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.