Today was unexpectedly awesome.
I went to the park around 12 to see about playing some soccer. To my surprise, there were a good 50 or 60 kids at the park, which is usually empty around that time of day. As usual, the people playing on the Cancha wanted nothing to do with some clumsy looking gringo; No one asked me if I would like to play, and judging from the way they completely ignored me,
So, I decided to juggle the little ball I brought with me, just to show them that I wasn’t completely inept, and maybe prompt one of them to invite me to play. It ended up working, but in a way that was entirely unexpected. See, instead of the exclusive assholes on the Cancha asking me to join, three girls randomly walked up to me while I was watching the game, and asked me if I wanted to play with them..
It felt pretty good to actually be wanted/included for once, so I quickly agreed. We played for about five minutes, before deciding to take what ended up being a permanent rest. I sat down with the three girls and two of their friends, and did my best to converse in a terribly butchered, simplistic form of Spanish. Apparently, they were there for some kind of “break the ice” thing, as it was their first day of University. That explained the hefty amount of students and beer that weren’t usually present at the park. They weren’t too fond of a lot of the people there, which is why they chose to bestow their friendship on me.
Oddly enough, despite my lack of a substantial vocabulary and inherent inability to be at all interesting, we hit it off really well. We talked about the usual stuff, classes, cultural differences, how shitty I was at Spanish, and what went down on the weekends. To my slight dismay, they had never heard of beer-pong. I tried to explain it to them, but I’m pretty sure that some of the finer points were “lost in translation,” so to speak. Oh well.
Somehow, my ill-fated trip to the Salsa club last weekend came up, and they eagerly suggested we go to some bar for some dancing. Oh great. The imminent occurrence of looking an absolute dolt. Just what I wanted to do in front of my new found friends. But they were really cool, and I wanted to see for myself the of a bar that was open at 1 in the afternoon, so I agreed.
We took a bizarre way to the bar; 5 parts walking and 1 part bus. It was probably the least efficient way of getting there, but it gave me some time to talk to them, and cultivate some credibility before my coolness level plummeted once we stepped onto the dance floor. We talked a lot about Ecuadorian politics and I got to ask them about the student movements. I’m planning on doing my independent study project about the various student movements, so it was awesome to get a chance to talk to some actual students about that. Hopefully these girls should be a pretty good resource once I get down to doing the heavy research. Lucky me. One interesting thing that came out of this discussion; In Ecuador, what constitutes right and left wing is completely different than in the US. The left wing is comprised of socialists and anarchists, which are almost completely non-existent in the popular American political realm. The majority of right-winger’s are capitalists, but not necessarily conservative minded when it comes to other issues, a stance that is common to many democrats in American politics. Just thought some of you might be a bit interested in that, being as cultured and informed as you all are.
Anyway, so after what must have been a good hour, we finally ended up at our destination; a shady, nondescript looking white building a few minutes walk from where my classes are. We went in, and ordered a shit load of Pilsner, which for some reason is wildly popular here, for only a few bucks a piece. I had about five minutes to maintain my dignity and conjure up some beer-induced courage before the first Salsa song blared over the speakers.
Fortunately, this went much better than my previous salsa endeavor. We were almost the only people on the dance floor, so that made it a bit easier to relax, and also meant I received a good amount of snickering on behalf of the male patrons. Assholes. I’d like to see THEM try to grind with some girl like we do in the States… Oh wait…A horny dog possesses the skill set required for grinding. Anyway, I actually did pretty well for myself, all things considered, and expanded my salsa knowledge a great deal. I learned some pretty sweet, more intricate variations to the basic step, and a BADASS “figure 8” maneuver, which involves like 4 consecutive spins and is certainly going to become a valuable asset to my salsa repertoire.
After a good bit of dancing, we went back to the table for some rest, and more Pilsner. Despite the language barrier which has thwarted me so persistently thus far, I was actually able to communicate with them pretty well. In fact, somehow I was actually able to carry on an enjoyable conversation. I would say the most boring, unimaginative things, but after they were doctored up by my accent and broken phrasing, they apparently ended up being some of the wittiest comments I’ve ever made. These girls laughed at almost everything I said. I barely had to think and yet somehow I was on my game. I was Tiger Woods on the 18th green. I was MJ in the finals. I was Leo Messi against Real Madrid.
That accursed language barrier finally did me a favor for once! Maybe the much maligned entity that we know as the language barrier is just misunderstood. Somewhat like Beast from Beauty and the Beast or Nutella to the majority of Americans.
Anyway, after a while we left the bar and went home to change / prepare for Friday night, which here it is apparently necessary to prepare for because the whole Saturday and Sunday are usually spent recovering.
I met them later that night, and we went to a party at some kids house. Nothing too interesting happened; Your typical cast of drunks and their antics that your all quite familiar with, accompanied by some pretty sweet reggaton (sp?). I just hung out, talked, and danced a bit, it was well fun. ( <-- British expression, not a typo. Duh.) I grabbed a taxi back around two and got home without any problems, which is always a relief, seeing as after midnight it’s common practice for taxi drivers to run red lights without hardly slowing.
All in all, it was a pretty great day. I made my first Ecuadorian friends outside of my family and their friends. Five in one go as well! If you include my family and the two friends of my “brother” that I met, that brings my total of Ecuadorian friends up to 11, which means my popularity here has officially surpassed my popularity level back home. I don’t really know whether to be happy or sad about that.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Impending doom for only 25 cents!
The only thing I would rather not be in the world than a bus driver in Quito is a passenger on a bus in Quito. That’s right. You all know what that sentence means: Prepare yourselves for a harrowing tale of bravery, danger, suspense, hilarity, and of course, 23 individual moments of imminent death.
* For Readers: Due to the semi-traumatic nature of the aforementioned experience, this post will be devoted entirely to said semi-traumatic experience. If you were hoping to hear about my trip to the mall, the time I spent doing homework, or the boring three hour lecture I had, I am sorry to disappoint.
Let me set the scene of the story. Well, It was 6:00 pm, which means around dusk in Quito this time of year. I had just gotten out of a three hour lecture at the HECUA building, usually a 20 minute bus ride from my current living quarters. I walked to the bus stop, and as luck would have it, caught a bus after a measly 30 second wait. That was when my luck sort of abandoned me and left me to die like a Spartan child on a hillside. No, I am not presently embittered at all, why do you ask?
See, 6 PM is apparently the prime time for bus transportation around these parts. When I got on, All the seats were full, and there were already a good six or seven people standing in the isle. Sounds crowded right? I thought so too. What a misconceived notion that turned out to be. The next stop, about three people get on, none get off. Half a block later, one gets off, and three get on. Another block and two get off but six get on.. It’s obviously getting obscenely crowded now. The front side of my body is pressed up against a poll, the back side against someone else’s backside, and my free hand, the one that’s not holding on for dear life, is fixed firmly on the pants pocket containing my wallet, which incidentally is stuffed with $50.00 and my credit card because I had used the ATM earlier. I know what a mark I must look like to these people, and with the absurd number of riders on this bus, there has to be at least one person of less than impeccable moral standing. The next stop, one person gets off, about five get on. Then none get off but six get on. Then one might get off and about four get on, I cant be particularly certain because there are now so many people aboard the bus I can’t tell what is going on. Then maybe two get off but at least five get on. If this is starting to sound like one of those math word problems from 4th grade gone horribly wrong, that’s because it’s exactly what it felt like.
It has now been about twenty minutes since I boarded the bus. It is getting dark and the bus is filled to at least three times its capacity. I can hardly see anything, so I am not sure exactly where we are or how close my stop is. Not only that, but there are so many people on the bus that we bottom out on every hill or slight imperfection on the road. The bus feels like its going to tip over during every turn, and I am in absolute fear of being pick pocketed. The bus grinds to a stop in the middle of a hill, and I am elated to see the brightly painted childcare center that signifies we are at my stop. Only one problem. In the eight or so feet between me and the open bus door, there are squeezed at least 17 people. I desperately fight my way through, uttering a course of “perdona me, por favor‘s” and clutching my book bag in front of me like a battering ram. Five feet to go. “PERDONA ME!!!” Four feet to go. I’m a piglet fighting for prime position in front of its mother’s most generous teat. Three feet to go. More people are getting on the bus. What. The. Fuck. Two feet to go, and….he reaches, desperately, andddd…..the bus pulls away, with one guy still half out the door. Fuck.
At this point, I was a little peeved but not too worried. See, I usually get off at this bus stop because its only a few blocks farther away from my house than the stop where I get on, and if you have heard any of my Ecuadorian bus riding maxims, you know you’re better off safe than sorry on these blue monsters. However, every time I walk back to my house, I always see what appears to be the same bus driving down the street and stopping where I usually get on. I figured, hell. This isn’t so bad. I will just chill here by the door and get off in a couple minutes after we finish the circle.
Then, something went terribly wrong. Instead of making a nice little circle a few blocks later and heading back in the direction of my house, the bus continues barreling straight up the hill. We’ve gone about six blocks past my usual stop now, and I am starting to get a little worried. It would be silly to get off now and have to walk so far, so went my, what I thought was logical, thinking. Anyway, a few blocks later, we finally begin to turn…the wrong way. Shit. After this the bus proceeds to make a series of winding turns redolent of an amusement park go cart track. Within five minutes I am completely disoriented, but it is clear that we are still going up the mountain, which certainly does not bode well for me. Not only that, the bus, still tipping in bottoming out on every turn, is coming inches away from hitting houses. On both sides! Not curbs, not stray dogs, not parked cars. Houses. Whoever paved the streets in this part of town did so at a time long before the first bus rolled off the assembly line, that’s all I have to say.
It’s pitch black out now, and we’re definitely higher up in the mountains than I have ever been. Finally, the bus comes to a halt in a dead end street. The bus, which is still filled with a good 45 people or so, empties. I am literally the only person left. The driver apparently decides this is an opportune time to take a break, and jumps out of the bus to head to a nearby restaurant, leaving some time to ponder my terrifying predicament. I take a seat on one of the now forty empty bus seats, and examine my book bag. A pocket was unzipped that I am sure had been zipped when I got on. Luckily for me, its contents amounted to some candy wrappers and a motorcycle stand-stand. Hah. Some “ladron” thought I was an idiot-tourist that would leave my most valuable possessions in my backpack during a crowded bus ride for anyone to help themselves to. Well I’ll say this. Fat fucking chance! HAHA! I may be an idiot, and I may very well be a tourist, but I have not, nor ever will be, an idiot-tourist.
Ten minutes later the bus driver returns, and we are on our way. As we begin to make our way down the mountain, I try desperately to get my bearings. However, the dilapidated housings, which looked as if their roofs might cave in the next time an over-fed pigeon decided to land on them, were completely unlike anything I had seen thus far On the plus side, it was good to experience another side of the city, and afforded the most beautiful view I was yet to see. But on the other hand, I was still lost and not quite sure where this azure monstrosity was headed next. Think Chip. What do you know about this neighborhood? Well, the only thing I can recall is the time where my host mom told me in broken, thickly accented english, “Never go to the mountains. You do…is possible you might never come back.” Hm. Well, that was about as comforting as being mauled by a police dog. Two minutes later, I realized she wasn’t joking.
For reasons best known to him, our bus driver felt it necessary to whip down the steep, narrow streets at speeds suitable for airplane takeoffs. I am positive he was certifiably insane. Some of you might recall that I have been in a car crash involving a 60 mph impact with a car, two trees, and a house. However, I can truthfully say that I was no more certain that I was going to die than on this bus ride.
After a short while, I had had enough. My heart was racing and I figured I’d rather walk a few extra blocks (or miles) than take my chances with this suicidal maniac behind the wheel. I reached for the button one needs to press to signal their (in this case desperate) desire to exit the bus, and hoped like hell my stop was close and that I would reach it alive. I felt a lot like that kid in the Sandlot who closes his eyes and throws his glove up in the air in a desperate, feeble attempt to make that game winning catch. The bus driver slammed on the breaks and the bus ground to a halt. I stumbled out of the door, down the steps, and gratefully kissed the cement. I still didn’t really know where I was, and I was all set to start walking back up the hill, as I was sure we had driven past my stop during that light speed stint I still maintain I was lucky to survive. However, I looked back down just to make sure, and lo and behold, it turns out I had gotten out not 15 feet from my stop. Anddddd….HE MAKES THE CATCH! And Chip has just won the world series of Ecuadorian bus riding, a sport ten times deadlier than any other known to man, including that ancient Aztec one where the losing team was summarily executed! HUZZAH!
I still really can’t believe my luck with that. Looking back, the whole experience, the over packed bus, the scraping of the undercarriage against the road, the tipping sensation that accompanied each turn, the 30 minute extension to my ride, and the manic hurtling down the mountain, was all really quite comical. I have to admit that, despite the fact that this narrative makes it appear as if there were only about 10 minutes of this hour long bus ride where I thought I would survive, I was laughing for most of it. You don’t have to believe me, but I tell you it’s true. I guess I am just so used to things in my life being banal and dull that a harrowing life threatening experience like this simply makes me laugh a little bit. When your life is that ordinary, you never really expect anything as grotesque or exciting as dieing in a fiery bus crash to happen to you. These types of things only exist in books or movies. You don’t ever really admit completely that there is danger present, or that it is indeed reality. It all just seems like a big joke, and you can‘t help but laugh. Well, either way, I’m glad to have survived, and I hope you all feel the same!
Peace.
* For Readers: Due to the semi-traumatic nature of the aforementioned experience, this post will be devoted entirely to said semi-traumatic experience. If you were hoping to hear about my trip to the mall, the time I spent doing homework, or the boring three hour lecture I had, I am sorry to disappoint.
Let me set the scene of the story. Well, It was 6:00 pm, which means around dusk in Quito this time of year. I had just gotten out of a three hour lecture at the HECUA building, usually a 20 minute bus ride from my current living quarters. I walked to the bus stop, and as luck would have it, caught a bus after a measly 30 second wait. That was when my luck sort of abandoned me and left me to die like a Spartan child on a hillside. No, I am not presently embittered at all, why do you ask?
See, 6 PM is apparently the prime time for bus transportation around these parts. When I got on, All the seats were full, and there were already a good six or seven people standing in the isle. Sounds crowded right? I thought so too. What a misconceived notion that turned out to be. The next stop, about three people get on, none get off. Half a block later, one gets off, and three get on. Another block and two get off but six get on.. It’s obviously getting obscenely crowded now. The front side of my body is pressed up against a poll, the back side against someone else’s backside, and my free hand, the one that’s not holding on for dear life, is fixed firmly on the pants pocket containing my wallet, which incidentally is stuffed with $50.00 and my credit card because I had used the ATM earlier. I know what a mark I must look like to these people, and with the absurd number of riders on this bus, there has to be at least one person of less than impeccable moral standing. The next stop, one person gets off, about five get on. Then none get off but six get on. Then one might get off and about four get on, I cant be particularly certain because there are now so many people aboard the bus I can’t tell what is going on. Then maybe two get off but at least five get on. If this is starting to sound like one of those math word problems from 4th grade gone horribly wrong, that’s because it’s exactly what it felt like.
It has now been about twenty minutes since I boarded the bus. It is getting dark and the bus is filled to at least three times its capacity. I can hardly see anything, so I am not sure exactly where we are or how close my stop is. Not only that, but there are so many people on the bus that we bottom out on every hill or slight imperfection on the road. The bus feels like its going to tip over during every turn, and I am in absolute fear of being pick pocketed. The bus grinds to a stop in the middle of a hill, and I am elated to see the brightly painted childcare center that signifies we are at my stop. Only one problem. In the eight or so feet between me and the open bus door, there are squeezed at least 17 people. I desperately fight my way through, uttering a course of “perdona me, por favor‘s” and clutching my book bag in front of me like a battering ram. Five feet to go. “PERDONA ME!!!” Four feet to go. I’m a piglet fighting for prime position in front of its mother’s most generous teat. Three feet to go. More people are getting on the bus. What. The. Fuck. Two feet to go, and….he reaches, desperately, andddd…..the bus pulls away, with one guy still half out the door. Fuck.
At this point, I was a little peeved but not too worried. See, I usually get off at this bus stop because its only a few blocks farther away from my house than the stop where I get on, and if you have heard any of my Ecuadorian bus riding maxims, you know you’re better off safe than sorry on these blue monsters. However, every time I walk back to my house, I always see what appears to be the same bus driving down the street and stopping where I usually get on. I figured, hell. This isn’t so bad. I will just chill here by the door and get off in a couple minutes after we finish the circle.
Then, something went terribly wrong. Instead of making a nice little circle a few blocks later and heading back in the direction of my house, the bus continues barreling straight up the hill. We’ve gone about six blocks past my usual stop now, and I am starting to get a little worried. It would be silly to get off now and have to walk so far, so went my, what I thought was logical, thinking. Anyway, a few blocks later, we finally begin to turn…the wrong way. Shit. After this the bus proceeds to make a series of winding turns redolent of an amusement park go cart track. Within five minutes I am completely disoriented, but it is clear that we are still going up the mountain, which certainly does not bode well for me. Not only that, the bus, still tipping in bottoming out on every turn, is coming inches away from hitting houses. On both sides! Not curbs, not stray dogs, not parked cars. Houses. Whoever paved the streets in this part of town did so at a time long before the first bus rolled off the assembly line, that’s all I have to say.
It’s pitch black out now, and we’re definitely higher up in the mountains than I have ever been. Finally, the bus comes to a halt in a dead end street. The bus, which is still filled with a good 45 people or so, empties. I am literally the only person left. The driver apparently decides this is an opportune time to take a break, and jumps out of the bus to head to a nearby restaurant, leaving some time to ponder my terrifying predicament. I take a seat on one of the now forty empty bus seats, and examine my book bag. A pocket was unzipped that I am sure had been zipped when I got on. Luckily for me, its contents amounted to some candy wrappers and a motorcycle stand-stand. Hah. Some “ladron” thought I was an idiot-tourist that would leave my most valuable possessions in my backpack during a crowded bus ride for anyone to help themselves to. Well I’ll say this. Fat fucking chance! HAHA! I may be an idiot, and I may very well be a tourist, but I have not, nor ever will be, an idiot-tourist.
Ten minutes later the bus driver returns, and we are on our way. As we begin to make our way down the mountain, I try desperately to get my bearings. However, the dilapidated housings, which looked as if their roofs might cave in the next time an over-fed pigeon decided to land on them, were completely unlike anything I had seen thus far On the plus side, it was good to experience another side of the city, and afforded the most beautiful view I was yet to see. But on the other hand, I was still lost and not quite sure where this azure monstrosity was headed next. Think Chip. What do you know about this neighborhood? Well, the only thing I can recall is the time where my host mom told me in broken, thickly accented english, “Never go to the mountains. You do…is possible you might never come back.” Hm. Well, that was about as comforting as being mauled by a police dog. Two minutes later, I realized she wasn’t joking.
For reasons best known to him, our bus driver felt it necessary to whip down the steep, narrow streets at speeds suitable for airplane takeoffs. I am positive he was certifiably insane. Some of you might recall that I have been in a car crash involving a 60 mph impact with a car, two trees, and a house. However, I can truthfully say that I was no more certain that I was going to die than on this bus ride.
After a short while, I had had enough. My heart was racing and I figured I’d rather walk a few extra blocks (or miles) than take my chances with this suicidal maniac behind the wheel. I reached for the button one needs to press to signal their (in this case desperate) desire to exit the bus, and hoped like hell my stop was close and that I would reach it alive. I felt a lot like that kid in the Sandlot who closes his eyes and throws his glove up in the air in a desperate, feeble attempt to make that game winning catch. The bus driver slammed on the breaks and the bus ground to a halt. I stumbled out of the door, down the steps, and gratefully kissed the cement. I still didn’t really know where I was, and I was all set to start walking back up the hill, as I was sure we had driven past my stop during that light speed stint I still maintain I was lucky to survive. However, I looked back down just to make sure, and lo and behold, it turns out I had gotten out not 15 feet from my stop. Anddddd….HE MAKES THE CATCH! And Chip has just won the world series of Ecuadorian bus riding, a sport ten times deadlier than any other known to man, including that ancient Aztec one where the losing team was summarily executed! HUZZAH!
I still really can’t believe my luck with that. Looking back, the whole experience, the over packed bus, the scraping of the undercarriage against the road, the tipping sensation that accompanied each turn, the 30 minute extension to my ride, and the manic hurtling down the mountain, was all really quite comical. I have to admit that, despite the fact that this narrative makes it appear as if there were only about 10 minutes of this hour long bus ride where I thought I would survive, I was laughing for most of it. You don’t have to believe me, but I tell you it’s true. I guess I am just so used to things in my life being banal and dull that a harrowing life threatening experience like this simply makes me laugh a little bit. When your life is that ordinary, you never really expect anything as grotesque or exciting as dieing in a fiery bus crash to happen to you. These types of things only exist in books or movies. You don’t ever really admit completely that there is danger present, or that it is indeed reality. It all just seems like a big joke, and you can‘t help but laugh. Well, either way, I’m glad to have survived, and I hope you all feel the same!
Peace.
Well, when I was in Peru this summer, single handedly responsible for these people's surival...
Today we went to this art museum called The Capilla Del Hombre In most museums you find yourself walking through, you are lucky if you encounter two or three paintings filled with direct, powerful, raw emotion in a two hour tour. That is not to say that paintings of more soft, rounded, refined styles lack the ability to arouse our emotions, or are of a lesser quality, it is just to point out the difference in the two.
These raw, direct images do not rely on subtle symbolism or traditional aesthetic beauty to engage their viewer, rather they bombard them with bold, powerful, stomach wrenching images of naked emotion.
Imagine walking into a museum, and seeing Guernica’s in every direction you looked. Its like seeing a 20-ton semi truck of excruciating agony bear down on you with its headlights flashing and horn blaring. It is the Capilla Del Hombre.
For me personally, it is a lot like watching a violent summer storm from the safety of your home. You see all the torrential pain, the violent suffering, and tears raining down. You know full well how powerful it is. But in the end there are four walls and a roof separating you from being truly immersed in it. There is no way I could ever comprehend or fully relate to the suffering depicted in this paintings, not with the life I have had.
Anyway, I would also like to take this opportunity to do a fair bit of ranting about the other kids in my program, god forbid any of them or their friends ever see this.
I am quite sad to say that over the first week or so of interacting with them, I have found them to be of the most odiously annoying type of people: The self-centered elitist pseudo-intellectual. You know, the infuriating kids who feel the need to begin every sentence by mentioning their latest humanitarian exploit.
Now you might say I’m being a wee bit judgmental here. Fair play, that is a (remote) possibility (verrrrrry remote)….(Did I mention it’s not likely?) However, I doubt a single one of you read that sentence without experiencing some sort of flashback or feeling of recognition. That being said, you can always tell the phonies and the genuine ones apart. The genuine ones speak about their experiences sparingly, and always with unequivocally genuine emotion. The phonies speak about it every chance they get, in painfully obvious attempts to attract praise and admiration from their peers. The experience itself was not enough for them. They did not do it because of some genuine, intrinsic motivation, but so that everyone else would know they did it; would know that they were an upstanding, compassionate humanitarian, would know that they were a better person than everyone else. This, in my eyes, is the epitome of shallow. It is similar, in a way, to how political regimes, like those of Joseph Stalin or Fidel Castro, try so ferociously to be so extremely left, they end up on the right; Those who try to force themselves to be profound, are in truth, shallow. No matter how many indigenous villages they visit, or street urchins they teach to read, they will never feel fulfilled. As long as these experiences are founded on shallow desires, they will act like grains of sand sifting through your hand, or, more deliciously, cotton candy dissolving infuriatingly into nothingness inside your mouth.
Just my 2 cents, which I know you all loveeeee to hear almost as much as I love to give it. I also thought up this neat little proverb-sounding….proverb?
“ A boring and shallow person who does exciting and profound things is still boring and shallow.”
Now. I’m not going to make you all refer to me as Confucius from hence forth, but if you want to, I can’t say I blame you.
These raw, direct images do not rely on subtle symbolism or traditional aesthetic beauty to engage their viewer, rather they bombard them with bold, powerful, stomach wrenching images of naked emotion.
Imagine walking into a museum, and seeing Guernica’s in every direction you looked. Its like seeing a 20-ton semi truck of excruciating agony bear down on you with its headlights flashing and horn blaring. It is the Capilla Del Hombre.
For me personally, it is a lot like watching a violent summer storm from the safety of your home. You see all the torrential pain, the violent suffering, and tears raining down. You know full well how powerful it is. But in the end there are four walls and a roof separating you from being truly immersed in it. There is no way I could ever comprehend or fully relate to the suffering depicted in this paintings, not with the life I have had.
Anyway, I would also like to take this opportunity to do a fair bit of ranting about the other kids in my program, god forbid any of them or their friends ever see this.
I am quite sad to say that over the first week or so of interacting with them, I have found them to be of the most odiously annoying type of people: The self-centered elitist pseudo-intellectual. You know, the infuriating kids who feel the need to begin every sentence by mentioning their latest humanitarian exploit.
Now you might say I’m being a wee bit judgmental here. Fair play, that is a (remote) possibility (verrrrrry remote)….(Did I mention it’s not likely?) However, I doubt a single one of you read that sentence without experiencing some sort of flashback or feeling of recognition. That being said, you can always tell the phonies and the genuine ones apart. The genuine ones speak about their experiences sparingly, and always with unequivocally genuine emotion. The phonies speak about it every chance they get, in painfully obvious attempts to attract praise and admiration from their peers. The experience itself was not enough for them. They did not do it because of some genuine, intrinsic motivation, but so that everyone else would know they did it; would know that they were an upstanding, compassionate humanitarian, would know that they were a better person than everyone else. This, in my eyes, is the epitome of shallow. It is similar, in a way, to how political regimes, like those of Joseph Stalin or Fidel Castro, try so ferociously to be so extremely left, they end up on the right; Those who try to force themselves to be profound, are in truth, shallow. No matter how many indigenous villages they visit, or street urchins they teach to read, they will never feel fulfilled. As long as these experiences are founded on shallow desires, they will act like grains of sand sifting through your hand, or, more deliciously, cotton candy dissolving infuriatingly into nothingness inside your mouth.
Just my 2 cents, which I know you all loveeeee to hear almost as much as I love to give it. I also thought up this neat little proverb-sounding….proverb?
“ A boring and shallow person who does exciting and profound things is still boring and shallow.”
Now. I’m not going to make you all refer to me as Confucius from hence forth, but if you want to, I can’t say I blame you.
No Littering in the Park…But public urination is perfectly acceptable.
So. Today I had to wake up around 7 30 so I could go to get my visa registered. It was pretty boring and involved a lot of waiting around in a jam-packed office. I wouldn’t have even mentioned it except for one amusing little episode. So, anyway, I shall commence by establishing the setting. Here we were in 12 ft x 12 ft waiting room of the “General Foreigners Office” (extremely rough translation), us six gringos and about 25 other people who were presumably foreigners, but you wouldn’t know by the looks or sounds of them. So, you get the picture its pretty packed, but its almost dead quite. Everyone is minding their own business, the majority are silently watching some Ecuadorian home and garden show. Then, out of noooowhereeeee, this old ass American couple come walking into the room.
Now, at this point, this is already a funny story to me, because happen to find that old people are among the most humorous things in the world. I would rather sit inside a nursing home or bingo parlor all day than watch Friends or read the Sunday comics. However. I know the hearts of my readership are not nearly as small nor as blackened, so I am happy to say there is more.
Anyway, old ass couple comes walking in, and take seats a good three rows behind me. Not long after, (as in about 2 seconds) a key development unfolds: Old Man has hearing problem. The ramifications of this drastic and obvious; he speaks obnoxiously loud, which makes the obnoxious things he proceeds to say, that much more obnoxious. Also, his voice and manner of speaking were exactly the same as the guy from that documentary we watched in Mrs. Landreau’s class with the ex secretary of defense, Robert MacNamara, I think his name was. Every time he opened his mouth I thought he was going to tell me to keep my friends close and my enemies even closer, but it was always just to make some embittered remark about the hairstyles of today’s youth, or the “idiots” who were apparently the reason behind their presence at the visa office. His wife endured a good half an hour of this without expressing the smallest sign of discontent. I have absolutely no clue she has put up with him for this long; she has to be the most tolerant human being to have walked the earth.
Then, the old man does something that takes be completely by surprise. He starts speaking in Spanish. I was entirely convinced that he despised anything not American, and would refuse to learn the language as a matter of principle. But he proved me wrong in the most hilarious fashion possible. See, there was a little kid with his dad standing a few feet away. The little kid started to wander around a little bit, and unwittingly strayed a little too close to the old man. The old man started talking to him in the most heavily gringo accented Spanish I have ever heard. Even Kai ordering a Kay-Sa-Dill-Ah could not top this. Anyway, the old man naturally frightens the shit out of the kid, who runs back to stand by his dad. The old man then starts poking the kid with his cane, and making sounds that suggest he is choking on his own tongue. The kid has a look of pure terror on his face, and tries to hid behind his dad, who is shooting one of the most intense glares I have ever seen at that old geezer. Hah! I almost peed myself trying to contain my laughter. This little incident definitely made the half hour wait worth while.
This afternoon, we went to the Archeological Museum. Funny thing about that. Remember how I don’t really speak Spanish at all? Well, seeing as our entire program is carried out in Spanish, that means I tend to miss out on lots of important information. Like the bit about meeting at the HECUA office and not the museum. Oops.
Anyway, eventually everything got sorted out and we commenced our tour of the Archeological Museum… I wish I could say that was a happy ending. I wish I could regale/impress you all with a series of interesting bits of knowledge I picked up, but the tour was, of course, given entirely in Spanish, meaning I understood about 4 words of the entire 2 hour tour. That’s right. Two Hours. TWO FUCKING HOURS. I spent most of the time having pissed off daydreams about how I’d rather be playing soccer (my original plan once I failed to find anyone in my group when I showed up the museum), or valiantly fighting the urge to bludgeon the kid who suggested we take this godforsaken tour with one of the ubiquitous burial urns. AYYYY QUE MIERDA!! (what shit!!! Learned that one from my lil’ sis this afternoon when we were trying to make a curtain for the kitchen window. Even though everything else goes in one ear and out the other, somehow I can always remember the swear words perfectly.)
Anyway, after our tour guide had given us a lecture on EVERY. SINGLE. CASE. full of anthropological knick-knacks (There had to be at least 50), we were on our way….WAIT. JUST KIDDING. You thought we were done because you don’t speak Spanish and couldn’t understand the lady when she said “Now we will go to the art portion of the museum.” Oh…great.
To be fair, the art portion of the tour was much more enjoyable. This might be because you don’t have to really speak the spoken language of an artist to understand/enjoy their painting, but who really knows. Anyway, it was mostly catholic art of extremely high quality, although my embittered mood from the previous two hour stroll through the archeological section prevented me from really enjoying it as much as I could have. Still, it wasn’t too difficult to notice an overwhelming trend; Jesus owns. He was fucking everywhere, just doing his stuff. That’s not too surprising you say, the religion IS named after him, after all. True, true. However, what about all the other good shit, like Adam and Eve chilling in their birthday suits, David stoning Goliath, or Noah packing that herd of animals into his ark? In all seriousness, in most museums with Christian themed art, your get a nice little mixture; some saints here, an apostle there, etc. Not this one. I am willing to bet that at least 93 percent of the works had Christ as their subject matter. Christ in his swaddling clothes, Christ with the holy family, Christ reigning in heaven, and most popularly by far, Christ being brutally crucified. I’m dead serious about this. There had to be at least 40 or so crucifixion themed works, including some of the most gruesome I’ve seen in my day. There was a sculpture in which Christ had about three times as many gaping wounds as usual, and had some 3-D vital organ pouring out of his rib cage. Not joking. It was like the road to the cross must have led through a jungle and Jesus had been mauled by every carnivorous beast within 15 square miles.
Anyway, the point is that this idolization/adulation (possibly not the right word) of Christ struck me as being stronger here than any other European or American museum I had ever visited. It wasn’t just that Christ himself was emphasized more here, but Christ’s suffering in particular. Permit me to extrapolate a bit on that. It isn’t too hard to imagine the Latin American’s relating closely with Christ (in a strictly non-sacrilegious way). Like Christ, they have endured (and continue to do so) so much unjust suffering, so much pain, strictly because of the greed, fear, and hate that plagued humanity. It is ironic, in a way, because the imperialist 16th century Spaniards not only gave the Latin American’s Christ to worship, but also unwittingly gave them myriad reasons behind such fervently profound worship.
Anyway, enough pathetic excuses for profound insights for one day. After we finally got out of the museum, I caught the bus and headed back home, in hopes of a squeezing in a trip to the park for some soccer before dark. I hadn’t played in days, so I was dead set on making my way down there, even if it was only for half an hour and I had to “tener muy cuidado” (be very careful) as advised from my host brother. Wow, am I sure glad I decided to go. It really made my day, which had been hitherto less than exhilarating. I didn’t even get to play soccer (people here are less than keen to play with a gringo like me), but the whole spectacle of the park was something to behold. The thing is absolutely massive to begin with, and there are men and women of all ages playing volleyball, basketball, and oh yeah, soccer. I thought it was cool because back in the states you hardly ever see adults exercising, especially not en masse, but the majority of the people at the park were over the age of 30, or thereabouts. One last thing. Ecuadorians are good as hell at sports. No, I don’t just mean soccer. They are incredible at soccer, don’t get me wrong, but I though I would at least be able to hang with the people playing basketball, seeing as I’ve played a fair amount and have a clear height advantage. Nope. It took me about 30 seconds of watching a pickup game to figure out that these guys would school the shit out of me. Damn.
One last little anecdote; As I was walking out of the park to go home, a stray soccer ball was kicked in my direction, and I went to pass it back to this guy as he ran towards it. The guy says “gracias,” and then proceeds to position himself startlingly behind a pole holding up one of the basketball hoops, unbuttons his pants, and takes a leak. I just about lost it there. I did one hell of a double take; almost gave myself whiplash, I’m sure.
Anyway, that’s all for tonight. It’s a bit late, and I’m getting tired of writing, as I am sure you all are of reading. Ciao!
Now, at this point, this is already a funny story to me, because happen to find that old people are among the most humorous things in the world. I would rather sit inside a nursing home or bingo parlor all day than watch Friends or read the Sunday comics. However. I know the hearts of my readership are not nearly as small nor as blackened, so I am happy to say there is more.
Anyway, old ass couple comes walking in, and take seats a good three rows behind me. Not long after, (as in about 2 seconds) a key development unfolds: Old Man has hearing problem. The ramifications of this drastic and obvious; he speaks obnoxiously loud, which makes the obnoxious things he proceeds to say, that much more obnoxious. Also, his voice and manner of speaking were exactly the same as the guy from that documentary we watched in Mrs. Landreau’s class with the ex secretary of defense, Robert MacNamara, I think his name was. Every time he opened his mouth I thought he was going to tell me to keep my friends close and my enemies even closer, but it was always just to make some embittered remark about the hairstyles of today’s youth, or the “idiots” who were apparently the reason behind their presence at the visa office. His wife endured a good half an hour of this without expressing the smallest sign of discontent. I have absolutely no clue she has put up with him for this long; she has to be the most tolerant human being to have walked the earth.
Then, the old man does something that takes be completely by surprise. He starts speaking in Spanish. I was entirely convinced that he despised anything not American, and would refuse to learn the language as a matter of principle. But he proved me wrong in the most hilarious fashion possible. See, there was a little kid with his dad standing a few feet away. The little kid started to wander around a little bit, and unwittingly strayed a little too close to the old man. The old man started talking to him in the most heavily gringo accented Spanish I have ever heard. Even Kai ordering a Kay-Sa-Dill-Ah could not top this. Anyway, the old man naturally frightens the shit out of the kid, who runs back to stand by his dad. The old man then starts poking the kid with his cane, and making sounds that suggest he is choking on his own tongue. The kid has a look of pure terror on his face, and tries to hid behind his dad, who is shooting one of the most intense glares I have ever seen at that old geezer. Hah! I almost peed myself trying to contain my laughter. This little incident definitely made the half hour wait worth while.
This afternoon, we went to the Archeological Museum. Funny thing about that. Remember how I don’t really speak Spanish at all? Well, seeing as our entire program is carried out in Spanish, that means I tend to miss out on lots of important information. Like the bit about meeting at the HECUA office and not the museum. Oops.
Anyway, eventually everything got sorted out and we commenced our tour of the Archeological Museum… I wish I could say that was a happy ending. I wish I could regale/impress you all with a series of interesting bits of knowledge I picked up, but the tour was, of course, given entirely in Spanish, meaning I understood about 4 words of the entire 2 hour tour. That’s right. Two Hours. TWO FUCKING HOURS. I spent most of the time having pissed off daydreams about how I’d rather be playing soccer (my original plan once I failed to find anyone in my group when I showed up the museum), or valiantly fighting the urge to bludgeon the kid who suggested we take this godforsaken tour with one of the ubiquitous burial urns. AYYYY QUE MIERDA!! (what shit!!! Learned that one from my lil’ sis this afternoon when we were trying to make a curtain for the kitchen window. Even though everything else goes in one ear and out the other, somehow I can always remember the swear words perfectly.)
Anyway, after our tour guide had given us a lecture on EVERY. SINGLE. CASE. full of anthropological knick-knacks (There had to be at least 50), we were on our way….WAIT. JUST KIDDING. You thought we were done because you don’t speak Spanish and couldn’t understand the lady when she said “Now we will go to the art portion of the museum.” Oh…great.
To be fair, the art portion of the tour was much more enjoyable. This might be because you don’t have to really speak the spoken language of an artist to understand/enjoy their painting, but who really knows. Anyway, it was mostly catholic art of extremely high quality, although my embittered mood from the previous two hour stroll through the archeological section prevented me from really enjoying it as much as I could have. Still, it wasn’t too difficult to notice an overwhelming trend; Jesus owns. He was fucking everywhere, just doing his stuff. That’s not too surprising you say, the religion IS named after him, after all. True, true. However, what about all the other good shit, like Adam and Eve chilling in their birthday suits, David stoning Goliath, or Noah packing that herd of animals into his ark? In all seriousness, in most museums with Christian themed art, your get a nice little mixture; some saints here, an apostle there, etc. Not this one. I am willing to bet that at least 93 percent of the works had Christ as their subject matter. Christ in his swaddling clothes, Christ with the holy family, Christ reigning in heaven, and most popularly by far, Christ being brutally crucified. I’m dead serious about this. There had to be at least 40 or so crucifixion themed works, including some of the most gruesome I’ve seen in my day. There was a sculpture in which Christ had about three times as many gaping wounds as usual, and had some 3-D vital organ pouring out of his rib cage. Not joking. It was like the road to the cross must have led through a jungle and Jesus had been mauled by every carnivorous beast within 15 square miles.
Anyway, the point is that this idolization/adulation (possibly not the right word) of Christ struck me as being stronger here than any other European or American museum I had ever visited. It wasn’t just that Christ himself was emphasized more here, but Christ’s suffering in particular. Permit me to extrapolate a bit on that. It isn’t too hard to imagine the Latin American’s relating closely with Christ (in a strictly non-sacrilegious way). Like Christ, they have endured (and continue to do so) so much unjust suffering, so much pain, strictly because of the greed, fear, and hate that plagued humanity. It is ironic, in a way, because the imperialist 16th century Spaniards not only gave the Latin American’s Christ to worship, but also unwittingly gave them myriad reasons behind such fervently profound worship.
Anyway, enough pathetic excuses for profound insights for one day. After we finally got out of the museum, I caught the bus and headed back home, in hopes of a squeezing in a trip to the park for some soccer before dark. I hadn’t played in days, so I was dead set on making my way down there, even if it was only for half an hour and I had to “tener muy cuidado” (be very careful) as advised from my host brother. Wow, am I sure glad I decided to go. It really made my day, which had been hitherto less than exhilarating. I didn’t even get to play soccer (people here are less than keen to play with a gringo like me), but the whole spectacle of the park was something to behold. The thing is absolutely massive to begin with, and there are men and women of all ages playing volleyball, basketball, and oh yeah, soccer. I thought it was cool because back in the states you hardly ever see adults exercising, especially not en masse, but the majority of the people at the park were over the age of 30, or thereabouts. One last thing. Ecuadorians are good as hell at sports. No, I don’t just mean soccer. They are incredible at soccer, don’t get me wrong, but I though I would at least be able to hang with the people playing basketball, seeing as I’ve played a fair amount and have a clear height advantage. Nope. It took me about 30 seconds of watching a pickup game to figure out that these guys would school the shit out of me. Damn.
One last little anecdote; As I was walking out of the park to go home, a stray soccer ball was kicked in my direction, and I went to pass it back to this guy as he ran towards it. The guy says “gracias,” and then proceeds to position himself startlingly behind a pole holding up one of the basketball hoops, unbuttons his pants, and takes a leak. I just about lost it there. I did one hell of a double take; almost gave myself whiplash, I’m sure.
Anyway, that’s all for tonight. It’s a bit late, and I’m getting tired of writing, as I am sure you all are of reading. Ciao!
And He’s Off!
Well. Today was my first day in Ecuador, and I am happy to say I feel like I have started things off on the right foot. The situation ended up being not nearly as terrible as I feared, although my lack of Spanish ability caused me a few problems. I have a feeling this is going to be a recurring issue. While I wish I could say that my own wit and charm rescued me, it was more a case of “It’s never as bad as it seems.”
Anyway, I stayed up a little last night and talked to my host parents. I showed them the book Sophia and I made for them, which ended up being a pretty great ice breaker, as I had carefully translated the words the day before, and thus was spared the insurmountable task of trying to communicate anything in Spanish. I did find a way around using their names, which consisted mostly of hoping like a hell a situation wouldn’t come up where I was forced to use one of their names.
Anyway, I read a bit and went to bed feeling a bit nervous and home sick, but over all pretty happy with how things are looking to be. My host parents were incredibly nice, but I was a bit worried about how my siblings would take to me. I just remembered what an awkward addition Quenton (French kid who stayed at my house this summer…I don’t know if that’s how his name is actually spelled, but its close.) was to our family, for me at least, and I didn’t really want to become a burden.
Fortunately, it seems like I have got nothing to worry about. I had breakfast (probably the biggest of my life) with my host mom and older brother and instantly hit it off with him. He’s extremely into this freaky hardcore metal stuff, but he is a really nice guy. I just wouldn’t really want to get on his bad side. He even invited me to go rock climbing with him and his friends that morning, which was nice because I was keen to make some Ecuadorian friends as quickly as possible.
We walked about a half a mile up hill to some national monument to the border war between Ecuador and Peru. The national monument was a giant rock with big steel star sticking out of it sitting in the middle of a pretty busy intersection. A bit random, but apparently perfect for bouldering. Cars kept driving by and honking their horns, and I was a little concerned they were vexed by the lack of respect we were showing by using a national monument as a climbing wall, so I asked my host brother, “So…do the cars here always honk that much?“ He gave me a slightly puzzled stare and said “yeah” in an uncertain tone, as if he was quite sure he had misunderstood what I was trying to say. In retrospect, it most surely sounded like a pretty moronic question. Anyway, we met two of his friends there, a guy who looked to be about my age and a really gorgeous girl. At first I thought they were boyfriend and girl friend because they came together and he kept on flirting with her in the early going, but then my host brother started doing the same thing a few minutes later. Apparently, the culture here is a lot more openly flirtatious. I don’t know how I’m going to react to that. It’s always been pretty hard for me to go out of my way to touch anyone, but maybe I will adapt.
I am apparently a pretty terrible climber; I could only get half way though what he deemed to be the warm up route. But it was still pretty enjoyable to just hang out with everyone and take in the various magnificent views that seemed to meet your eyes wherever your looked. In one direction there was the city; Quito is only 1.4 million people, give or take, much smaller than some other cities I have visited; but it looks absolutely immense. I think its because the fact that its situated in a mountain valley kind of precludes the existence of suburbs, so everything is compacted giving it an astounding appearance. In the other direction, or in almost any direction you looked for that matter, were the mountains. I am pretty sure these are the first mountains I have ever seen, besides Mount Rushmore during an ill-conceived trip to South Dakota (not sure this counts), and perhaps the time when I drove through Virginia with Stephen’s family. Needless to say, they are incredibly impressive. It really is a picturesque city and I am already regretting that I decided not to bring a camera with me.
After about an hour and a half of climbing, my host brother (Fabian Andres) and I started walking back to the house. He told me that that girl that we had met was probably going to be his next girl friend, as soon as they found a way around the problem presented by the fact that she already has a boyfriend. Apparently, the first time he looked into her eyes, he knew she was the one, so…it sounds like he’s pretty serious about her, which definitely makes her off limits for me.
Anyway, the rest of the day I hung out in the house, read a bit, and took a small walk around the neighborhood. I also met my other two host siblings, (George, 19 and Renata, 16) who were equally nice to me. It really is comforting to feel so welcomed and warmly received by everyone.
Overall, it has been a really positive start to my four months here, and it has really helped allay some of my fears and ease my nerves. I still do feel a bit homesick, and I miss my friends and family and life back home terribly, but I think this will be a good experience. I’ve always had a habit of staying solely in my comfort zone, but if you never leave your comfort zone, if you never face down any fears, or overcome struggles, or navigate foreign situations, then you never grow. You never find out who you really are, or what you really want from life. You just kind of lead an dull, monotonous, unfulfilling life. Now, I am not advising you to all throw yourselves into excruciating situations, make yourselves miserable, or stress yourselves to the breaking point. I am just letting myself acknowledge that a little potentially painful and demanding searching is necessary to really appreciate the world around you.
Anyway, I stayed up a little last night and talked to my host parents. I showed them the book Sophia and I made for them, which ended up being a pretty great ice breaker, as I had carefully translated the words the day before, and thus was spared the insurmountable task of trying to communicate anything in Spanish. I did find a way around using their names, which consisted mostly of hoping like a hell a situation wouldn’t come up where I was forced to use one of their names.
Anyway, I read a bit and went to bed feeling a bit nervous and home sick, but over all pretty happy with how things are looking to be. My host parents were incredibly nice, but I was a bit worried about how my siblings would take to me. I just remembered what an awkward addition Quenton (French kid who stayed at my house this summer…I don’t know if that’s how his name is actually spelled, but its close.) was to our family, for me at least, and I didn’t really want to become a burden.
Fortunately, it seems like I have got nothing to worry about. I had breakfast (probably the biggest of my life) with my host mom and older brother and instantly hit it off with him. He’s extremely into this freaky hardcore metal stuff, but he is a really nice guy. I just wouldn’t really want to get on his bad side. He even invited me to go rock climbing with him and his friends that morning, which was nice because I was keen to make some Ecuadorian friends as quickly as possible.
We walked about a half a mile up hill to some national monument to the border war between Ecuador and Peru. The national monument was a giant rock with big steel star sticking out of it sitting in the middle of a pretty busy intersection. A bit random, but apparently perfect for bouldering. Cars kept driving by and honking their horns, and I was a little concerned they were vexed by the lack of respect we were showing by using a national monument as a climbing wall, so I asked my host brother, “So…do the cars here always honk that much?“ He gave me a slightly puzzled stare and said “yeah” in an uncertain tone, as if he was quite sure he had misunderstood what I was trying to say. In retrospect, it most surely sounded like a pretty moronic question. Anyway, we met two of his friends there, a guy who looked to be about my age and a really gorgeous girl. At first I thought they were boyfriend and girl friend because they came together and he kept on flirting with her in the early going, but then my host brother started doing the same thing a few minutes later. Apparently, the culture here is a lot more openly flirtatious. I don’t know how I’m going to react to that. It’s always been pretty hard for me to go out of my way to touch anyone, but maybe I will adapt.
I am apparently a pretty terrible climber; I could only get half way though what he deemed to be the warm up route. But it was still pretty enjoyable to just hang out with everyone and take in the various magnificent views that seemed to meet your eyes wherever your looked. In one direction there was the city; Quito is only 1.4 million people, give or take, much smaller than some other cities I have visited; but it looks absolutely immense. I think its because the fact that its situated in a mountain valley kind of precludes the existence of suburbs, so everything is compacted giving it an astounding appearance. In the other direction, or in almost any direction you looked for that matter, were the mountains. I am pretty sure these are the first mountains I have ever seen, besides Mount Rushmore during an ill-conceived trip to South Dakota (not sure this counts), and perhaps the time when I drove through Virginia with Stephen’s family. Needless to say, they are incredibly impressive. It really is a picturesque city and I am already regretting that I decided not to bring a camera with me.
After about an hour and a half of climbing, my host brother (Fabian Andres) and I started walking back to the house. He told me that that girl that we had met was probably going to be his next girl friend, as soon as they found a way around the problem presented by the fact that she already has a boyfriend. Apparently, the first time he looked into her eyes, he knew she was the one, so…it sounds like he’s pretty serious about her, which definitely makes her off limits for me.
Anyway, the rest of the day I hung out in the house, read a bit, and took a small walk around the neighborhood. I also met my other two host siblings, (George, 19 and Renata, 16) who were equally nice to me. It really is comforting to feel so welcomed and warmly received by everyone.
Overall, it has been a really positive start to my four months here, and it has really helped allay some of my fears and ease my nerves. I still do feel a bit homesick, and I miss my friends and family and life back home terribly, but I think this will be a good experience. I’ve always had a habit of staying solely in my comfort zone, but if you never leave your comfort zone, if you never face down any fears, or overcome struggles, or navigate foreign situations, then you never grow. You never find out who you really are, or what you really want from life. You just kind of lead an dull, monotonous, unfulfilling life. Now, I am not advising you to all throw yourselves into excruciating situations, make yourselves miserable, or stress yourselves to the breaking point. I am just letting myself acknowledge that a little potentially painful and demanding searching is necessary to really appreciate the world around you.
Let’s start things off right…
I am so fucked.
That is my shallow and profane, but unfortunately accurate entrance into the famed “blogosphere.” Perhaps some further explanation is in order.
As all of you who may read this already know, thus rendering this enthralling introduction completely redundant, I am a 19 year old college sophomore on my way to Ecuador for a semester abroad. Unfortunately, I am also tragically accident prone. No, not in the way that I frequently trip over cracks in the sidewalk, or back into cars when I exit a parking lot, or score terrible own goals. I just have an unyielding tendency to mental errors, or ignore details that are common sense, but of imperative importance. Consequently, I have a penchant for turning the most simple, straightforward situations into unbearably awkward or inconvenient predicaments.
Now, I know what most of you are thinking; “Now Chip. We all do that from time to time. Were only humans.” I’m not going to proceed to make some longwinded, eloquent, cogent, well articulated argument to convince you that I am, in fact, completely incompetent. I am just going to let my actions speak for themselves. For example:
1) I have almost burned down an entire apartment building trying to make Easy-Mac.
2) I have defined someone’s profession as “being a lawyer’s bitch”…to their face.
3) I have unwittingly drunken sewer water, despite the sewage leak being in plain sight not 10 feet away.
These are just a few of the monstrously disastrous situations my lack of ability to apply common sense and basic intelligence to daily life. My latest achievements in this respect, and the reason behind my aforementioned profane entrance into the blog-world?
Well, first of all, I am currently wearing a pair of olive-green Old Navy cargo shorts. While everyone except elitist fashion-snobs, who feel wearing Old Navy should be punishable by public flogging, probably can’t see why this should be a problem, I assure you that it is. See, apparently in Quito, wearing shorts into the city is heavily frowned upon. At best, I imagine it will probably be somewhat akin to wearing white to a funeral. I knew this months prior to my trip, but completely forgot about it this morning. It only dawned on me when I was sitting in the waiting section before boarding my flight to Quito. It was filled with darker skinned, pants clad people, speaking solely Spanish. Meanwhile I sat there wearing shorts, and feeling incredibly out of place. It didn’t help that I am about a foot taller than the average Ecuadorian male. I felt like Gingo-Zilla. I could never remember ever feeling like an outsider in my life. It is really an unnerving and uncomfortable experience, and I have a much enhanced respect and sympathy for the various types of minorities. But what really makes this bout of forgetfulness that much worse is that it will be my first time meeting my host family. From an early age, we have all repeatedly been told about the unrivaled importance of first impressions, and I was really hoping to make a good one. Blatantly disregarding cultural customs does not seem like the best way to go about this. Speaking of that all important first impression…that brings me to gaff number two.
Amidst all the consternation and fretting over whether my host family would like me, I conveniently forgot their names. Un. Fucking. Believable. These are the people who were gracious enough to welcome me into their home, and to volunteer to feed me for the next four months, and I can’t even remember their names. Way to go Chip. It’s not like I had to solve a explain the theory of relativity, perform some Herculean task of mental strength, or even know all that much about them. I just had to remember their names, and I still failed miserably.
Honestly, I want more than anything for these people to know how gracious I feel towards them, and to make my stay an enjoyable experience for them. When I leave, I want them to be a little bit sad, and to feel the decision to host me was a great one. I really did put a lot of work into making them a book about Saint Paul/Minneapolis and picking out other various gifts for them. But, true to form, when it came to one of the most basic, but nonetheless vital tasks, I handled it atrociously. Consequently, I now find myself in mortal dread of the situation that awaits me when this plane touches down.
I know some of you are thinking, “Chip. This is not a big deal. You are not a habitual fuckup and your blowing this way out of proportion.” Spare me. This IS a big deal. And while I admittedly may be a bit heated, stressed, and prone to irrational exaggeration, this is definitely a less than ideal situation that I have landed myself in. A predicament of unbearable awkwardness that I, and I alone, wrangled myself into. At times like this, all one can really do is laugh at themselves. For me, it has been surprisingly easy to do. Every time I look out the window and my mind drifts to my situation, a lightening bout of chuckling inevitably surfaces. I know that’s probably hard for a lot of you to believe, especially Sophia who unflinchingly endured me while I was at my most stressed and unpleasant mood that took hold of me in the days before I left, and did her best to comfort me even when I was unbearably antagonistic. (Thanks so much, that meant a lot, and I really appreciate it.) But really, when it gets to a certain point, it just effortlessly happens. Must be some kind of self-defense mechanism to keep you from stressing yourself to the point insanity.
Hell, I suppose most of my family is now a little tired of hearing how terrible of screw-up I am, not to mention a bit concerned for my personal safety. So, without further ado, I will delve into how my trip has been so far. Just a word of warning; the ensuing summary is going to have all the excitement of a meaningless WNBA game, so those of you who have labored your way this far, feel free to hit that little “X” in the upper right corner of your browser, indulge that growing urge to check your facebook, or get off the computer and make something of your lives. For the rest; don’t say I didn’t warn you.
This morning went as well as could be expected. I forgot to set my alarm clock, but by some divine miracle that of the type that occasionally saves me from my own incompetence, I woke up only 10 minutes later than I had planned. Actually, this probably worked out better because the panic-stricken feeling that results when you wake up without your alarm going off instantly snapped me to attention, which meant I circumvented my customary four sleep-addled lunges for the snooze button. A hasty breakfast, some frantic packing, a quick shower, and I was out the door. And only 20 minutes later than planned! HUZZAH!
My family, Sophia, and I clambered into our car and set off for the airport. I am not going to lie, I was pretty fucking nervous, and a bit melancholy. I just didn’t want that car ride to end. A deluge of second-thoughts poured into my mind like a tidal wave, causing a unpleasant queasy feeling to overtake my stomach. This is customary for me. I never really comprehend the true significance of something until it is on the absolute verge of happening.
I made the goodbyes at the airport as quick as possible, because I was terrified if I dwelled on it, I would lose my resolve completely and break down in the middle of the airport. I had an hour long wait to painfully mull it over before I boarded my first flight, destined for Houston Texas.
Thanks to some crack advice from Sophia, (Thanks!) I had a prime window seat located in an exit row. Great view, no disruptions, and all the leg room one could possibly ask for. The flight went really quickly. I started reading a book called EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED, which I “borrowed” from Stevo the last time I house sat for him. (Don’t worry, I’ll get that back to you someday!) Petty theft between friends aside, this book is absolutely hilarious. Daniel, I am sure, can recall fond memories of me keeping an entire 747 worth of people awake with my obnoxious laughter induced my a certain movie called THE RINGER. (please reserve you judgment of me until you can truly understand how terrible of a person I am.) If I hadn’t already made that mistake once, I am sure it would have happened again, that is how funny this books is. I suggest you all read it if you get the chance.
Once I arrived in Houston, I had a five hour layover ahead of me. I grabbed some lunch at a pizza place, and paid $10.00 for some airport internet access that was about as fast as a rush-hour traffic on Snelling and University. Infuriating. I also managed to waste another $15.00 on a tragic trip to the airport bookstore. I had the misled notion that it would be a wise to purchase a couple of those Davinci Code rip off “best sellers” with a fast moving plot and no literary value, in hopes of speeding up the six hour plane ride I had in front of me. I usually avoid these corny, unimaginative suckers like a bad case of herpes, but the misconceived notion that they would help that plane ride just zip by prompted a fatal temptation. Besides, I thought, if they are best sellers, they have to at least have enough artistic merit to make them bearable, and the plot can take over from there, right? Nothing could be further from the truth. I got about 9 pages in before I threw the book down in disgust. There were too many instances of corny and generic dialogue in those nine pages to cite each and everyone, but the one that did it for me was when the protagonist “felt him self harden” upon hearing his wife let out a “barely audible moan” in the middle of a New York City bagel shop. Somehow, when a talent-less hack of a writer tries to add some depth or class to a sexual encounter, it just makes it unbearably raunchy. DON’T MAKE THE MISTAKE OF BUYING THESE BOOKS. It makes me sad that they are best sellers because I feel terrible for all the people who must have endured this feeling.
I decided to practice some Spanish while I waited for flight-time to approach. As the boarding time drew near, the waiting room started to fill up, and I endured the aforementioned uncomfortable experience of isolation and not fitting in, along with the gut-wreching realization that I had ignored a basic cultural custom and forgotten the names of my host family. At last I boarded the flight. As we flew over the ocean, I had a startling revelation; Until now, I never really comprehended how vast an ocean really is. I always have the terribly delusional notion that if I ever got stranded in the middle of an ocean, I would just elementary backstroke my way to shore. I never really realized that I would be little bird-big bird- flapping for years before I got anywhere close. Incredibly insightful, I know.
That pretty much brings things up to this point, at which I am currently writing this as we fly over Honduras. Only a few more hours till I have to face music, which is sure to be cacophonic (Think Stevo playing the drums in Will‘s basement).
I guess its only fitting.
That is my shallow and profane, but unfortunately accurate entrance into the famed “blogosphere.” Perhaps some further explanation is in order.
As all of you who may read this already know, thus rendering this enthralling introduction completely redundant, I am a 19 year old college sophomore on my way to Ecuador for a semester abroad. Unfortunately, I am also tragically accident prone. No, not in the way that I frequently trip over cracks in the sidewalk, or back into cars when I exit a parking lot, or score terrible own goals. I just have an unyielding tendency to mental errors, or ignore details that are common sense, but of imperative importance. Consequently, I have a penchant for turning the most simple, straightforward situations into unbearably awkward or inconvenient predicaments.
Now, I know what most of you are thinking; “Now Chip. We all do that from time to time. Were only humans.” I’m not going to proceed to make some longwinded, eloquent, cogent, well articulated argument to convince you that I am, in fact, completely incompetent. I am just going to let my actions speak for themselves. For example:
1) I have almost burned down an entire apartment building trying to make Easy-Mac.
2) I have defined someone’s profession as “being a lawyer’s bitch”…to their face.
3) I have unwittingly drunken sewer water, despite the sewage leak being in plain sight not 10 feet away.
These are just a few of the monstrously disastrous situations my lack of ability to apply common sense and basic intelligence to daily life. My latest achievements in this respect, and the reason behind my aforementioned profane entrance into the blog-world?
Well, first of all, I am currently wearing a pair of olive-green Old Navy cargo shorts. While everyone except elitist fashion-snobs, who feel wearing Old Navy should be punishable by public flogging, probably can’t see why this should be a problem, I assure you that it is. See, apparently in Quito, wearing shorts into the city is heavily frowned upon. At best, I imagine it will probably be somewhat akin to wearing white to a funeral. I knew this months prior to my trip, but completely forgot about it this morning. It only dawned on me when I was sitting in the waiting section before boarding my flight to Quito. It was filled with darker skinned, pants clad people, speaking solely Spanish. Meanwhile I sat there wearing shorts, and feeling incredibly out of place. It didn’t help that I am about a foot taller than the average Ecuadorian male. I felt like Gingo-Zilla. I could never remember ever feeling like an outsider in my life. It is really an unnerving and uncomfortable experience, and I have a much enhanced respect and sympathy for the various types of minorities. But what really makes this bout of forgetfulness that much worse is that it will be my first time meeting my host family. From an early age, we have all repeatedly been told about the unrivaled importance of first impressions, and I was really hoping to make a good one. Blatantly disregarding cultural customs does not seem like the best way to go about this. Speaking of that all important first impression…that brings me to gaff number two.
Amidst all the consternation and fretting over whether my host family would like me, I conveniently forgot their names. Un. Fucking. Believable. These are the people who were gracious enough to welcome me into their home, and to volunteer to feed me for the next four months, and I can’t even remember their names. Way to go Chip. It’s not like I had to solve a explain the theory of relativity, perform some Herculean task of mental strength, or even know all that much about them. I just had to remember their names, and I still failed miserably.
Honestly, I want more than anything for these people to know how gracious I feel towards them, and to make my stay an enjoyable experience for them. When I leave, I want them to be a little bit sad, and to feel the decision to host me was a great one. I really did put a lot of work into making them a book about Saint Paul/Minneapolis and picking out other various gifts for them. But, true to form, when it came to one of the most basic, but nonetheless vital tasks, I handled it atrociously. Consequently, I now find myself in mortal dread of the situation that awaits me when this plane touches down.
I know some of you are thinking, “Chip. This is not a big deal. You are not a habitual fuckup and your blowing this way out of proportion.” Spare me. This IS a big deal. And while I admittedly may be a bit heated, stressed, and prone to irrational exaggeration, this is definitely a less than ideal situation that I have landed myself in. A predicament of unbearable awkwardness that I, and I alone, wrangled myself into. At times like this, all one can really do is laugh at themselves. For me, it has been surprisingly easy to do. Every time I look out the window and my mind drifts to my situation, a lightening bout of chuckling inevitably surfaces. I know that’s probably hard for a lot of you to believe, especially Sophia who unflinchingly endured me while I was at my most stressed and unpleasant mood that took hold of me in the days before I left, and did her best to comfort me even when I was unbearably antagonistic. (Thanks so much, that meant a lot, and I really appreciate it.) But really, when it gets to a certain point, it just effortlessly happens. Must be some kind of self-defense mechanism to keep you from stressing yourself to the point insanity.
Hell, I suppose most of my family is now a little tired of hearing how terrible of screw-up I am, not to mention a bit concerned for my personal safety. So, without further ado, I will delve into how my trip has been so far. Just a word of warning; the ensuing summary is going to have all the excitement of a meaningless WNBA game, so those of you who have labored your way this far, feel free to hit that little “X” in the upper right corner of your browser, indulge that growing urge to check your facebook, or get off the computer and make something of your lives. For the rest; don’t say I didn’t warn you.
This morning went as well as could be expected. I forgot to set my alarm clock, but by some divine miracle that of the type that occasionally saves me from my own incompetence, I woke up only 10 minutes later than I had planned. Actually, this probably worked out better because the panic-stricken feeling that results when you wake up without your alarm going off instantly snapped me to attention, which meant I circumvented my customary four sleep-addled lunges for the snooze button. A hasty breakfast, some frantic packing, a quick shower, and I was out the door. And only 20 minutes later than planned! HUZZAH!
My family, Sophia, and I clambered into our car and set off for the airport. I am not going to lie, I was pretty fucking nervous, and a bit melancholy. I just didn’t want that car ride to end. A deluge of second-thoughts poured into my mind like a tidal wave, causing a unpleasant queasy feeling to overtake my stomach. This is customary for me. I never really comprehend the true significance of something until it is on the absolute verge of happening.
I made the goodbyes at the airport as quick as possible, because I was terrified if I dwelled on it, I would lose my resolve completely and break down in the middle of the airport. I had an hour long wait to painfully mull it over before I boarded my first flight, destined for Houston Texas.
Thanks to some crack advice from Sophia, (Thanks!) I had a prime window seat located in an exit row. Great view, no disruptions, and all the leg room one could possibly ask for. The flight went really quickly. I started reading a book called EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED, which I “borrowed” from Stevo the last time I house sat for him. (Don’t worry, I’ll get that back to you someday!) Petty theft between friends aside, this book is absolutely hilarious. Daniel, I am sure, can recall fond memories of me keeping an entire 747 worth of people awake with my obnoxious laughter induced my a certain movie called THE RINGER. (please reserve you judgment of me until you can truly understand how terrible of a person I am.) If I hadn’t already made that mistake once, I am sure it would have happened again, that is how funny this books is. I suggest you all read it if you get the chance.
Once I arrived in Houston, I had a five hour layover ahead of me. I grabbed some lunch at a pizza place, and paid $10.00 for some airport internet access that was about as fast as a rush-hour traffic on Snelling and University. Infuriating. I also managed to waste another $15.00 on a tragic trip to the airport bookstore. I had the misled notion that it would be a wise to purchase a couple of those Davinci Code rip off “best sellers” with a fast moving plot and no literary value, in hopes of speeding up the six hour plane ride I had in front of me. I usually avoid these corny, unimaginative suckers like a bad case of herpes, but the misconceived notion that they would help that plane ride just zip by prompted a fatal temptation. Besides, I thought, if they are best sellers, they have to at least have enough artistic merit to make them bearable, and the plot can take over from there, right? Nothing could be further from the truth. I got about 9 pages in before I threw the book down in disgust. There were too many instances of corny and generic dialogue in those nine pages to cite each and everyone, but the one that did it for me was when the protagonist “felt him self harden” upon hearing his wife let out a “barely audible moan” in the middle of a New York City bagel shop. Somehow, when a talent-less hack of a writer tries to add some depth or class to a sexual encounter, it just makes it unbearably raunchy. DON’T MAKE THE MISTAKE OF BUYING THESE BOOKS. It makes me sad that they are best sellers because I feel terrible for all the people who must have endured this feeling.
I decided to practice some Spanish while I waited for flight-time to approach. As the boarding time drew near, the waiting room started to fill up, and I endured the aforementioned uncomfortable experience of isolation and not fitting in, along with the gut-wreching realization that I had ignored a basic cultural custom and forgotten the names of my host family. At last I boarded the flight. As we flew over the ocean, I had a startling revelation; Until now, I never really comprehended how vast an ocean really is. I always have the terribly delusional notion that if I ever got stranded in the middle of an ocean, I would just elementary backstroke my way to shore. I never really realized that I would be little bird-big bird- flapping for years before I got anywhere close. Incredibly insightful, I know.
That pretty much brings things up to this point, at which I am currently writing this as we fly over Honduras. Only a few more hours till I have to face music, which is sure to be cacophonic (Think Stevo playing the drums in Will‘s basement).
I guess its only fitting.
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