Hasta Luego

La plaza grande was abuzz with afternoon comings and goings and, if I remember correctly, it was a Wednesday. One of the things I love most about Latin American culture is la plaza - the main square. Energy funnels into the city center, a nucleus of the human element and daily life - although the more we 'progress' the energy has gained an air of nostalgia and tradition - of date nights and tourism. I am the tourist in this plaza, La Virgen del Pendacillo watching over me as I contemplate the fact that none of the basilica's clocks match. Two clock towers, four clock-faces each, and none of them agree. I think they're all sleeping, actually, as I've never seen them change.
That is the feeling I get here though, that different times are colliding. All this as I do things that tourists are expected to do - as well as some things that they're not expected to do. Try as I might to not look like a tourist, my affinity for photos and penchant to carry to many things (in the event that inspiration hits) leaves me with a camera around my neck and a backpack. It seems like when I have it all with me, I never need it. The minute I deside to leave it in the room - I see the most photo-worthy human moment, and I have nothing.
This, perhaps, is where writing comes in. There are moments that deserve to be remembered. Many of them are small, daily movements that go unnoticed by many people. Today on the bus, for example:
The bus, new-to-me transport in Quito, a familiar beast by genus, but each specie having its own territory and quirks city-to-city. I climb the ramp and it's the wrong side. Walk around, climb the ramp again. Twenty-five cents, barreling down the bus lane. Perdon, perdon, squeezing up to the front of the bus to see where I am. . . look for the park, look for the park, the park - el ejido. No seats open, I'm standing, swaying, hanging by a loop. To my right, in a seat facing the rear, ten year old eyes, biggest I've ever seen, stare at me, curiously I'm sure - I look out of place. Peripherally aware, finally I drop my gaze to meet his - contact and a returned smile of large, gapped teeth. Pure positivity and unafraid. What a kid.
Resuming my looking, for the park, for the park. A tap on my knee and a soft pssstt ". . . you want to sit?" he more mouths than whispers in Spanish, offering me his seat. Moved and smiling, "No, no te preocupes. Está bien," I say. He seems content to have offered. What a kid.
Two seats across from him open up, and I don't realize it. Pssstt! I look, he points, I look, I sit. By the window, I mouth, "Gracias!" What a kid.
He sees me looking, first for the park, now at my guide book. The park! We both stand at the same time. The stop is called Casa de Cultura. Deboarding together he asks, ¨¿Adònde va usted?¨ I tell him I'm going to the park, the parque el ejido. He points and steers me to my left, and I now have a guide. What a kid.
Park entrance, he reaches out his hand. "Hasta luego. . ." he says.
Hasta luego. . . Normally, luego never comes in such a case.
We leave each other, smiling. Several hours in the park and the rain, then even more hours in La Casa de Cultura, where I read every informational plaque in English and in Spanish, completely unware that the museum had closed when security guards escorted me out of the building. Ancient pottery and indigenous, artistic, phallic preoccupations. Second floor, colonial art. Christanity reaches the Andes, and now the preoccupation is santos, la virgen, and bleeding Christs. Walking outside, quite cold, and looking for coffee. I find it two blocks from El Parque el Ejido, north towards La Plaza Foch. Finishing my book, and two cups of coffee, I bawled when Madame Michel died. Always in never. . .
Luego tends to never happen. Running late, quick to the bus, I miss the one that's there already - barely. Waiting, waiting, there is the next one; barreling down the hill from the old city, headed uptown. Bus stops, drops the ramp, and I file in line. There, in front of me, ears plugged with white headphones. What kid? Is that the kid? Luego never happens in these situations. . . yet, and amazingly, luego is unfolding in the middle of rush hour in Ecuador's capital.
On the bus, we're up front again, both facing forward this time. Luego never happens, and it's happening, and I feel like there must be some significance to it. But how do I mark it? How to I take advantage of luego. I dig through my backpack, terribly upset that I don't carry an emergency statuette of Lady Liberty, or a pin of Elvis dancing, for such occasions. (As a proper tourist from the U.S. ought to do.) I wanted a recuerdo for what seemed to be like such a random, chance reconvergence of two completely separate lives. I find a bracelet at the bottom of my bag, twin to the one on my right wrist that I bought from a young, traveling, Otavalo artist on the bus from that city to Quito. He still doesn't see me.
I stepped forward when I saw that my stop was coming, Los Sauces, and I tapped on his hand that was grasping the rail in front of him. He looks at me, eyes realizing and turning to plates. We both smile as I hand him the bracelet. Such a smile, geniune and surreal, I say, "¿Que chance, que nos veamos en el bus y que luego pasara?" What are the chances we would run into each other on the bus, and that luego would happen?
The bus slows to my stop, and I have a sea of people to beg pardon around in order to reach the door. He reaches out his hand to shake mine, and that unrelenting smile gives way to, "Hasta luego."
Luego never comes in such a case, does it?

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Strange Bedfellows, Part I: Racism & Urination

The ayudante in charge of collecting fares and distributing tickets on our bus to Cuenca, from Quito, was not immediately friendly. We do, in fact, have a very special relationship that I'm sure will endure the inevitable waning of memory. This connection, strong and deep as it runs, centers around public urination and horses. Not the public urination of horses, mind you. . . no. These are two, distinct bonding moments that he (let's call him Don Quixote) and I share.

Hat on, book in tow, and eager to once again greet the Andes on my own, great metal-horse (hat-tip to Old Iron Ass) we boarded the bus in Quito and steeled ourselves for a ten-hour trip to Cuenca. Different, perhaps even lacking, emission standards ensured that for the first hour or so, getting out of the urban area, I would be granted dark wafts of exhaust and fumes. The street-art so popular in the city extends out of the city and into the afueras:

"Favor prohido orinar

Multa $200"

(Note, urinating prohibited. $200 fine.)

Not even thirty minutes after passing this thoughtful, public advisory, I had to pee. Very well acquainted with the anatomy of buses, I turn and look for a small door in the back, left part of the bus. It's there. Wonderful. I tap on the door separating us from the conductor y ayudante, and after a few frustrating minutes, he decided to see what I wanted.

¨Por favor, que usted abra la puerta del baño,¨ I say, asking him to unlock the door to the bathroom.

He looks at me for a few seconds, unenthused and considering his options. I didn´t realize we needed to consider our options, but hey, I´m patient.

¨To pee?" he asks.

"Yes. . . to pee," I respond. Come on, I'm a pro, dude - don't poop on buses, I've got this.

"Just wait. . . we'll be stopping in a bit," he decidedly responds, seeming pleased with this plan.

I return to my seat by Alexander. For anyone who might not know, Alexander is my former Spanish professor, otherwise known as Dr. Steffanell. My travel partner is intelligent, a master of well-timed responses, and quite clearly latino. Colombian, specifically. I recount my exchange with Don Quixote to him and he laughs.

Ten painful minutes later, our bus slows as we approach a checkpoint, leaving one province and entering another (or something similar). Once cleared, we pull forward through the toll-booth-like obstacle and over on the right side of the road, directly between the aforementioned checkpoint and a small roadside market. Each are about 20 meters from our bus, and traffic is buzzing by on four lanes of well-paved expressway. A hiss of air alerts me that the door is opening, and Don Quixote opens the door of his cabin, looks at me, and alerts me that if I need to pee I should deboard and do it on the side of the road. Really?

Never one to turn down a good whizz in nature, I'm nevertheless taken aback that there's a toilet on the bus, that he has a key for it, and that we're now stopping the entire vehicle to let me out on the road to pee. Not my culture, not my country, not my bus. . . I assent and stand on the side of the road with absolutely no cover, exposed to Ecuador in all my gringo-glory.

Now, you know those long, urinal-troughs at stadiums and arenas? The ones that are often filled with ice, and always with a long line of waiting bladders that have been pushed to the point of eruption for the sake of one more song? Or the game-winning goal at the buzzer? Well, I always freeze up at those things and can never actually achieve the relief I waited so long for. I always end up faking it, shaking it, and walking away with my head down - defeated.

This happened on the side of the road. I return to the bus, the only one who knows the truth, and still having to pee worse than ever before. I tell Alexander what happened, and he, fulfilling his duty as friend and travel companion, bursts into laughter. He has to pee soon, and now that we're moving again, he knocks on the door in front of us.

Don Quixote opens the door, looks at me, thinking I was the one who knocked. His expression was a bit salty, until he realized that Alexander was He-Who-Knocked.

"Me das la llave para el baño, por favor?" Alexander asks, requesting the key for the bathroom.

"Claro, caballero, te lo abro," Don Quixote replies.

What? Did he just. . .

"Of course, sir, I'll open it for you." I can't believe this. I'm right there, he knows I speak Spanish, and he had, mere minutes before, put me in quite an uncomfortable and unhelpful situation. Alexander looks at me, an infuriating blend of surprise and entertainment dripping from his grin.

I could slap them both, I swear.

 

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Juxtaposition in La Plaza Foch

For every viejita y chico walking around the plaza, I am ashamed to have been one more rejection in their entrepenureal pursuits. The reality is, however, that I don't always need gum, shoe shines, and cigarettes.

Several nights ago in the plaza Foch, one of the hip, trendy areas of Quito with great nightlife, I saw a small, hunched, indigenous woman laden with wares. In her right hand was a shoe-shining box, draped around her neck was a large tray filled with gum, cigarettes, and candies, and on her small, busy feet were shoes, the soles of which made her steps uneven and leaning. Her traditional attire was in sharp juxtaposition with the bustle of millenials surrounding her - happy hours and mochileros climbing out of taxis, adventure-appetites whetted for the pulse of a new place.

I find juxtaposition in many places, and the contrast between the hands that humans are dealt can be overwhelming to the point of wanting to crawl into a cave where I can forget my royal flush and use the cards for kindling instead. But this, of course, helps absolutely no one.

Yesterday I watched a mother, sitting and leaning on a lamp post in the plaza, send her daughter, who could not have been older than four years old, over to the patio of a cafe with cigarettes and gum. The girl was stubborn, a good sales-child, not taking the first five "no gracias" for an answer. Heatbreaking, absolutely, but a daily occurence here and one I'm completely inept and unsure about handling. Not my culture, not my country, not my city, but damnit. . .in a global family she is my hermanita.

I´m sorry, sister, but I´m not entirely sure what to do. . .¨no gracias, mi vida.. . no gracias.¨

 

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Madame Michou

The woman beside me in seat 27D stared with no sense of intrusion at my book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, as I underlined a line I quite liked concerning tea and the ability of small, simple things to create large, transcendental moments. As I underlined these four lines, her head tilted more to one side and leaned in a bit, as though I had invited her to do this. Invite her I had not, and we hadn't even spoken, but I'm not one to interrupt a bit of meddling, and so I went on reading. Sometimes, her dark eyes would be shooting right angles into the side of my head as she blatantly stared at my profile.

Within moments of taking off (this particular plane's landing gear was shrill and loud, like a giant fly rod under far too much pressure, some behemoth running away and maxing out the drag) the red-eyed flight attendants handed us the necessary paperwork to enter Ecuador. Do you have more than 10,000 in goods? Are you carrying any livestock, plants, or other organic materials? I personally had two chickens and a bonsai tree, plus $10,001 in dollar bills. Customs was a nightmare.

Anyway, back to my curious, voyeuristic neighbor, who I had deduced must have some affinity for gringos in fisherman pants who read new-philosphy. I realized after a few minutes of filling in my passport number, my date of birth, my length of stay, etc., that neither of my neighbors were filling anything out. The attendants hadn't given anyone a pen, but anyone who knows me also knows that I carry 6 or 7 at all times. I hand one to the man on my right, at the window, who was quite upset that his tv monitor wasn't working. He took it and with a gracias. Madame Miradora, however, did not take the pen I offered her. Instead, in somewhat broken Spanish, she told me that she "didn't know". Didn't know that she had to fill it out? Didn't know that she needed a pen?

She didn't know how read.

I offered to fill out her information for her, and she humbly (far more humbly than I wish she had to) assented. I asked for her passport and began filling out the three forms - all of which ask mostly the same questions. Her Haitian passport gave me all I needed to fill it out, and when asking her if she too was carrying chickens and a bonsai tree, I tried to be quiet so as to not draw the attention of anyone arround us. After a few minutes, I marked an X on each spot she needed to sign, and she slowly and methodically traced Floresno Michou.

I didn't like the rest of the flight after that. She seemed uncomfortable and quit staring at me, which I would have preferred to the way she sunk into herself. It occurred to me all at once that I - as well as anyone reading this - ought to thank every star above (and by star I mean mothers, fathers, teachers, siblings, neighbors, or Mr. Frickin' Rogers) for our ability to maneuver in a world where letters open doors - sometimes doors to other countries. I have plenty of family who didn't read, or still doesn't read, and they're far smarter than I am in many, many ways. The pleasure and solace that I find, however, in stories, histories, and narratives is far too valuable to take for granted. This experience further cemented my desire to teach letters, literature, and writing. As well as my desire to write.

I bid Madame Michou adieu, and hope that she, too, enjoys her time in this new place - and that there might be someone beside her on her return flight for her to stare at, who might help her fill in the necessary blanks.

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