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Friday, December 2, 2011

Despedida

Dancing!


Playing games


Our Spanish class with Profesora Isabel


Me and Mama Isa

Amauta threw a goodbye party for us on one of our last days. All of the host parents, teachers, and students were invited to the countryside home (in El Valle) of Dr. Melampy's host family. The house is seriously gorgeous. I have never been to Dr. Melampy's host home in Cuenca proper but if this is what their "country" home looks like, I imagine it's pretty damn big. We had a big lunch and danced for a while with our host families and teachers.

A lot of families in Cuenca have maids. I don't mind not having one in my own home but I wonder how Mama Isa can clean the entire, massive place by herself. I help where I can but she always shoos me away after a little bit. This family probably has like 3 for each home.

It's bittersweet coming to the end of this amazing journey and the whole time there was this nagging twist in my stomach that makes me realize how torn I am. On one hand, the machismo and the rare but obvious anti-American sentiments are getting really old.

On the other hand, I am in love with this city and this country--head over heels, topsy-turvy, punch-drunk, irrevocably in love with it.

Maybe it's...

the flowers in colors that Crayola couldn't come up with,

the grime of a city that's alive which turns my snot black,

the blue-plum mountains cradling the city,

the taxis and buses and cars that whiz by and break-neck speed and make you play frogger--even when you've got the right of way to cross the street,

the four rivers that tuck in the narrow streets and Old World buildings,

the cobble-stone avenues,

the warm aroma of bread,

the stray dogs,

the now-familiar faces,

the peace of the walk Antonia and I share--often in solicitous silence--to school,

the way ketchup is pink and too sweet,

the way my host mother hugs me after a long day,

the way my host uncle teases me for developing a taste for the national beer,

the way everything shuts down for a soccer game,

the way Ecuadorians have no personal bubble and draw you in for an embrace and a kiss,

the rhythm of salsa and Pitbull that reverberate equally,

the rhythm of the city, buzzing, teeming, vibrating with life,

the clear mornings, the brief rain, the hot afternoons, and the Southern cross in the night sky,

the rice that is serve with everything,

the thrill of eating things you never quite know the origins of,

the way it doesn't even matter,

the fruits in shapes you didn't know could exist in nature,

the sound of the Tomebamba at night,

the way Cuencanas dress to the nines to run out to get a loaf of bread,

the blues, yellows, peaches, reds, oranges, and purples that defy America's ever-present beige decorating scheme,

the keys I hung around my neck for safe keeping that open the squeaky, stubborn, gate at 4 AM,

the car alarms that have fallen into a predictable song: honkhonkhonkhon, WEEoohWEEoohWEEooh, waaaaAAAHwaaaaHHHwaaaAHH, ER-ER-ER-ER, pyewpyewpyewpyew,

the way the hike to school uphill gets easier ever day,

the $1.50 I pay for almuerzo (lunch) and the 25 cent beer,

the things I probably won't remember tomorrow morning,

the ease with which I can give taxi drivers directions to where I want to go,

the undeniable value of family,

or maybe it's just the way it feels like home.

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