convulsive sobs. I try, in vain, to control this unmanly display. My heart just won't have it though!

Finally the church is empty and I walk the aisle out, emptying my pockets of all the Susan B. Anthony's I have into the hand of the tiny, wizened Indigena who sits at the doorway. The nun who stopped for me is talking to the priest. She glances up, smiles at me and waves.

View from 14000 feet

Past the treeline. The continental divide is there. The three crosses represent nature - earth air water (I think but doesn't that seem logical to you?) This is on the Inca trail that passes from the coast to Cuenca through the Andes. The larger one leads to Macchu Pichu and all that. It was a trade route. The rocks were brought with the traveler to lay at the crosses. I asked Gustavo about the really big ones. He doubted that they were carried. We had a good laugh while gasping for air. The oxygen level was 40% less than normal. For the first time in my life I used a hiking stick. Thank goodness I packed light.

Would you rather go down or up? I can tell you which one I prefer.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meter part 1

Signed up for an art tour. We boarded the “short” bus. I acted a caballero and let the women go first. That left me and an older lesbian couple (that's what they told me) in the back. Except for a grumpy old guy dragged by his wife and Juan, the driver, I was the only dude.

Seats filled for this two hour tour that began at 3pm but the wheels rolled at 3:45.

A two hour tour.

Art tours are for gringos with cash. The first, Pablo Cordero, is a traditional ceramicist. Cool to see the process. I asked my seatmate what she thought and she told me “it sucks”.

Then into the hills for Eduardo Vega who is eccentric. He said he would be there but wasn't. His work is superb and, if I had a house that needed filling, it would be with his stuff – including dinnerware.

It's raining. The girls stop for a group picture despite the mottled view. Juan expertly wrestles the bus into position despite the hazards. About a dozen of them jump out to prance and giggle. We back seaters exchange eye rolls.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 2

A quarter to 5. The agenda was Vega's workshop then an artist who does BIG metal and wood sculptures that you see in parks and airports. But first, we retreated a few miles to pick up one of the ladies who could not make it to the starting time and place. Nice of us.

That put us into rush hour so we skipped Vega's workshop. Our back seat group sighed relief. 6:10 and we're at a stoplight for 15 minutes in front of the museum where we started. Flowing estrogen, aroma therapy. No Chardonnay thank God.. I was going to throw up. Since another bus was blocking us I grabbed my jacket and backpack. Margaret and her partner asked if I was bailing. I said hell yes.

They smiled. The tour cost $15 but I gave the guide a twenty and told her to give the extra to Juan. Door open, fresh air, street noise. I smiled and descended toward that beautiful river and my shelter.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 3

Next morning early. Guilty about the reason I left that excursion because I was brought up by women, I have been married to a couple of them, and I have daughters for whom I would die. So I hike to a place sympatico.

8:30 AM. Cheap food and massive quantity. Burritos, tacos, chorizo, eggs – manly eats. Mix of gringos and locals. Happy hour begins at 8 AM with 2 for 1 beers and bloody Marys. Rugby, not tennis, basketball, or even soccer is on the TV. Rugby. I like that. An Australian walks in and says “Ahhh....the usual suspects!” We raise our glasses and call for a Fosters which they don't have so Pilsener Grande it is.

Calibrate Your Panty Waddage Meters part 4

Mike, a slightly shady American, asks me where I'm headed Not sure except back to the USA, but if I stay in South America, I'll go to Medellin, Colombia. No debate. Medellin, they say, is the place to go. Climate, scenery, prices, charm, and the most beautiful women in the world.

Glasses raised and offers to go with me. I don't say it but I am a bit frightened at crossing any border with some of these guys. I bite the last of my El Vaquero and go. Pictures of Paolo and his staff are forthcoming. I needed this male offset to the disastrous episode of the previous day.

Observing the Young Lads

Cuenca's finest watching the games of Saturday at the park

In The Saturday Park

Young lads. 

My View From My Favorite Cafe

Across the street is the very old Hotel Victoria. A bit pricey for me but I love the building. This is on Calle Larga (long street) and is in the heart of the historical district. Lots of cafe's, restaurants, exotic bars with hookas and all that stuff. Two blocks away is the Carolina Bookstore, run by an ex-pat. Used books English and Spanish galore.

At My Favorite Cafe

The Coffee Tree. Very mixed bag of travelers, hikers, locals, gringos and a great breakfast for little money.

Rio Tomebamba

I am staying at a place on this river.  It is now the rainy season so it is in full bloom descending from the Andes and right through Cuenca on its way to the Napo in the Amazon rain forest.



West and east USA kayakers would be drooling over this.  Class 3 to 4 with standing waves, holes, and plenty of places to breathe.  La Policia frowns on that though

so it is unmolested except for many folks who do their laundry

Cajas Guru Dude

This is my guide whose name is Gustavo Loyola.  He is a veterinarian of large animals with a wife and three sons.  He chose to give up his practice to become a full time  guide because he loves the country.  There's no better site than what this sign describes.  It is a hidden forest in which you expect to see fairies, goblins, and other magical beings.

Huge trees t

hat grow on rocks, dozens of  fern species, and caves where people still sleep.  The trees are pink and the bark is paper.

 I know I'm taking a lot of crap for not having actual pictures but 1.  My battery ran out and 2.  I could never in a million years do it justice.  You must see it in person to believe it.  That said, I'm thinking of going back for a second chance.

The Vicissitudes of International Language Communication, Misunderstandins, and Consequences

Hey! Despite the light and airy title this is serious stuff!

I needed new underwear. Having searched numerous small shops in El Centro I wasn't having much luck.

I'd heard about big Mall Dell Rio so I flagged a taxi and went.

Pretty standard indoor mall with stores and a food court complete with Burger King and KFC.

I hadn't learned the Spanish term for my need so in my first store I gestured by pulling on the band of my shorts. With a somewhat alarmed look the young lady said that her store lacked those things and pointed me to another. I asked for the Spanish term commonly used for men's underwear. She rattled off two words of four syllables each. Responding to my blank stare she simplified it to “ropas interiores.”

No more women clerks for me. At the next store a slim very fashionably dressed young man with a gelled rooster's comb of hair walked me over to the men's bikini/thong underwear section featuring male enhancement as part of its package.

“Whoa”, I said, “I'm an old hombre and that's not for me.” He giggled and I ambled on to continue my search.

Finally, there was an anchor store resembling Costco. Looked like a membership place to me because it had little gates. When I asked the gate monitor he just stared. (sometimes I wonder if Spanish is the native language down here because I get that a lot when I speak it.)

When I observed several other people pass through the gate I boldly sauntered across. Had to speak with a woman this time because she approached me. Using my new Spanish words I asked where to go.

She pointed left then down and said something like “fssst fssst” then darted away with me in tow. Again the thongs but there were also boxers – at $12 a pop. I said no gracias and proceeded to the exit gates.

Halfway along my right elbow was nudged by a middle aged man 6 inches shorter than me and nearly half my weight. He asked if I speak English then introduced himself as Pablo.

Pablo queried my purpose there. When I told him he menacingly whispered about an inch from face “why?” The only response I could think of was “because I need some”.

Now here's where it gets curious. I was on my way to the exit under his obvious guidance. He said “second floor” and I was about to thank him when he said “there is a KFC there that has chicken. You like chicken?” I started thinking that this guy is nuts and sped up my retreat. He kept apace.

A senorita at the exit gate looked agitated at us. “Thank God, I was out of there” we both thought. I didn't look back but I know that they were circling their forefingers around their temples. I wanted to do the same but feared an international incident.

Over a beer, I told my friend Paolo, who laughed heartily then confirmed that I'd been profiled as a crazy gringo by store security.

The What and Where

This shows a little description and perspective in the incredible national park in which I had the privilege of hiking.  The sign indicates all the pertinent numbers such as lat and long and the altitude at which it was placed.

 Look also at the location maps to the right to learn where it is in Ecuador and in South America.  This was also along the Inca Trail.  I learned that there are actually two Inca Trails that go through Ecuador.

Goobs Rule

Young people are really good at labeling old people.

My all time favorite is “Goobs”. The origin is your guess.

Mid eighties. Cotati Caberet in the hippie and biker retirement village of Cotati, California. The leader of the Zasu Pitts Memorial Band, from San Francisco, announced “For all you Goobs out there here's a motown medley”.

ZPMB was a dozen or so talented musicians across the stage. Thumpin' bass, dancing brass, multi guitar, gyrating chicks, and bluesy voiced dudes all on finger snappin', hand clappin', groove gettin' poppin' soul. If they couldn't funk you up into a sweaty, common lather then you didn't have one!

They were a rowdier Tower of Power.

Sorry, got carried away there. Goobs will recognize that as “flashing”. For you others it's not old men in long raincoats. It is an evolved slang reference that began, as so many did, as a drug experience. This was about LSD, in which the hallucinogenic effects remained well after “coming down”. Sometimes weeks after.

Goobs were in their mid to late thirties and at the club to re-gain their 60's and early 70's mojo. Groove was getting shallower and more difficult to get on.

ZPMB and the Caberet, of course, understood the market. They were pioneers in the great baby boomer economy.

As they say, now it's history.

No...hold on just a dang minute.

Saturday night. California Kitchen in Cuenca, Ecuador. Nearly 40 years later. Smooth jazz by three gringos and an Ecuatoriano. Goobs wall-to-wall.

I get there early because George told me to. Wispy white hair and goatees. Women are stylin' Patagonia chic. Everybody knows everybody. All gringos except one beautiful young Spanish woman with a bewildered look.

Guy next to me says his name is Bill. Tells me he's 75 and helped to start up the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco. I'm skeptical but don't tell him. Later, the Internet tells me it's true.

Next day I see him at the Supermaxi while we're reaching for the same package of bacon. Bill says he has a proposal. Meet at his house. It's a group of very prominent gringo and local men.

“Que paso” I think, but accept. Later, though, I cuss myself because I've forgotten the secret Goob handshake.

A collector speaks

Travel with other people and you bypass the desire for companionship and go straight to place appreciation.

Travel solo and it's about the people you meet and then the places.

These are some of the colorful folks I've met so far. A few will end up in a book.

1. A fellow who is dual USA and Ecuador citizen from Berkeley. Loves the Giants and Niner's and is endlessly tied up in Ecuadorian courts fighting lawsuits and eminent domain over some family owned land.
2. A woman who visits countries long enough to learn greetings, good-byes, and ordering in a restaurant in the local language. She's up to 17 now.
3. Another woman who is traveling to every UNESCO World Heritage site in the world. Quito and Cuenca included. She carries a bag of Legos and stays in a city four days to find an iconic building. She then reproduces the site with the Legos, photographs it and places it on her blog.
4. An American man from Missouri and his companion from Nashville who got lost in the mountains driving from the coast to Cuenca and slept in their car on a dirt road in the Andes.
5. An Ecuadorian restaurant owner who spent his youth and young adulthood illegally in New Jersey. Makes a hell of a Philly cheesesteak.
6. Two shady looking guys. One with a New York accent and one with a soft Miami drawl. When I asked where they are from they both looked at the floor, hesitated then one told me Costa Rica and the other said Panama.
7. Another restaurant owner who is from my home town – Sacramento.
8. The “ugly American” candidate that I met at the Quito airport.
9. The Ecuadorian woman who was wooed by the California county sheriff.

10. The 72 year old widower whose daily stated goal is to seduce a woman into his bed for the night. The most poignant story so far and my heart ached for him.

There are more and more to come. Then there is me.

A Man Smitten

Warning:  Those of you with a salacious bent use caution because this post is not what it first seems.

Meal times here don't match my habits.

So I've been the only customer in a restaurant many times.

Hungry on Friday, about 6pm. Lucciano's, next door, is open. Gracias a Dios for Italian food.

Two chefs, a host, two waiters and no customers but me and a woman smoking a cigarette in a restaurant.

Illegal in Ecuador. She doesn't care because she owns the place.

She asks, in broken English, if I mind. I say the word for “that's cool” which I

can't spell but it's pronounced “chevrre”. It was stupid of me but I want to practice cool Spanish.

“Yo quiero pizza con chorizo individuale” I say. The crew snaps to. A Cuba Libre while I wait.

The woman asks my nationality and then tells me that she wants to practice her dormant English. My Spanish is on the same level so we commence a very very slow interaction.

She smokes 3 cigarettes a day to alleviate her stress. She works a full time job while managing this restaurant. Long days.

Her name is Guadalupe and she is the most strikingly beautiful classically Spanish woman I have ever seen.

I am uncomfortable. Culture and loyalty to my wife. Latin American openness is new to me.

She talks about California. There were still no customers.

No hint of arrogance. In fact, she shows no realization how she affects others.

Here is Guadalupe's tale.

Visiting her sister in San Francisco for 45 days she was enthralled with the city, the area and Lake Tahoe.

Her last week included a party thrown by the Silicone Valley company of her sister's American husband.

She was approached by a man muy guapo (very handsome). He spoke then produced an official law enforcement badge. This terrified her.

He said that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He knew that she was in the states for a short time and he wished to see her again.

She declined then moved closer to her relatives. He followed.

Frightened again.

Her sister's husband said that the man is the sheriff of San Mateo Country and is very important. This scared her more.

The sheriff persisted. He could ensure immigration. He wanted to marry her.

Just stay. She said no over and over citing her husband and children in Ecuador. He was not deterred.

The following morning, two days before her departure, a small helicopter landed in the cul-de-sac in front of her sister's house. It was the sheriff. Guadalupe, her sister and brother-in-law were equally baffled.

It was a tour, the sheriff said, that's all. The family agreed that it would be safe and a one-in-a-life-time experience.

She said an “experience of beauty.”

Then Guadalupe returned to her family in Ecuador.

My pizza's ready. Lucciano himself brings it. Everyone hugs me and wishes me luck on my journey.

I Think I Met One

Occasionally on the expat blogs and forums the cliched term “Ugly American” emerges to describe obnoxious behavior by a gringo.

After much hand wringing and teeth gnashing this brute is righteously condemned and the topic goes dormant.

Priceless entertainment for me.

An American who owns a PhD and a bookstore in Ecuador, wrote a ponderous academic style paper about Ugly Americans he has observed in his new country. His sourced the 1958 book titled the same by Burdick and Lederer about arrogant America's then relationship with southeast Asia. You may remember the movie starring Marlon Brando.

Though the scholarly work is not written for the Internet thus tough to read, it lit a buzz among long time foreign residents justifying I-was-here-first-and-you-can-bugger-off attitudes.

It's also has been cited by newbies contemplating a move from the U.S.

One asked, seriously, whether he should remove his facial hair lest he offend Equatorianos (that's the correct term) who don't usually grow beards or moustaches.

Like I said, priceless.

Being an outsider is lonely and you don't want to antagonize. The delightful irony, though, is that they unintentionally insult their hosts way more than any one loudmouthed idiot. They patronize.

It's really stereotyping and prejudice. “Projection” if you want to go Freudian.

Everyone in the world knows that a jerk is a jerk regardless of location or origin. Most smart people don't generalize bad behavior to others with similar backgrounds. The ones who do are, well, jerks.

I think I met an “Ugly American” though.

Waiting in the Quito airport for my flight to Cuenca. Lots of Eddie Bauer clad gringos, ponytailed hikers, outdoorsey women, and Ecuatorianos going about their business.

A couple just south of senior sat next to me. They were nicely dressed and the wiry man appeared somewhat older than his wife. They were softly speaking American English and because it was nice to hear I said “good morning”. The man looked at me without a trace of humor and inquired “is it really a good morning?” I responded, perhaps a bit smartass “for me it is, how about you?” He looked away.

His wife stared at the floor but I noted an echo of a smile. Though I suspected I was being put on, she and I exchanged the normal stuff about country, state, status, and plans.

Since they live in Cuenca, I asked for advice. Her eyes glittered with mischief as she cryptically replied “don't go to places that you shouldn't be in”.

Their location provided easy access to VEGETARIAN (emphasis his) restaurants because he is a VEGETARIAN. (ok, maybe I am guilty of jerkiness but it seems that vegetarians usually need to quickly let you know that they are VEGETARIANS.)

He said no when I asked whether he owned a bookstore. No blog either. He opined, though, that the country was wide open with opportunity because the people here are way behind in their vision and ambition. (Uh oh...)

He doesn't think the folks in this country are ready for him. All the while, his wife smiled and once I spotted an eye roll with a short giggle. It dawned on me that their marriage was a true symbiotic balance.

Our carrier, LAN, sensibly instructed us in Spanish and English, three times that they will board the passengers beginning with the back rows and then the front rows last. No first class on a 45 minute commute.

I got in line first after the hostess saw my row 23 pass. She admonished the man and his wife to the back of the line because their row was 3. He wasn't having it. Good ol' American “moxie” he said, was required. The last time I heard that word spoken was on the Mary Tyler Moore show in the early 70's by Lou to Mary.

He walked to the front and beckoned his wife. She confided that they usually get asked to step out when he does this. She wished me well and then followed him.

This time the document checkers allowed them through. He looked back with a smug smile.

When I boarded, this couple was putting their substantial carry-on luggage into the compartments around them while I and about 2 dozen others waited to pass. After they situated I worked by and said “You know what? You got moxie. I hate moxie”. He gave me a hard look. His wife burst out laughing.

Melody But Not Many Words

Years ago my job was to look, listen, record, analyze, and report.

I became adept at discerning the “melody” of accents that identify national or specific geographic origin.

My hobby in Ecuador is watching the news and sports from Latin America, Mexico, and Spain. The “lyrics” mostly baffle me because they speak so fast. But I hear the melody fine and I'm smitten by the sensual rhythm and delicate expression of speakers from Madrid and Seville.

When my teacher, Mercedes, offered me a guided tour of the central historical city I jumped like an eight year old going to Disneyland. The bonus was that we rode a city bus. Our only rule was no English.

The Presidential Palace, churches and museums, and innumerable businesses. Municipal, national, and military police to make us feel secure. Prostitutes showing off at 9 am.

After the museum celebrating Ecuador's independence, Mercedes asked if I'd like to see one last church. This, she said, is great on the outside with Baroque architecture but the inside is “WOW!” “Claro (sure)”, I replied.

Nothing prepared me.

Mercedes talked fast with the young lady guide. She got me in for the 50 cent student price then told the guide to speak slowly but no English. My teacher then waved, smiled and said chao.

Within 2 or 3 minutes I heard that wonderful Spanish spoken by my guide and I asked where she was from. Barcelona, she replied. A nun temporarily studying in Quito. I thought “HAH!”

That was the last I saw of her until the end. Oh, she was by my side throughout, describing this historical masterpiece. Her arm waved this way then she pointed to that and my eyes followed.

Her voice was soothing as if she knew I was in sensory overload.

Every square centimeter except the portraits, the massive paintings of Hell and Judgment day, the seats, floors, and the cupola in the ceiling was gilded in 23 carat gold leaf.

The ceiling was viewed through a mirror to avoid falling over backwards and the cupola was designed to bathe the church in glittering sunlight when the hour was right. I was there when it was. I have no words.

I asked if I could film and she said “no, just enjoy and praise God”.

It took 165 years to build, was seriously damaged in a 1987 earthquake and then repaired until 2005.

It is called La Iglesia de la Compania – de Jesus.

Mano a Mano - Ecuadorian Justice

Osvaldo and I were together all day. He was the taxi driver and guide recommended by Mercedes, my Spanish teacher.

His main reference is his honesty. An English woman who was his passenger shopped all day in Otavalo. She  took advantage of the dirt cheap high quality stuff and filled Osvaldo's taxi with her booty.

He dropped her at her hotel then went home to his wife and two daughters. As a professional he later gassed and washed his car only to discover that his passenger left her purse. He immediately went to her hotel and returned it. Good enough reference for me.

I sat shotgun and we talked. He doesn't speak one word of English nor, I suspect, wants to. I speak a little Spanish.

Osvaldo's patience and knowledge of tourist's destinations took us to altitudes, museums, and sights that moved me, almost, to tears. We laughed, conveyed family information, and believe it nor not, discussed the nature of world politics.

At dinner Osvaldo told me WTF I was eating. He sang the wonders of Ecuador and we straddled the equator together.

He dropped me off at about 1600 and we agreed to meet again.

That evening Osvaldo decided to wash and gas his taxi. He took his wife and two daughters with him for the ride. A drunk driver t-boned his car.

Before your tears roll, Osvaldo and his family were not injured seriously. As they say down here, gracias a Dios. The other guy left the scene.

Here it Gets Complicated.

According to Mercedes, calling the police in these matters can be risky. Instead of no-fault there is “both fault” and, if the incident cannot be resolved immediately then both parties go to jail. Certainly not incentive to call the authorities.

But Osvaldo, as you might assume, thought this incident serious enough to beckon the troops. His car and livelihood and just been destroyed.

They found, corraled, and fetched the drunk's sorry ass back to the scene.

Because there was no injury or death the police officers did not arrest anyone. They simply allowed the two men to negotiate as custom required.

They talked for about a minute then shook hands and announced that a deal was struck. The two men told La Policia that $100 was the agreement. Satisfied, the two officers pocketed $5.00 apiece as is also customary then ambled away to continue their crime stopping mission.

Let the Real Bargaining Begin.

Osvaldo called his cousin to take him and his family home. His cousin, coincidentally, is a prominent criminal lawyer in Quito.

The other guy called his cousin who is an autobody man and a mechanic. He wanted to settle this issue quickly.

Well, as you might guess, this thing drew out for a good while as the other guy insisted that his cousin get the business of repairing Osvaldo's taxi. Osvaldo and his cousin took issue because they have another family member who has taken mechanical and cosmetic care of the vehicle for years. He's the only man Osvaldo trusts.

At the end his powerful attorney wore the other guy down they agreed that the perp would pay all costs for repair by Osvaldo's man. It was going to take about two weeks.

Unfortunately that is the amount of time that Osvaldo cannot be on the street making money to support his family. That;s a big deal when you're are living so thin. But Osvaldo, a man of faith, simply said

(in Spanish) thank God for the health of my family.

Disclaimer: Mercedes, who lives across the street from Osvaldo, told me this story in Spanish because, though she can, she won't ever speak English to me. Thus the finer details may have been blurred a bit.

It's just...too hard!

Here's the problem. Too much material. Hold your breath because here's a summary.

That stuff you've read about South America is true but not completely. Banos is very cool. The Andes are awesome (in the original undiluted definition). Criminals are rampant and I have something to warn YOU ALL about. Hamburgers here suck unless you go to the smallest restaurant.

Indigenous people are very poor AND very rich. Pedestrians go stealth when they step off the curb. All the school children - ALL the kids wear uniforms to school. Catholic mass is packed from 6 am to 8 pm. Beeping your horn says get-the-fuck-out-of-the-way. (signal your intention).

Car alarms are a musical instrument. In the older buildings you must wrap your used toilet paper and place in the garbage. Tourist toilets are pay to use. Toilet paper is sold at the door.

Elementary school teacher's average salary is $300/month. Hmmmm.....too negative here...

Latin men and women are the most attractive people in the world. German tourists are all young, tall, bold and attractive. My laundry woman is the sweetest most patient person I have met. Expats meet in certain bars and are from everywhere. My hotel has a lobby dog that has a brilliant smile.

The gondola ride up to Pichincha volcano goes to 15K feet and they have a doctor on station. (sea level wuss's think about that for a second). The view from my room balcony is stupendous. There was an earthquake at 6 am that caused me to jump from my bed.

An eruption of Tungarhua volcano during my time in Banos caused a thick coat of ash on cars. Hostals are for young people only. The climate is San Francisco. A typical Ecuatorian meal includes potatos, rice, and corn.

I was charmed by a taxi driver who, on realizing that he could not legally drive the wrong way down a one way street, put his car in reverse and backed down that street until I was in front of my hotel door.

Here's my most shameful admission: Commercials for the Grammies are played constantly.

The most charming excerpts are of Lady Gaga.

Perception is everything

Recently, on an Internet forum for expats in Ecuador, a woman asked whether she should make the trip from the states to see if she might retire in EC.

As you would expect, the answers varied but the consensus is “sure, why not”.

There is one character, though, who is consistently negative and, according to the veteran posters,  consistently wrong.

He admits to not living in EC but says he has visited several times anticipating his retirement.

In his opinion, Quito is a dump. This is based largely on his assertion that the Holiday Inn Express in which he stayed was sub-par. Make sense to you? Me neither.

Generalizing like that about any city, thing, person, or people locks you into an illusion from which escape improbable. The walls are only thickened by the justifications and rationalizations necessary to sustain it.

I'm in Quito and Quito is no dump. It is a vibrant, thriving city of 2 million people living as they will – just like in any other city in the world.

Our curmudgeonly friend apparently hasn't found the astonishing architecture built in praise of God. He hasn't visited the cultural museums, concerts, and native dances that express the history of this endlessly interesting people.

Those same people who have shown me such kindness and patience as I stumble through their language and customs.

Nor has this fellow gazed at the towering volcanic mountains from any window large enough to allow you to look up.

Perhaps he hasn't observed the thriving commercial economy from tiny tiendas and street carts to modern malls with international corporations employing thousands of people.

How did he miss the enormous parks like La Carolina, with a stunning garden and where families gather to, well, just be families?

Was our guy sleeping in when they closed Avenida Rio Amazonas to motor traffic so that hundreds of cyclists from children on training wheels to spandex clad cruisers could mingle on Sunday morning?

Perception, my good man, is everything. I'll bet that that Holiday Inn Express is actually pretty damn good.

A figurative head thumping

Say you've got a jackhammer... those stand up cement destroyers that grate your teeth with the decibels of a jet liner passing low and always operated by huge dudes with undulating bellies and butt crack exposing pants..

You've got to get through 20 feet of concrete, steel, and god knows what else – AND – do no damage to the surrounding area – AND – realize that your goal cannot ever be met using the same method and rules that the original success required.

The first and natural access just took time and being alert. You just listened and copied because there was nothing blocking your way. In fact, those around you applauded, rewarded, and cleared your way.

Now, though, there are experiences, perceptions, prejudice, habits, attitudes, insecurities, and doubts that stand like impregnable titanium boulders blocking your path. The jackhammer impotently bounces away causing only frustration and fatigue.

That, mi amigos, describes the acquisition of a language not your own when you've got 60 years plus of cultural myopia.

I am humbled and focused. I am frustrated and faithful. I am just beginning.

Adeline, es tu y me.  We'll learn together.

Seriously, don't take yourself seriously

Mercedes, mi professora de espanol, es muy bueno.

Ok....I only said that in Spanish because if I speak Ingles she waves her finger at me and, I suspect, despite her sweet nature, would smack a ruler across my fingers.

That's the way it is mi amigos. Herman, the director, announces activities to Swiss, German, Norwegian, Canadian, Japanese, Australian, and citizens of Los Estados Unidos with absolutely no regard that we don't know WTF he is saying.

Me and a young Canuck glanced at each other and burst out laughing as we looked at the dopey expressions presented by 30 clueless old and young students. Herman smiled.

Solo's, affluent couples, young Ramen travelers, back packers, and, of course, edgy old dudes, seeking the Ecuadorian Knowledge.

Friday there's a cooking event where they are instructing the finer points of cuy. We get to grill, fry, and eat it. Herman asked if I wanted to participate. My one word answer was “no”. Herman smiled, looked furtively around and whispered in perfect English “I don't blame you”.

Cultural experience and limits

Nice meal, nice restaurant, nice town. Fresh, perfectly grilled trout. Popcorn appetizer. You wouldn't believe the price if I told you.

They place a dish of cooked critter center table with head intact and two jutting beaver teeth. Its eye catches each of us.

Cuy or guinea pig. You know, little Squeaky that ran his wheel in the middle of the night or bounced around the house in his clear plastic ball.

I'll try it but remember that we visited the live animal market presented by the indigenous people.

Everything there including live cuy picked up by the neck and tested for plumpness. Kittens and puppies too but I refuse to believe that they are anything but pets.

I couldn't eat cuy.

Meal's over but no check. We approach the cashier, tell her what we ate, and pay.

Yeah...you would do the same thing and you know it

World travelers, don't think ill of me when I explain.

It rains a lot in Quito.

Dinner time and the rain is relentless. Yo tengo muy hambre with no hotel restaurant. I'm on foot so the big decision is how close a place is.

Two restaurants within a block. I pull on my boots, don my Goretex jacket then grab the day pack.

The joint is jumpin' five deep with locals over 4 counters and full tables. The workers are lit up. Menu is in Spanish but there is one item that I recognize.

You see it in Quito and Quebec. In Indianapolis and India.....well maybe not so much in India.

“Big Mac por favor” and pantomime that it is carry out because the noise level is so raucous. “Coca Cola? “Si” I stuff all but the coke in my ruck sack then scurry across the block to take the guilty pleasure in my little room. Delicious.

God Bless the Irish

If curious whether there is an Irish pub in Ulan Bator, Mongolia I would ask my step-son, Jacob, who's been there. He would say yes.

Armed with that confidence I sought one in Quito.

As a diviner seeks water my steps bent closer until I saw the orange, white and green of Eire. Finn McCool's.

The smell, furniture, feel, and look said “I'm home”.

“Guinness por favor” I ordered. The bar keep said “sorry, we don't have that”. Trying not to sound too incredulous I said “Que paso?? “

He smiled and pointed to the price list above the bar that read Guinness $14 a bottle. I ordered a Pilsner Grande for $2.

In swept this affable lanky white guy speaking friendly rapid fire Spanish to all. He glanced my way and said “good afternoon sir”. I'm proud to say that I discerned a slight brogue in his Spanish.

His liquid transition from fluent Spanish to fluent English dazzled me.

He's co-owner with another Irish expat.

There are, he said, several San Francisco fans near by and I would be most welcome to watch the playoffs. 'Maybe so, I replied, but I've also been invited to a private showing. He said “Well done, mate.”

The fish and chips cooked by an Ecuadoriana were the best I have ever tasted – including Ireland.

Dress for Success

Dress in Quito, as everywhere, bestows status. Hikers, local hipsters, and indigenous people trigger levels of respect.

I wore my sweatpants one day and was met with frowns that bordered on revulsion. This was unacceptable.

Before I slunk back to my room I noticed certain hombres command respect from all.

Late middle age or older. Thin gray hair that is devil-may-care longer. Macho moustache and sport coat enclosed belly hanging over khaki or black pants, and thus an impressive give-a-shit attitude.

The “Most Interesting Men in the World” given over to Dos Equis.

Hey! I have all those going on except the attitude.

I hung my khakis, white shirt, and sport coat for a shower steam smoothing while the hot water was still on, then practiced my haughty look in the mirror. Only weakness I could see was a pair of black penny loafers. I boldly sauntered onto la calle.

My new image inspired greetings, and gestures of respect like moving out of my way. A Colombian tourist with his son asked me for directions. I said I don't speak Spanish in Spanish and he said neither did he. He and his hijo had a fine laugh.

Emboldened, I went into a hotel bar and grill for a bite but learned that the restaurant was closed. Noticing the well-stocked bar I asked for a Cuba Libre and was advised they were empty bottles. I could have a cold Pilsner beer, though, ubiquitous in Ecuador.

The bar keep, also the room clerk, responded in basic English to my basic Spanish that he would keep the bar open this Domingo so that I could watch the playoffs.

This, I'm certain, was because of my dress and attitude.

Update: Mi amigo Vito did exactly what he said. He had his familia with him and I shall never forget his kindness.

Urges, actions and consequences

Thrilling view, spectacle, or remarkable beauty and you exclaim to your travel mate “Look at that!” then realize that he or she is not there.

An exotic meal or extraordinary wine unshared.

Alone....

Pitiful huh?

According to many, yes.

Solo travelers are, as my late father used to say about anyone different, queer ducks.

Women, old or young, who solo are bold, adventurous, and quirky with devoted blogs, websites and books to extoll, warn, advise, and embrace their audacity. Not so for older guys.

Don't get me wrong – I admire that indomitable spunk that drives women or anyone to explore.

The exact same trait that men who travel alone share.

Take Reynaldo. He's an edgy old dude from Toronto with whom I shared a ride into downtown Quito from the airport. A long time to the car because he has a prosthetic leg that compounded the burden of luggage and thinner air for us sea level wusses.

We later met on a trek to see local nature and encounter indigenous Andeans.

The Canadian health care system, he said, has its goods and flaws. He told about his “exploded gall bladder” surgery including an initial invasion where the surgeon decided he was not competent to continue.

The MD called for more experience on the spot then was advised to insert tubes and sew up until there was a better time.

The interim caused Reynaldo's biology to create a mess in which certain of his organs became “stuck together”.

His most recent surgery was 4 weeks prior to his trip to Ecuador.

A retired gastroenterologist aboard our van, not in Reynaldo's presence, doubted the truth of his story. The rest of us stared at the floor. We did not care.

Reynaldo also failed his medical for private pilot re-certification because he has diabetes and a pacemaker.

A cardiologist friend challenged the ruling arguing that the pacemaker actually made Reynaldo a lesser risk than the published guidelines advised. Unfortunately Reynaldo was irrelevantly victorious because his prosthetic leg prevents him from entering a cockpit.