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.).