Week One: Quito and Banos

[Written Saturday, February 18]

I am writing from the rooftop patio of La Posada del Arte, where I am staying for two days while I explore Banos. From here, I have a perfect view of a waterfall, and the sound of rushing water combined with the warmth of the sun is putting me to sleep. This morning, I woke up early to have breakfast at the hostel and get to the thermal baths before the crowds. Later, I'll bike the Ruta de las Cascadas and to where the Amazon begins.* Banos is small and lovely and I feel very safe here, which, at this point in my trip is comforting.

I arrived in Quito a week ago yesterday at midnight, and after working out where my backpack was stranded (Atlanta), I didn't manage to get to my neighborhood via taxi until 1:30 AM. Then there was the trouble of not knowing exactly which apartment was mine, so at this absurd hour in a not-so-safe area of Quito, I went around pouding on strangers' doors and getting groggy (though, I think, amused by my loca gringa-ness) responses in Spanish. Finally, I was directed to the right place and immediately fell asleep.

I spent my first weekend in Ecuador questioning all my decisions (regarding this trip and honestly, life in general) and feeling very much tempted to book a flight back home ASAP. Why did I think I was capable of traveling alone to a country such as Ecuador, knowing just about no Spanish whatsoever? I was already dreading the next four months--months I had spent the last year dreaming about in the U.S. My first weekend, I thought a lot about my initial experience of college--how homesick I was and how scared I was to leave my dorm. Back then, I managed to isolate myself (and keep myself way too busy with classes and work) enough to remain miserable for the following two years. I didn't want that to be my experience of South America, too, so on Sunday afternoon, I walked to a park in my neighborhood and just sat and observed.

Much of the past week has been spent like this. I walk to my Spanish lessons every morning, and afterwards, I find a spot to sit at a nearby park, watching people, reading or reviewing my notes, and napping. I walk about five miles every day, so I'm usually exhausted enough to nap and get a full nine hours of sleep. Probably the intense language immersion helps with that, too. If it weren't for the fact that I have been maintaining a diet of bread and tres leches cake (from this amazing cafe in Old Town), I would likely already be severely emaciated. I am trying to summon the courage to try real Ecuadorian food, but the closest I've come is eating Llapingachos (potato and cheese patties, served with chorizo and fried eggs) at my American-run hostel this weekend. I'm also trying to resist eating a burger and fries everyday at Burger Clan, which is only one block away from my school. If I can at least manage to avoid that, I'll feel accomplished.

I think a lot of this--food adjustments, homesickness--has to do with my need for familiarity. I'm still very much at the point where things I recognize make me feel safe. Last weekend as I walked the streets of Quito, I searched desperately for familiar things: Barilla pasta and Betty Crocker cake mix at the supermarket, someone else dressed in North Face cargo pants and Keens (the official uniform of the Northamerican tourist), even things I recognized from Spain. Each familiarity was a small victory: See? This is not so strange or scary! It's a silly pattern of thinking, definitely one that I want to break. After all, that was one of the main reasons for taking this trip--so that I could learn about other cultures, and specifically learn the language, so that they would no longer be unfamiliar or "other." But I wonder if this is really the best way to approach the problem. Should we have to learn, to become familiar with (I am thinking of the Spanish verb "conocer" here) something we are not used to in order to no longer view it as "other"? Or should we change our perspectives from the bottom-up so that nothing and no one is "other," so that all is inherently and immediately familiar and part of us. Perhaps this is the dissonance I feel between awareness that our differences are beautiful and necessary and the recognition that all people and all creation are one.

Perhaps, too, this is all too much to be worrying about one week into my travels.

I'll end with this: when I was sitting in a park a few days ago, a man passed by and said, "Tardes." It caught me off guard; I was so concentrated on searching for the familiar--an English word, someone with whom I could be fairly certain shared my language--I missed an opportunity to experience and share kindness. The man passed before I could even smile. I don't want to be suspicious and scared. I want to be open, listening, and present to the new and strange (to me).

*Since getting here, the thing I've longed to do the most is go for a bicycle ride. Odd, because the last time I biked was almost a year ago. I think it's because the weather here is perfect for biking (55-70 degrees every day). That said, I don't recommend biking 10 miles through pouring rain if 1) you have no sense of direction or 2) you can't remember the last time you exercised. I only made it halfway to my intended destination (Pailon del Diablo, a really cool waterfall) before I had to turn back because I was completely drenched and had therefore achieved the same effect as jumping down a waterfall. I later realized that had I continued, I would never have reached my destination because I was going in the opposite direction.  💁🏻

Intentions for S. America 2017

I've been dreaming about this trip I'm taking to South America for almost a year now. I finally summoned the courage to buy the flight to Quito (one-way!) at the end of July, but the reality has only just set in. I'm going to South America! Alone! With very little knowledge of Spanish! I've encountered a variety of responses from friends and strangers when they hear this news. Disbelief, envy, fear, and excitment are most common. I've gotten lots of advice, too, and I don't know if I'd be going at all if it hadn't been for all the people who shared their wisdom and experiences with me along the way.

Several friends, after I've told them about my adventure, have mentioned Cheryl Strayed's Wild as well as Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love journey. I'd read Gilbert's a few years ago, and a coworker gave me Wild, which I finished just this week. How strange to be compared to these women! I'm flattered, of course, but reading their memoirs and thinking about my own trip has me reflecting on my reasons for going. It is not out of desperation. I haven't hit rock-bottom: gotten a divorce, dealt with unfaithfulness and a drug problem. At worst, it is because I am tired and bored and want to feel renewed and amazed again.

Of course, on a very practical level, I am taking this trip to learn Spanish. I also think it's important that I take care of my wanderlust (for the time being) before going back to school and commit to three to four years in the U.S. While I want these reasons to remain on my mind as I travel, I also want to think about broader "intentions" like Gilbert's to eat, pray, and love.

Every once in awhile, I have to remind myself of this feeling of awe I had last spring in a cave in Arkansas (I tried to write about it here). Those 10 minutes in the cave are how I want to experience all of life. It's completely unrealistic to expect that, and I can't imagine I'd get anything done if that dream came true. Still, awe, to me, is one of the most precious emotions. Awe (and it's friend delight) is how I feel closeness with the Divine, Mystery.

In the past several months, however, I have felt more and more distant from Mystery. I have rarely been in awe of anything at all. A lot of this has to do with living in this big city and not taking the time or not having the opportunity to escape it--to find some place in the woods or to sit still on a cliff above a lake (like I used to do in Iowa City). This has always been how I "pray," but if I don't choose to be with God and experience God, how can I claim a faith and a relationship with God at all?

All that to say, I think I want my intention for this trip to be "awe." And that means being open to experiencing delight not just at Machu Picchu, but with the ordinariness of city life in Quito, with the people I meet along the way, with the work I'll do at school and on the farm. I want to learn, through this trip, to be open to wonder at everything I encounter, no matter what continent I'm on.