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.