Ecuador through North-American Eyes

So, I’ve hit my halfway mark here in Ecuador (as long as I don’t meet my future husband here and decide to stay forever), and I think I’ve observed enough culture to be able to tell you a little about it.

Some general observations that have made me pause.

Greetings: Here, if you are a woman, you greet most everyone with a kiss on the cheek: but it’s one of those kisses where your cheeks touch and your lips just smack the air. You ALWAYS go to the left. I’ve had some awkward moments learning that. If you’re a man, I think a handshake is the most common, though of course closer friends may back-slap or use a special handshake/slap kind of deal.

Sneezing: One of the things that make me homesick for the US is people saying, “Bless you.” It’s probably more peculiar that in our culture, if you’re in a crowded bus or taking a test in a classroom of 300 people, someone will STILL bless you if you sneeze. Here, it seems like only your friends or maybe very courteous people say “Salud,” or health. It’s not a given. It makes me enjoy my classes with other gringos because I know that they will acknowledge my sneezing. I’ll add that in Spanish, if you are in the mood to say “salud” to someone, and they keep sneezing: the first sneeze is “salud,” the second “dinero”, and the third, “amor.” Sometimes when I’ve said that to people, they laugh after the third sneeze and say, “I’ll stay with that!”

Babies in Public: I could count the number of times I’ve seen a stroller or a baby-carrier on one hand. Here, babies and toddlers are carried, either in arms or, as is most common with indigenous woman, on the mother’s back. Perhaps it’s for convenience. Bulky objects and buses do not mix, especially when it’s a race to get on. Babies are wrapped in fuzzy blankets and usually have their faces covered if they’re in arms. On backs, they’re inquisitively looking around and grabbing at potential food their mothers have or strangers’ fingers (this has happened many times on the bus). Something I find very advanced is that nursing in public is no big deal. Women sit on benches, on the bus, on the sidewalk—wherever they are, even if they’re trying to sell you something, they just feed their baby right there. None of the passersby give a second glance.

Honking: There is a language of honking. A honk can mean what I’ve experienced before: “You’re in my way!” “Let me over!” But it’s not uncommon to greet someone like that. Cars also often honk before entering an intersection (since there’s no guarantee that a red light will make someone stop and a stop sign even less). A honk from a taxi means, “I need a passenger…is it you?”

PDA: Couples of all ages are very affectionate in public. I remember in Spain being wowed by the level of passion present in a public park—couples making out, lying on each other in the grass while children played nearby. No one cared! No evil eye, nothing. It’s much the same here. Parks are for couples and children, I think. And vendors. There’s also plenty of PDA on the street, on the bus (which is always a little unpleasant, at least for me, since there’s fewer places to look), and at the university.

Security: Ecuador takes its security seriously. There are privately hired security guards (in uniforms) outside of banks, ministries, supermarkets, pharmacies, schools, universities, and hospitals. Other measures of security include barbed wire, high walls surrounding neighborhoods and houses, nails sticking upward out of said wall, and broken glass. Not a very conducive environment for trespassing!

Making Lines: Lines are popular here. Movie-goers form a long line to enter the theater because you can’t enter until the time printed on the ticket. Concerts and soccer games have lines that snake into surrounding streets. However, lines are somewhat fluid. I’ve seen many an Ecuadorian go to the front of the line to ask a “preguntita” (little question) and then be helped. This observation came in handy at the Ministry of Foreigners. My friend, Samantha, had been waiting in one line or another for almost two hours. Finally, she was told that she was missing a paper, but that the ministry could print it for her (and then she could get in another line). As she approached Window 5 to pick up the page, the security guard directed her back to the mass of waiting people. She was completely harta—fed up! I told her, “No, we at least need to get that paper. Then you can come back tomorrow with everything you need.” We approached Window 5. Once again, the security guard firmly tells us to wait with everyone else. “Pero senor, le dijeron a mi amiga que iban a imprimir una pagina por ella, y que podria recogerla aqui.” He wavered, went to the window and asked the attendant, and returned with our paper. Success!

TIPS: You don’t, generally. The price on the menu is the price you pay at the end of the meal. The price the taxista says is the price you pay upon arriving. The only times I’ve tipped are at very fancy restaurants and for services like manicures and haircuts.

Vendedores Ambulantes: Though most buses have a sign that prohibits the admittance of traveling salespeople, it’s a rare bus ride when someone does not pass through with a tray of empanadas or a bunch of chips and snacks. It’s also common for someone to stand at the front (men and women, young and old) and give a prepared speech about how they don’t want to bother us because we’ve paid the 25 cents to travel in peace, but this is how they make a living. If we would accept their product (chocolate bars, hard candy, pirated DVDs and CDs, sewing kits, a recipe book), we’re not obligated at all to buy it. Our “educación” (I would translate it as culture or manners) is worth more than the money.

Family involvement: My university has no dorms. Most everybody still lives at home. There’s a line of cars in front of the university entrance every day of what seem suspiciously like parents dropping off students. It’s not uncommon to live in your parents’ house until your mid- to late 20s….sometimes until you get married (or even after!). Most of my fellow students have lived in the same city for their whole lives. I’ve learned that, as an American, the question “Where are you from?” is a bit complicated. Most of us have two answers—where we grew up and where we now live/go to school. We’re seen as very independent and separate from our families, whereas many Ecuadorians live close to their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and the family gets together to celebrate birthdays and holidays.

Energy consciousness: Air conditioning, a given in the majority of US homes, offices, and stores, is almost non-existent here. I’ve experienced it on the bus and in hospitals….maybe fancier pharmacies and supermarkets, too. But if you’re walking down a street, most of the small shops and restaurants use the light from their big front windows or are open to the air. Classroom windows are usually open to let in the frequent breezes.

Saying buen provecho: In typical lunch places, many of the fellow customers will wish other diners a good appetite, or buen provecho. I like it. Those eating will then thank them.

Of course, there are the typical cultural differences we were warned about in orientation: personal space, cat-calling, and punctuality. I like to think I was prepared for those. I am a naturally late person, so the fact that professors may or may not show up at the listed time (5 minutes late is more common) and classes start about 10 minutes late is perfect for me. I like the affection, the exchange of kisses. The cat-calling…well, you just ignore it and tell friends about it later. At least the caliber of comments is on another level (Precious, my love, I love you, mamita).

I wonder how our North American culture appears to visiting Ecuadorians. If the guy I met at USFQ who’s interested in coming to UGA and studying Finances there, I guess I’ll find out! Being here has made me appreciate the peculiarities and eccentricities of our culture. I love the Latin culture, but I’ll also be glad to be back home.

Carnaval 2012

This may sound strange, but the thought of vacations initially scared me more than going to school. I’ll explain. With school, there’s a schedule. There’s a routine and things to do that are guaranteed to take up time. So I was a little hesitant, thinking of the break the University gives us for Carnaval. They gave us Monday and Tuesday off, but plenty of people take Friday, too (myself included). I learned it’s called “haciendo un puente,” or making a bridge. For example, if you get Tuesday off, you may as well take Monday off, too!

            I decided to go the beach with my friend Kera. She’s been here for a semester already, so she’s much better-traveled. She had heard of a beach that is less popular (some places are chock-full of foreigners) but still fun. So we headed to Tonsupa! Luckily, Kera made last-minute reservations in a hostel. We traveled in bus (Kera, her friend Christine, and I) for 6 hours to Tonsupa. It cost us $10 for the ticket, and the trip passed in a dreamy haze. Suddenly, the bus attendant was announcing we had reached Tonsupa, so we blearily gathered our things and went down the stairs…to a dirt road. The bus roared off, and we were left rubbing the sleep out of our eyes in the middle of what seemed like nowhere. It was 5 am.

            As I’m struggling to put in my contacts, a woman asks us if we need a taxi ride. We discovered one of the quirks of the beaches in Ecuador: moto-taxis. They’re exactly as they sound—a motorcycle rigged to a rickshaw-type cabin/platform with a bench or 2 and a little roof. We figured out our hostel’s name, climbed in, and were off. We got lucky. Our hostel was clean, relatively cheap, and we had three beds in the room. The ultimate luxury was having an air-conditioning unit. It’s uncommon to have air-conditioning in most hostels (and shops and restaurants, now that I think of it), even though the coast is rather warm. We evacuated a lizard, fell into our bunkbeds at 6 am, and slept till noon.

            Tonsupa was a calm, sunny beach. Even though everyone in the sierra exclaimed over the heat of the coast, I reveled in the balmy, 80-90 degree weather. As I told Kera and Christine, in Georgia (and Florida), the heat sits on you like a wet blanket. The air doesn´t move and is just saturated with water. There, I enjoyed the constant breeze and the clouds.

            Like I told you, Tonsupa is calm. Most people go to other, more tourist-y, populated beaches. We enjoyed the change of pace, the one main street, the small shops, and the abundance of comida del mar. But for a change, one night we three Amazonas (Kera, Christine, and I are at least all 5´10´´, and I LOVED walking down the street with them at my side) got dolled up for a night on the town. We paid a quarter each to take a bus to Atacames, the lively beach 20 minutes down the road. What a difference! All the streets were lit up; music thumped from the numerous discotecas, and the streets were choked with people. Two way streets became one way streets with stop and go traffic, just from the sheer amount of people strolling there instead of the sidewalk.

            Another difference: in Atacames, people were playing Carnaval. We quickly figured out what that meant. We were waiting in line to buy a hamburger from a street vendor. Ahead of us was a small family: mom, dad, and small boy (maybe 7 or 8 years old). I notice the mother nudging the child and pointing to the three of us. Before we can react, he is spraying us with foam. Espuma de Carnaval: all the pharmacies were selling it. It seemed to be like shaving cream, but perhaps more water-based. I know, because that night we wiped plenty of it off of us.

            We dissolve into hapless laughter, looking at each other with stripes of foam in our hair and on our dresses. So much for looking cute! We cleaned each other up and kept waiting on those hamburgers. That´s the thing about people playing Carnaval: they spray you, and they´re content. There´s mercy.

            As we continued walking on the main street, Calle del Sol, we became aware that we were good targets. Christine very seriously told us, ¨We need protection,¨ so we went to a pharmacy and bought a big canister for 3 dollars. ¨We´ll just spray people that spray us first—that´s only fair,¨ we decided.

            As we´re walking, I look up and notice ahead a group of people sitting in the second floor of a restaurant. They were all armed and waiting. My eyes meet those of one of the guys, and he smiles and beckons me forward, as if he was saying, ¨You know you have to walk underneath us!¨ Unfortunately, it was true. We walk; they attack, and we retreat. I dart under the awning of a pharmacy (there are so many pharmacies here!), and Kera comes too. As she´s gently scooping foam off of my face and away from my eyes, a jet of foam descends from above, all onto her hair. One of the group had run along the second floor to get us again!

            Well, the situation necessitated revenge. We crossed the street to plot. Armed with a canister of foam each, we snuck up the stairs to the restaurant, pausing on the landing. ¨Ok, so we go in, attack, and get out. Got it?¨And with that, we were running into the restaurant to surprise attack. I caught a glimpse of other diners, not part of the foam group, who smiled to see us. I´m sure we made quite a sight—three wrathful gringas, foam in our hair and clothes, making for the backs of our attackers. We were successful, though you can imagine the amount of foam we soon had on our bodies (7 versus 3). We rushed back onto the street, but to our surprise, one guy followed us! He and Christine had a battle before their foam ran out. He yelled, in English, ¨Truce! Truce! Man, you girls are gutsy! Why don´t you come on up and have a beer with us?¨

            They were a group of Americans. ¨Of course!¨ exclaimed Kera. ¨Only Americans would go big like this.¨ It was impressive. They had commandeered the top floor of this restaurant, ordered pizza and beer, and stockpiled at least 15 containters of Carnaval foam. We sat with them for a while and visited as they continued their game of spraying passersby (the most gleeful participant was a little old man with white hair). They were middle-aged oil company associates, there on business. It was comical to contrast the Americans with the Ecuadorians they were spraying. Everyone was so nonchalant! I´ve been told that this is what Carnaval´s about—if you´re on the street, you know you´re liable to attack. But it was still surprising to see the calm of the women who´ve just gotten foam in their hair, or drivers whose car windows are plastered with foam as they inch by in the traffic.

            We made our way back on the street, thinking of finding a discoteca, but it wasn´t long before we were embroiled in another foam war. This time, it was 3 Ecuadorian guys. Christine was our champion, and she´s quite vengeful, so it was one of them who cried, ¨Paz, paz, paz! We´re gonna go drink on the beach….You wanna come?¨ And that´s how we met Pablo, Mauricio, and Diego. We hung out on the beach, watching people play with fire while music spilled out from the discotecas. They were nice guys from Quito there for vacation. We spent the rest of the night with them, walking around, buying another hamburger, dancing…. Kera and Pablo decided to get married, so Diego and I were godparents and Mauricio officiated the ceremony on the beach J From there on on out, they referred to each other as ¨mi esposo/a¨. After midnight, Diego and Mauricio decide they want to swim. The ocean is already full of other people with similar ideas, and they begin stripping down. I decide to wade out (the water is like bathwater), but a wave made dry clothes a thing of the past. So I swam! In the Pacific Ocean, off an Ecuadorian beach, under the light of the moon, we swam.

            It was a great trip.

Reflecting on a New Host Family

Today is Thursday, and I moved into this house on Saturday. I don’t regret my decision to move in the slightest. This house has life in it. I am the proud host sister of three younger brothers (sound familiar?). They are rambunctious. They squabble. They play Guitar Hero and watch Cartoon Network. I love it.

            I revel in the family rituals. Sunday, we (Mamá, Papá, 13-year-old brother, and I) went to the nearby supermarket, SuperMaxi. It’s a Sunday tradition. I enjoyed the lazy strolling up and down the aisles, as if we were window shopping. My brother and I spent quite a while in the fruit section. I marveled at the sheer number of fruits I had never seen before in my life. There were at least eight. Each discovery was accompanied by a shocked, delighted giggle from my host brother.

            Well, it’s now Friday afternoon. I’m sitting in a living room-styled nook, surrounded by guitars and sheet music. At least 2 of the 3 boys play guitar, as well as the father. I can hear music coming from the kitchen where the empleada is cooking and cleaning with her teenage daughter, as well as my brothers’ conversation filtering down the stairs. I began writing this entry last night with all intentions of finishing it then, but as I was comfortably ensconced on the living room couch, the parody spy film with Anne Hathaway and my host brothers’ company soon distracted me. I set my computer on the floor and began a musical adventure on the oldest’s Ipod. He has so much music in English! Lady Gaga, Metallica, All American Rejects, My Chemical Romance, The Strokes….Before they knew it, I was coercing them into singing Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” and “The Cave” by Mumford and Sons with me. Lo pasamos chévere, as they would say here.

            I like that about this house—I get interrupted. I’m taken out of my routine and swept into another. In my last house, I had too much time to myself. I’m sure I’m going to learn a lot about myself through being in a foreign country, and the past month drilled into me that I like being around people. I can be by myself, but I don’t relish more than an hour or two. Other people provide the spice of my life and take me places I never would have gone otherwise (like Lumbisí, the indigenous village 20 minutes outside of Cumbayá, or Cueva de la Rafa, a restaurant in a pitch-black cave with blind waiters). They celebrate my triumphs with me, like successfully getting a haircut in Quito (I’m deeming a non-drastic, hardly noticeable trim successful) and being the first girl to rappel down from the gym’s rafters. It’s you wonderful people who are reading this now and celebrating my experiences with me, you who I am glad I can return to. I couldn’t have lived for four more months in a quiet house with a solitary host-mother. No, thank you. I much prefer being woken up before 7 every morning by the frantic, pre-departure conversations whose urgency always necessitates a wall-penetrating volume. Instead of lying in bed waiting for my brothers to leave, I throw on a sweater, stumble into the hallway, blearily greet them and wait for them to kiss me on the cheek before they troop out the door. I have the luxury of crawling back into bed, while their classes start at 7:30 am, poor things.

            I’m reading a book left behind by a former exchange student (this is the advantage of being the 17^th host daughter in this family—I have inherited a library of guide books and a large, hiking backpack). It’s called On Beauty, by Zadie Smith, and I can’t really articulate what it’s “about” yet. My brothers have queried, and when I shrug, they conclude, “Ah, no entiendes.” I hope it’s not that I don’t understand it, but more that I just have yet to have the ability to explain it. I’ll try.

It’s one of those books with a complex plot following an entire family. At one point, the eldest son is heartbroken over a week-long, whirlwind romance that terminated in a broken engagement. His mother finds him scribbling in his journal, as he is wont to do, even 9 months after the fact. “Where Kiki had felt her way instinctively through her problem, Jerome had written his out, words and words and words. Not for the first time, Kiki felt grateful she was not an intellectual. From here she could see the strangely melancholic format of Jerome’s text, italics and ellipses everywhere. Slanted sails blowing about on perforated seas….

‘You just going to sit in all day, write your diary?’

‘Not a diary. Journal.’

Kiki made a noise of defeat, stood up. She walked casually around the back of  him and then bellyflopped suddenly towards him, hugging him from behind, reading over his shoulder: ‘It is easy to mistake a woman for a philosophy…The mistake is to be attached to the world at all. It will not thank you for your attachments. Love is the extremely difficult realization-‘

Kiki kissed the back of his head and stood up. ‘Too much recording—try living,’ she suggested softly.”

I surprised myself by writing four blog entries in January. I love telling you all stories (which is how I think of writing these), but I think you’ll understand if they are less frequent. I’m so grateful to be taken out of my isolation and offered instead the hustle and bustle of a family, friends, and a huge city. From here on out, I’ll try to balance the recording with the living…and you’ll here all my stories when I get back.

The Spanish I Didn’t Learn in School: Ecuadorian version

I think three weeks is enough time here to give you a run-down on the phrases I’ve come across, out in the field. I am not a seasoned enough traveler to affirm their unique Ecuadorian identity. I am waiting on the experts (Liz, Santi, Erica, Janet, Ceci?) to tell me if they’re common throughout Latin America. I can only tell you they are new to this gringa’s ears, and I am enjoying them!

No te creo:  Literally, it’s “I don’t believe you,” and much like its English counterpart, the person doesn’t literally doubt the veracity of what you’re saying. It’s more of a “no way!” but less enthusiastic. “No kidding,” maybe.

Fresco: As far as I can tell, this is kind of a placating response, a “fine”, if you will. “Cómo estás?” “Ay, fresco.” Or Mónica has also told me before, when I’ve been concerned about not pulling my fair share (how often have you gotten turned down to help with dishes? It’s happened quite a lot over here), “No te preocupes—estás fresca.”

Miércoles: This is the equivalent of “shoot” or “dang” or some other euphemism for a curse word. If you can’t figure out what word this sounds like, ask someone. The French speakers should be figuring it out, too. It literally means “Wednesday.” I’ve heard it muttered under breaths, as an exclamation, but also in sentences. Just today, a friend’s younger host sister told me, “Mi papá se va a comer miércoles si no le contesto!” as a reason she needed to be by her phone. Make more sense?

De ley: I just recently learned this phrase. It translates literally as “from the law” or “by the law”, but connotatively it’s “for sure”. I used it around two Ecuadorian boys from the Polytécnica institute, and they were duly impressed.

La Rosalie/ El Mateo: When someone isn’t in the room (or even if they are, actually), and you are referring to them in third person, they take on an article. The Rosalie, the Matthew. It’s novel to me, and I still haven’t quite adopted it yet.

Gordo: There is just really not a stigma with calling someone fat, or chunky, here! It’s affectionate. My friend Erika calls her nephew Gordo and her son Flaco (skinny). There’s no malice or ill-concealed desire for someone to lose weight. It seems to be just a nickname based on someone’s appearance. Similarly, it’s no big deal to refer to someone as “negro”. Just today, one of the guys we were hiking with was called “el negro,” even though he seemed just as tan as anyone else to me. Alternatively, calling someone “estúpido” is much graver. An insult to intelligence is taken much more seriously—Mónica wrathfully muttered “Imbecil!” as a woman cut her off in the morning. Can you imagine? In our country, we call each other stupid playfully, yet we would never call to one of our friends, “Hey, fatty!” and expect the other to turn and smile at us.

Plata: Literally “silver”, but figuratively “money.” This is not just informal slang—the other day, my Environmental Project Planning professor lectured on how to receive “plata” for our proposals.

A la orden: As Santi taught me before I left, this is a very subservient way to say “You’re welcome.” You’re probably familiar with “de nada”, but that’s a very equal thing to say. In different power dynamics, you’re more likely to hear “a la orden.” For example, I’ve heard bureaucrats in the Ministerios say this, as well as vendedores in the market.

Coger: This is an all-purpose verb, meaning roughly “to get.” I’ve heard in other countries it can mean “to screw”, so I’ll need to watch myself. Here, at least, you can coger el bus, coger una clase, or coger some silverware.

Gua gua: There is definitely a Quichua influence on Ecuadorian Spanish from the indigenous groups still residing here. Gua gua is a child, be they infant in arms or running around and talking.

A cha chai: Another Quichua phrase, this one translates to “How chilly/cold!”

Tacos: Here, tacos are not a food item. They are slang for tacones, or high-heeled shoes. Any Ecuadorian woman worth her salt wears heels, no matter where or how far she walks. In the cordillera near Quilotoa this weekend, as I panted and huffed flat-footed on the muddy trails, indigenous women in tacos and skirts passed me by.

Mande: This is a polite command literally meaning “Order (me).” I’ve heard it around Erika’s family a lot. If one of her sons yells “Mami!”, her long-suffering parent voice (you know the one: there are no surprises left, so there’s a certain amount of resignation and lack of urgency compared to the child’s voice) replies, “Mande”. Similarly, if she calls to them, their response is the same. I think in an equivalent US situation, we would just say, “Yes?”

Qué bestia! This is a catch-all phrase. Not only does it have the positive, impressed “What a beast!” connotations, but it can also describe something negative. A lot of traffic? Que bestia. That guy just climbed up the rock face? Que bestia. Something really cool? Something kind of shocking and terrible? You got it—Que bestia!

I know I’ve got lots more learning ahead of me, and I’ll probably be incorporating Ecuadorian slang into my Spanish without realizing it. But here’s a taste of what I’ve been experiencing. I hope non-Spanish speakers have been able to relate, or at least get a kick out of the things I hear.

Oh, one last word. It seems like every area has its own word to say “cool”or “awesome”—some all-purpose word of approval. In Puerto Rico, it’s “nítido”. I’ve heard “genial”, I think for Mexico, and “guay” is somewhere else. In Ecuador, it’s “chévere.”

First Week of Classes

So, I feel like I should describe my new campus to you before the novelty wears off and I can’t remember what would be interesting to hear. My school, the Universidad San Francisco de Quito, is a small, private university in a neighboring valley of Quito, Cumbayá. There are approximately 4,000 undergrad students, and 250 of them this semester are exchange students! There’s at least one other foreigner in all of my classes, and it’s easy to tell. Their attitudes are a surprising mixture of friendliness and hesitance. I’ve actually met fellow Americans on the street. Just walking, there’s that face, half-open and half-guarded: I want to talk to you, but I’m not sure! It’s a trademark, and it’s how I’ve met three people who live on my street!

            As for my classes (the scholastic part of the program, the legal reason I’ve been admitted to the country: to study), I am taking 6. It sounds like a lot, but as Mónica so graciously pointed out, I don’t want to be staring at 4 walls all day. Better to stay on campus and meet people. Taking her advice to heart, I realized I could take classes here I don’t have the opportunity to in Georgia: one of those exclusive art classes (Basic Weaving!), and an Andinismo class, that has a field trip to a nearby mountain every weekend (we have to attend 3). So I have those two fun ones, which oddly enough are related. The word for weaving in Spanish is tejer, and it’s the same verb used to translate ‘tying knots’: you weave them. On Friday, we learned one called the mariposa, or butterfly.

            The classes that have had Ecuadorian students raising their eyebrows (apparently I’m taking a hard load) are: Tropical Rainforest Ecology, Planning of Environmental Projects, Indigenous Literature, and Eco-anthropology. All except for the ecology class are in Spanish. The class with the most foreigners is Indigenous Literature: a full half if not two-thirds of the class are gringos. The other day, we discussed the word ‘gringo’: its connotations and denotations. Some of my fellow gringos got up in arms, but I feel like the least we deserve for our American reputation in South America is a nickname that means light-skinned foreigner. Here, it’s allegedly not insulting but instead affectionate.

            My Tropical Rainforest Ecology class includes a field trip to Tiputini, the research station owned by the university in the Amazon. I’m looking forward to applying what we learn in class, though we won’t get to go until May. It’s an odd dynamic the Ecuadorian students have with the research station—most don’t ever have the opportunity to go, unless their majors are specifically related. However, all the internationals are offered the chance, regardless of their major. The hope, the International Programs director stated, is that we’ll go back to our countries singing the praises of the rainforest and pushing for its conservation.

            Now, to describe the campus….It’s a bubble, a lush, resort-like oasis in the midst of a bustling city block. High walls surround the entire university. There’s only one entrance and exit for students. I know this because I walked halfway around it in vain one day, figuring it’s good to have an exit strategy. There are guards at the entrance, but that’s not unusual. Like I may have mentioned, the school supply store up the road has a guard. My urbanización has three guards, one of whose jobs is to patrol on motorcycle. I am very jealous and have to squelch urges to invite myself along.

            There’s a lagoon, a pagoda, an ivory colored phallic tower, buildings painted all sorts of pastel shades, courtyards with fountains, and grassy patches where students lounge. As you can imagine, a campus for 4,000 is nowhere near the size of UGA. I frequently run errands to and fro. It probably would take 10 minutes to walk from one end to the other. 15 if you were slow. Accordingly, breaks between classes are only 5 minutes. That wouldn’t really be an issue either, though, considering classes don’t really start in earnest for at least 5 or 10 minutes after the time listed. Ecuadorian students know this and stroll in nonchalantly, greeting the teacher by their first name. “Como te vas, Angélica?” (It’s a university policy to call teachers by their first names and address them informally. It blows my mind.) That’s another way to tell the Americans apart. We are on time! We do not want to be late, especially the first week. We’re sitting in the hallway five minutes early. This is also how I’ve met fellow exchange students, exchanging that sheepish, you’re here early, too, huh? look.

            Our drop/add period is much longer. Classes started on the 11^th, and the add period just closed on the 20^th. We still have until the 1^st of February to drop. Lunches have been fun; there is a cafeteria on campus, but there’s a multitude of lunch places right off campus. The farther from campus, I’ve learned, the cheaper. Lunch is incredibly cheap anyway. An expensive one would be 3 or 4 dollars. The other day, we ate at an Italian place, and the calzone was $4.70. I felt extravagant. Other places offer more typical food, and one place we found, Del Horno (From the oven), provides a soup, plato fuerte (main dish), postre (dessert), and jugo (juice)…for $2.50.

            Classes are just now starting to pick up. I’ve mostly had readings so far, though there will be the future presentations, quizzes, and tests. I’m enjoying walking around campus and hearing Spanish all the time. Everyone has been very friendly; though of course it’s been easier to make friends with other foreigners (think freshman year mentality). I’m looking forward to this year and the promise it holds!

If You Were Walking Beside Me

If you were walking beside me in Quito, I’ll tell you what you would see. No, more than see. Experience.

            First of all, we’d be sweating. I promise. I have never seen the likes of these hills (and I thought Athens was bad! I see people biking, and I mentally salute them). Even to leave my urbanización, we’d be almost sliding downhill. The sidewalk would be smooth if we were lucky. I’ve tripped (and caught myself) a couple times, mostly when these pavers jut out at angles, ready to catch unaware feet. So hopefully you wouldn’t trip, or if you did, I’d catch you.

            Sometimes the sidewalk might be full of people or flowers, so we’d have to take our lives in hand a little and venture into the edge of the street. That would be nothing compared to CROSSING the street, though. We’ll get there. A florería would probably most likely be in our way. We’d dart around the buckets of flowers and kindly shopkeepers (25 rosas por un dolár!) and hustle back onto the sidewalk. We’d pass all types of people, just like in the US. Businesspeople, students, families with toddlers….We’d also see indigenous abuelitas in their colorful shawls, seated on street corners, hands outstretched, their faces creased with wrinkles. I would ask you what you thought about it, if we should give her money, talk to her, try to figure out her story…or just keep walking as I do when I don’t have you next to me. We’d see other women in traditional garb selling strawberries, blackberries, and other fresh fruit. I wouldn’t let you buy any because, as foreigners, our stomachs aren’t accustomed to the bacteria. I’ve been told diarrhea is inevitable, but let’s evade it a little longer. There are other people with small carts selling food—tamales, kebobs. We’d pass small cafés and restaurants, where an expensive meal costs more than 3 dollars.

            Eventually, we’d have to cross the street. We may have to go out of our way—crosswalks aren’t the most common. We’ll see other people just run across where they please, but I hold you back. Better safe than sorry. We walk until a bus stop affords us a nice wide crosswalk. There, a small green man says it’s ok to walk, and the signal chirps at us. But if I take you to the park or cross a street without a bus stop, or anywhere there’s a turning option….There, we’ll have to be wary. Up until 2 years ago, drivers had the right of way in Quito. They still think they do. Even if the little green man is stomping away and we begin to cross, anyone wanting to turn will accelerate through our crosswalk. It’s best just to keep moving at a steady pace (and watch out). If we take too long, we’ll hear honks.

            Actually, get used to hearing honks anyway. It’s a pretty common occurrence on the streets of Quito. See, everyone wants to get where they’re going, and they’ll do what it takes to get there. They’ll use their blinkers…and then move on over. Lanes are more suggestions than anything else, especially around curves. So are stop signs. I think a rolling stop is legal—at least, my host mother has no qualms in rolling right by a police officer every morning.

            There won’t be too much trash to step around. There may be a couple street dogs, poor things. We’ll hope they don’t get run over and remain wary of them. No good getting a series of rabies shots in a foreign country! You’ll like the graffiti that’s all over. Well, you’ll like the more artistic stuff, colorful murals that cover walls. Or maybe you’ll like the political, the satirical, the philosophical. I’ll translate for you :) Or I don’t know, you might like the graffiti of penises that seems a worldwide phenomenon. No need to translate that!

            We may get a little lightheaded from the pollution. It’s not really visible in the air, but you can smell it coming from all the traffic. Mixed with the high elevation (over 9000 feet!) and the hills we’ve been hiking, we may stop for a breather. Then, the wind will blow, and you’ll turn around. There, the clouds will be breaking over our local mountain, Pichincha. The whole sprawling city of Quito will carpet the valley and try to nestle up into the mountain. The buildings’ colors will please you—beyond white, there are all shades of coral. Maybe we stay at our vantage point until the sun sets and the clouds sink over the mountain, obscuring its top in fog. The lights of Quito will begin to wink at us warmly. And I’ll take you home because it will be getting cold.

Bussing

     I'm finishing up day 2 of my Ecuadorian adventure, and there's so much I could say to all of you. In the interest of time (and the knowledge that I turned the hot water heater on about an hour and a half ago and thus hot water awaits), I will restrict my story today to the bus.
     There are several colors of bus that frequent Quito. Mine is the lime green. Its name changes with each bus, which is why I know it by color. To get to the university, my host mother, Monica, made sure I knew where to get on (not the bus stop with lots of people, but the one up the hill where it was less..sketchy), where to get off (before the big traffic circle), and how much it costs (25 cents).
            What she neglected to mention where striking differences to an American, but everyday life to someone living in Quito. First of all, the bus passed me by. Two of them. Like a dutiful daughter, I hiked up the hill to watch in amazement as the bus stopped below and flew right on by. I went back down to try my luck with the more populated stop and noticed, as the third bus came quickly, a man flagging it down. Yes, much like taxis, you can flag a bus down! Even when it’s not a designated bus stop. Similarly, you can get off where you’d like, but I’ll get to that in a minute.
            I capitalized on this man’s gesturing and hopped on board, quarter in hand….Only to discover that you don’t pay immediately when you get on board. I sat down, confused, wondering if I had simply missed the bucket or drop box. Oh, maybe it’s towards the back once we get off, I thought. Then, I discovered another fixture of Ecuadorian buses. For lack of a better term, I’ll call him the bus attendant. He hangs out the door at times, enticing passersby to our destination or even gets off the bus entirely, jogging to get back onboard. And when you get off, you pay him.
            Being in another country makes me really observant. They already know I’m a foreigner, but I still don’t want to be a dumb gringa (or gringuita, as my host mom’s friends have affectionately called me). As the bus comes up to a stop, good bus passengers haul themselves out of their seats and make their way, while the bus is still hurtling towards the stop, to the entrance. They hand their coins to the attendant, get off as quickly as possible, and more passengers get on. It’s a race for time, and one has to be prepared.
            Not wanting to miss my stop, I hauled myself out of the seat at what seemed like the appropriate stop and approached the attendant. “Está cerca la Universidad?” I asked. “Ah, sí, sí,” he responded. So I handed him my quarter (which I had been clutching the whole ride) and prepared to disembark. “No, no, falta!” he protested. I stared at him dumbly. How could I be lacking in funds? Mónica told me it was 25 cents! He finally made me realize that we were lacking in distance. The university was still a ways away. I returned to my seat and was very glad I had asked him as I watched lots and lots of countryside pass by. When we came to the right stop, he gestured to me emphatically. “Venga, venga saliendo!” and ushered me off the bus. I said, “Gracias por su ayuda,” a phrase I’ve been saying a lot to the miscellaneous people that are helping me along the way, kind strangers. And so I got off the bus, walked around the corner to the university, and eventually met my host mom for lunch.
            The ride home was no less eventful. Again, I was afraid to miss my stop. Looking back, I’m pretty sure I got off at the right stop. Unfortunately, nothing looked familiar. I ended up wandering down one street, remembering a landmark, asking a girl about it, turning around, finding it, and then continued on. I was on the right street headed the wrong way. As I continued, nothing looked familiar. I started wondering what recourse I had. I haven’t bought my telephone yet (it’s on tomorrow’s agenda), but I wondered about finding a pay phone to call my host mother at work. I headed towards a gas station (where do you even find a pay phone these days?) when the light bulb came on. A taxi! Taxis are all over Quito, and since we had taken one the night before, I knew exactly what to tell the driver. I flagged one down; he pulled over. I hopped in and gave him the name. We were off! I asked him, sheepishly, “Está cerca?”
 “Ah, sí,” he answered. I watched carefully, and before I knew it we were home.
“Cuanto?” I asked.

“Un dólar,”he replied. I think it was the best dollar I ever spent.

Just so you know: other than bussing, I’ve been familiarizing myself with my new campus, bantering with my host mom, enjoying the valleys and mountains all around me, and trying to remember to not flush the toilet paper (they have small trash cans by the toilet you use. Thank goodness my friend Ceci told me so before I left the US because no one here has broached the subject. I double checked with my host mom, and she agreed that I should avoid flushing the paper if at all possible, with that look that says why don’t you know this already? I wonder if the other Americans know.).