December 1: Foreign Familiarity

The views Antonia and I see on our walk to school every morning

December 1, 2009

Location: My room, Cuenca, 6:20 PM

Weather: Now, it's clouding over and getting dark because the sun will set within a half-hour, but today has been beautiful: sun, blue sky, 80s. It may be the first day of December, but I couldn't ask for a more perfect day.

I hate that we're leaving in a week and a half. Every time I walk through the city, I am reminded just how much I'm in love with it. Instead of going home for lunch, Natalie, Katy, Sara, Mark, Brittany, Kara, and I went to a vegetarian place near El Centro. After Carlos' wife's incredible meals, I've begun to like the idea of vegetarian meals. (It's far better than the dry, tough, sad excuse for steaks they serve here.) It was the only place in the city where I've seen pesto and real spaghetti, and it was absolutely stunning, for only $2.50, too.

Afterward, Kara, Britt, Natalie, and I wandered toward the San Francisco market in search of pirated DVDs and more gifts for our family. On the way back, I stopped and got Mama Isa a bright, cheery sunflower to cheer her up after such a hard week. It was $1, about twice as much as I paid for a bouquet a few weeks ago, but worth it. I walked back to school with Kara, swinging it as we walked.

A cart full of rosy mangoes and another of enormous, glowing strawberries were wheeled past us. We passed an old woman silently carrying a tray piled high with the whipped icing they're so fond of here, decorated with sprinkles and a few pieces of fruit, the sugar cones it's served in jutting from the creamy peaks. A man selling herbal medicines offered his services to us near the Old Cathedral, but we've already seen him around plenty of times. We know where to get a cleansing if we want it.

“If you could, would you live here?” Kara asked.

“Without a doubt,” I answered.

Of course the power shortages aren't convenient, and the current political situation leaves something to be desired, but I've fallen head over heels for this place, even more than I thought I would. I never imagined the hustle and bustle of the city could be so comforting or cheerful. The sounds of the car alarms and sirens barely register anymore because I hear them so much. Even the buses belching black clouds don't bother me any longer. I'm too busy looking at the old buildings, trying to peak through their open doors into the quiet sanctuaries of the courtyards inside of them, drooling over the scent of hot bread from the panaderias, listening to the chatter in Spanish, most of which I can understand now.

My walk to school in the cool mornings shows me the tiny children in their sharp uniforms being walked to school by their parents. Sometimes, the fathers carry their little girls on their shoulders, which makes Antonia and I shoot sidelong smiles at each other, remembering a time when it was us who were taking in a bird's eye's view of the world. On Calle Larga, always after we pass Calle Jerves and the dilapidated church covered with blue-striped tarps (the one that remind me of the Banana in Pajamas) so as not to have chunks of building fall on passersby, we cross paths with a tall officer. His branch of the military is unknown to me, but his blue shirt, navy jacket and pants, tilted black beret, and Rhett Butler mustache suggests that he's better than the police—or at least I believe he's better. He never speaks to us, but he must recognize the gringas he's passed every day for the last two months. He never makes kissing sounds (even when Antonia is wearing the dress that makes cars slow down and old men whistle), catcalls, or even gives a once-over. After I saw him stop to shake hands with a little girl yesterday, I've decided he's a class above the type of officer that stops, whistles, and harasses gringa girls from his police cruiser.

We pass a gap in the buildings around that block and see the mountains in all their glory. The morning mountains are misty and grey-green, not quite awake yet, but when we come home from school, they're blazing with the sun, green as can be. Evening is my favorite, when the entire range reflects the orange sunset and pink clouds have begun settling over them. An hour later, they're sparkling with lights and barely recognizable against the sky. Flat Ohio holds nothing on those mountains.

The familiarity in this city is perhaps my favorite part. The lady at the panaderia on Hermano Miguel and Sucre, one block away from school, knows that when Kyle, Adam, and I come in, we want hot bread. She points to the hottest before we even have to ask. The lady at the chocolate and fruit stand in the mall knows Jessica by name. The man selling Movistar minutes in his cabina at the top of the stairs on Calle Larga knows I'm studying Spanish here and knows I want $6 worth of cell phone minutes every time I come in. Adam gets the same cab driver into the city more often than not, and they strike up conversations together. Antonia and Ashley knows the people at the cell phone store where Marco still works. It's the same place Diego, Adam's host brother, brought me to after my phone was stolen, where I got a used phone for $30 instead of $50. I know Antonia has gotten the same deal from Marco, plus free repairs. Adrien at Zo lets us in either for free or for less than the cover charge because he likes dancing with Ashley, Lizzie, and I. It's quite often that we get free drinks out of the deal as well. We all know the scruffy little dog who has slept outside a clothing store since the first day. I can guarantee that I don't even frequent a place often enough to have the cashier recognize me, let alone cut me a break or know my name. The benefit of familiarity is more than a monetary one for me; it's feeling like this is really home, like I really belong here. I'm not just a gringa and a tourista.

A tiny, wrinkled Ecuadorian man asked me for directions today while I was waiting for Antonia at her gate. I gladly pointed him in the right direction of his house number and he thanked me and went on his way.

That's familiarity.