Chuchaki Moral

            Today was the first day of classes, which went pretty well. I miss my first one, because I tried to find my schedule on the computer, but I don’t have internet at home and the internet here was initially really slow until I got my computer configured.  Spanish went well, but I wasn’t expecting too much of a challenge as I’m stuck in a country where everyone only speaks Spanish, and the class is less advanced than a few I have taken at St. Norbert.

            Last night was CRAZY! They had an orientation party at a place call Mulligan’s located in the Mariscal district, which they warned us never to go to. Our ticket included two beers, but the majority of students bought more and got really hammered and then proceeded across the street to smoke hookah.  I might this really awesome guy named Santi who offered to take us (two girls and me) home, and he started showing off by careening through the hilly streets and fast speeds and slamming on the brakes. Needless to say, this dangerous activity didn’t happen without consequences. The car spun out of control, slamming his tire onto the curb (which in Quito can range anywhere from 10” to a foot and a half) and dislodging the tire from the rim of his car. Everyone was alright, and I found it ironic that his first car accident (or minor annoyance) happened when he was showing off. But everyone was fine, so it didn’t much matter.

            I got about 5 hours of sleep last night due to having to take a taxi home with a girl who had no idea where she lives. This was the same girl who kept asking Santi what his favorite school was (expecting an enthusiastic BELOIT, where she comes from). That school has an outrageous drinking problem, as was evidence in this tiny girl. At about 5’4”, she downed nearly ten beers and regaled us all with stories of her university’s “drinking team” and their nightly encounters. After we finally found her house, my friend Margaret gave perfect directions to her house. We had a little trouble finding my house as well, but the cab driver seemed content with everything. I got home around 3:30 and only had to get up at 8, which was extremely difficult. Once I got to school, however, the sickness quickly left me, and I was able to spend time with all of my friends.

            At the party I met a girl name Michelle from Canada. Although I was surprised at how little she represented the typical Canadian (she only said “eh” about once every five minutes), I didn’t fail to take notice of the small pronunciation differences. She doesn’t live in a house, she lives in a hewse. But it doesn’t really matter much, because the poor pronunciation gives way to an absolutely astounding and perfect French accent from her childhood near Ottawa. There are two other guys in our program from Canada, one name Guillaume and one named Colin. They’re all super friendly, and we all took a trip to the grocery store yesterday (hilariously called SuperMaxi, which sounds like a gargantuan sanitary napkin) and to the cell phone store to purchase phones.

            I also pretty much completely remade my schedule, dropping Sanskrit which I really excited to take. Unfortunately, the class ends at around 7, when it is completely dark in Quito. I don’t know if I mentioned, but the sun rises and sets at 6:30 every 12 hours. You can set your watch by it.

            At around 3, I returned home (safely, which gave me a lot of confidence about my traveling skills). My host mother brought me to hem my pants that I had bought, and I think I can pick them up tomorrow. While in Cumbayá, I went to a store selling videos, expecting to buy something that would entertain me for the rest of the evening, as my host family tends to keep to themselves (which I am more than ok with). I bought 2 seasons of Sex & The City, a season of the Simpsons; Run, Lola, Run and Juno. And what was my final price, you ask? An astounding $22.25. Normally, that would cost me over one hundred dollars in the States. The movies are all pirated, but their quality is just as good as the originals, as I soon found out when I got home.

            I had a headache after watching one movie, and went to bed around 7:00 pm. I think my host mother prepared me dinner, but I slept soundly throughout the night, most likely from the five hours I received the night before. A full twelve hours later, I started it all over again.

Orientación

The last two days have been particularly stressful. The more I stay in this place, the more I feel as if the way I live my life is one giant sin. I woke up this morning, insistent on ignoring any part of the conversation I had had the night before with Magda, and the morning was off to a pretty brisk start.

            I woke up at 5:45 am, as my 9:00 am arousal the day before left me feeling like a lazy oaf thanks to my host-mother, who briefly mentioned she thought she’d have to wake me up if I’d have slept any later. This was said from a woman who told me I could sleep late given that it was a vacation day. Regardless, I took a shower for about fifteen minutes. This is more time that I have spent bathing myself in the last two days put together, as this morning I realized that you have to just barely touch the knob if you want anything other than scalding-cold water to dump on your head. The problem with this is that barely touching the knob also reduces the water pressure, so even if I had wanted a quick shower, I would have had to have stayed for as long as I did just to get the soap off of my body. Magui arose at around 6:45, a full thirty minutes after I was ready. By that time I had retired back to bed, fully clothed, with some reading material.

            We took the buses to Cumbayá where orientation was to take place. The buses jerk everyone around, more so those who were standing for lack of room, which we had to do because of the packed bus. Without explaining whom you paid or what you did, Magui did everything like a robot, and I was left deducing what I could from the two green and white transfer tickets she grasped firmly in her hands. “Tienes que buscar el rojo de la esquina, y después el verde que tiene CUMBAYÁ escrito enfrente,” she told me. These were about the only words she spoke on the 40 minute ride, but I was at ease knowing that at least silence granted me amnesty from her counseling.

            When I arrived at school, I sat down and was soon greeted with a warm and friendly hug from Margaret about two minutes into the presentation. The campus is absolutely gorgeous, with architecture borrowed from various cultures to construct the gym (or la pagoda, as they call it, a Japanese style building with a large, open interior to allow for various sports), the Offices of Administration (Da Vinci, built like a Greek temple), and the book store, which is a modern-design sight to behold with windows all along the exterior. Amidst luscious Japanese cherry trees and stone fountains, students were lazily reclined with their computers in tow. We have been instructed to never bring out laptops to school, as it runs the risk of burglary while on the bus. I still don’t know how I’m supposed to access the internet if I can’t take advantage of USFQ’s free wireless internet (which, by the way, Margaret has with her host family. JEALOUS!).

            Orientation focused largely on the issue of security, which I understood, but it startled me that it was the main focus for everything. I still don’t know when I’m supposed to get my books, or even where my classes are. I suppose I will find that out tomorrow; perhaps Margaret and I can go together to make it a little more fun.

            Magda picked me up promptly at 1:30 and fed me a large lunch, after which I asked her if it would be alright if I went to the internet café down the road. I needed to stop at a cajero automático (ATM) first, however, and she told me to take a taxi to el Banco Pichincha. I don’t know how to hail a cab, and she said the fare would be less than a dollar, so I figured I could find it myself. After walking about 10 blocks and seeing nothing but tight-cornered individual shops (and about 20 hair salons, seriously, do Ecuadorians need that many?) I gave up and headed back toward the internet store with my $3 in cash in my pocket. Let me tell you, I knew being in Ecuador as a gringo would probably cite a lot of stares from the natives, but I wasn’t prepared when a toothless old man holding his dog began to chant homosexual, homosexual when I walked by. I wanted to turn around and say, “No, Americano. Nice try, but the nice clothes just mean I come from a wealthier country than yours,” but I couldn’t because, well, for one I was afraid he’d bite me and give me rabies. Second, he was right. I am gay. But how the hell did he know that?

            This preoccupied the majority of my thoughts on the way to the internet café. I know I exhibit somewhat less of what is typically expected from a male, but is it really that obvious? People can tell by how I walk? This scares me, as I now am beginning to see myself as one of those flamboyantly feminine gays that I vowed I would never become. I promptly called my mom from una cabina telefónica and just started crying. How am I supposed to live in a place where I feel insecure in almost every single part of the city? What’s more, I’m not just a target for people wanting to rob a well-to-do American, now those with a vengeance against homosexuals can wreak havoc on me as well.

            My mother did a swell job of calming me down, as she always does, urging me to contact Maricarmen in the Office of International Programs at USFQ, who sets up the family stays. While moving away from the this family is the very last thing I want to do, it might be necessary. Then again, I have believed everything that I have learned about this culture from a sixty-year-old woman, who may not know the modern ways of society. I was told today that they do have gay pride parades and a gay-friendly sector of town, but machismo has greatly slowed the progression of civil rights. As the vice president so eloquently recounted today, “We are not the United States. Ecuadorians will say to you that all blacks are lazy because they simply believe it to be true. We never had a Civil Rights Movement like the US.” This means a lot, especially because Civil Rights set ground rules for just and unjust treatment of those different from oneself. Maybe the university environment will help make me feel more at home.

            Tonight we’re having a Fiesta de Integración at a place called Mulligan’s Pub & Grill. Hopefully it will help ease some of my fears, as I certainly can’t do a lot worse. It sucks feeling trapped in this basement room, listening to nothing but the cackles of my host-brother and host-mother from the blare of the television. It reminds of that movie Matilda.

            I just have to remind myself to be strong. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t expect it to be like this, especially after I’ve spent so much time trying to master Spanish. I’m way ahead of some of my counterparts, as was visible from some people in my tour group today who got flustered after not forming a verb correctly and defaulting to English. But, alas, life is difficult. I have to remember as well that I come from a country with many more opportunities and a lot more advances than this third-world zone of hypocrisy. Bueno, ya he escrito suficiente para hoy. Hasta mañana (si todavía estoy VIVIENDO mañana).

San Agustín Hates the Gays!

Today was interesting, tiring, disappointing, beautiful, crazy and oh-so-different. I woke up this morning a little late (around 9:00 am, which for me is super EARLY) and Magda had prepared pancakes for me. She also poured me a cup of Colombian coffee before I had a chance to say I dislike coffee, so I gulped it down quickly, chocking the experience up to having tried actual Colombian coffee. Needless to say, it still tastes just as bad. It's just from a different country.

After breakfast, we were planning to go to immigration to process my visa. Before leaving, my host mother and I began to sift through all the papers and make sure they were in the proper order. When we couldn't find a slip of paper to vouch for "entrada al país" (or the stamp that they put in the passport when you arrive, for those of you that don't speak Spanish), I couldn't find it in the passport. This is a major problem because it basically is proof that I actually entered the country legally through the airlines. After pretty much freaking out (I felt horrible because my host mother had to accompany me to the airport to find out why my book wasn't stamped), we were directed to three different offices. Keep in mind this is the third time I've been to the airport in three days. HECTIC. The immigration officer sifted through my passport and found the stamp, a collection of light (very light) words that, upon first glance, simply appeared to be the shadow of George Washington's head of a background picture of Mount Rushmore. The trip to the airport proved to be needless, as the stamp had been there all along.

Still feeling like the day was a slow-ticking time bomb, we headed to the middle of town to register my visa. We had to wait for two and a half hours. It was like the DMV from hell. Finally, everything was worked out, and we began to head home. I had mentioned to Magda that the cool weather up here (due to the high elevation) made me think I should probably buy some more pants. She concluded that we would venture out after lunch to see some churches and monuments, and also visit the Centro Comercial.

After a lunch or rice, beans, avocado, ice cream, pork, and a cheesy soup with popcorn inside, we ventured to the Centro. The roads are all at a steep incline and the majority of them are one-way, which made me think of how French villas are often pictured, with dirty laundry hanging high above the heads of pedestrians. Except in place of dirty laundry, there are large signs advertising everything, tight-cornered shops selling everything from individual cigarettes to jewel-encrusted lizards to Diesel jeans. After parking the car in this teeny tiny stall (I swear, my host mother has super-powers when it comes to parking a car in a 10" x 6" area), we shopped around a bit and I got 2 pair of jeans and a pair of Bermudas for $50. That may seem like a lot, but the jeans were both Diesel (which range from $140-$180 in the US) and Speedo. Increíble!

After this we walked around and visited a lot of churches, including el Convento de San Agustín. More like a museum, we pay "sueltos" (tips) to enter and the tour guide talking rapidly about the history of this intricately-adorned nunnery. From the ceiling hung golden mini-pineapples, gargantuan 30" paintings adorned the walls, and we even got to visit the catacombs. We saw multiple churches, whose inside were encrusted with pure gold and statues of saints and wooden sepulchers. I wasn't able to take pictures, but I got some of the outside of the building and I'll post them tomorrow.

Anyhow, this is kind of where the day took a digger. My host mother mentioned to me multiple times that I'm "gordito" (a seemingly friendly way to call me fat) and on the right home, she kept telling me about how the Ecuadorian public was staring at me (which I knew) not only because I was white (which I believed was the reason) but because I was so flamboyant and obviously gay. Last night she expressed her beliefs that she respects who I am, but believes it to be wrong, a genetic defect. I understand that this is the culture, and the "machismo" view kind of hinders self-expression when it comes to gays, but she went so far as to "counsel me", as she put it, that I should act less gay in public. Not only that, but it was "obvious" to her and her children that I was gay when I sent my photos over the internet before arriving, and that they all "sat around laughing". I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to the fact that my host family thinks I'm a big fat (literally) homo. Not only that, but this experience is supposed to broaden my horizons, and if I have to close off who I am and change how I act, aren't I actually limiting my horizons? I know Magda doesn't mean to be offensive, just blunt, and I respect her and her discriminating culture because it's all the family knows, but I almost began crying in the car when she told me she was laughing at me before I arrived, but immediately stopped, because that would be feminine and atypical of a male. 

So now I'm trying to not really talk at all. I think I'm going to stop wearing vests, because as I've said before, you can spot a gay a mile away if he's wearing a vest. I've always been open, but it's difficult to respect the culture here while maintaining my own actual persona. I've always been behind U.S. bashing because the majority of the idiosynchrosies that are observed by foreigners are usually true, but how am I supposed to respond when the woman who claims to completely respect me regardless of my sexual orientation explicitly speaks of her ill-thoughts about gay adoption? I'm sorry, but if I'm the one who is culturally limited, why is it that I can speak your language and am living in your country whilst you cannot even correctly pronounce Ellen DeGeneres? (Seriously, it sounded like Helen Deechenerts, it took like 2 minutes to figure out what she was saying). The lady is seriously blunt, and friendly when it comes to amicable conversation, but no more talk about gay. Ever. I think I'll politely refuse to comment if it comes up again. I've been able to adapt to a lot of things, but usually people maintain some sort of open-mindedness or they wouldn't host international students, am I right? Apparently not.

Anyhow, I know that was a rant, but it sucks not feeling comfortable in your own skin. The only English contact I've had in the last 2 days was journaling on here and reading my David Sedaris books, which, while hilarious, don't do much for making me less homesick. Tomorrow I get to see Terra and Margaret, which will hopefully calm me down a little, but I think until then I'll keep to myself. I feel as if I've been entirely adequate as a house-guest-- politely asking to use the internet for no more than 30 minutes at a time, thanking my host-mother graciously for every meal, I even gave her $30 today for gas (which, by the way, is only $1.48 a gallon here). After that, she opened up a little, but in return from being polite (which is more than I can say for most Americans), I get ridiculed about my sexuality. This is AWESOME.

I can't wait to start school. Maybe the students at USFQ will be more tolerant as a younger generation should be. That way, I can build a routine and not have to worry about how my host-mother views her host-son. And seeing Marg and Terra will help immensely.

Don't worry, Mom. I can handle my own. It's nothing I haven't dealt with. It's just usually I don't have to LIVE with ignoramuses. More on this tomorrow.

First Full Day in Quito

Well, after a particularly stressful trip to Ecuador, things seem to finally be falling into place. When I initially left Chicago on the 22^nd, my first plane was delayed by an hour and a half. Stranded in Houston, Texas, a particularly friendly Albertan name Allison befriended me, and we shared a shuttle to the Baymont Hotel.

Immediately after settling in my room, I made my way to the bar and met Rubén. As we got to talking, it became pretty clear that he was gay when he described his general dislike for sports and love of Gloria Trevi. I found it ironic that I had found what was most likely the only gay person working within a mile (read: male) radius. What can I say? We can smell each other.

The next morning I met up with Allison on the shuttle, accompanied her through security and waited for almost three hours for me re-routed flight to Miami. Having been advised to expect turbulence because of tropical storm Fay, I began to freak out. I sat next to a girl from Lubbock name Eva Ceja (read: Eva Eyebrow) and began hyperventilating (or so it seemed) when the plane began to veer and dip. Two bottles of ($6) wine promptly calmed my nerves. I found it odd and particularly annoying that a flight to Miami from Houston is 2 hours and 18 minutes, while a flight from Chicago to Houston is only 2:05. Nevertheless, I arrived safely and began searching for the gate to Quito.

Miami’s airport is disorganized and annoying. If it hadn’t been for the help of a very polite flight attendant, I think would have yelled bomb and then hid behind a palm tree. For starters, the airport is shaped like a gigantic horseshoe with gates A through H spanning the curve. After landing in H, I exited the terminal and headed toward terminal D. It was severely annoying that I had to leave a terminal and re-enter security, but my layover was about an hour and ten minutes from exit to takeoff, so I wasn’t too worried. As I briskly power-walked my way across the floor, I began to notice that all of the security lines for each terminal were getting longer and longer. As I approached the F gates, I heard a voice over the loudspeaker call, “Ryan Reed, please report to terminal H gate (indistinguishable) to retrieve a lost item.” I immediately realized that I had left my wallet on the plane. Thankful that I would have it in my grasp before I realized it was missing on the plane to Quito, I realized that a re-entry to terminal H would require waiting in a security line stretching longer than a ticket counter for the Jonas Brothers, finding the item and then sprinting toward terminal D to make a flight in a little under 40 minutes. That, my friend, would be impossible, even for Superman.

I’m going to pause here because I remember something that happened just before I heard my name on the loudspeaker. Because airport terminals are entirely non-smoking (that includes the outside unless specially designated), I decided I need a smoke to calm my nerves. I walked out the doors (knowing I’d have to re-enter security anyhow) and began to follow the signs that read “Designated Smoking Area This Way.” After passing several entries back into the airport, I saw a sign that had the same message, but pointed in the opposite direction. I figured I’d walked right past the area, and began to backtrack. About twenty steps away, I again saw the same five words, except this time the arrow was pointed directly up. Not north, UP. Apparently my only hope would have been to be Superman after all, as only he could have reached the designated smoking area that was apparently hovering between the first and second floor outside of terminal G.

Anyhow, after giving up on my smoke and freaking out about my wallet, I made my way to the Continental Airlines baggage check-in, where I was told I needed to obtain a white slip of paper granting me access to re-enter terminal H without going through security. With only two people working and a line of 30+ people forming behind me, two foreign idiots lazily and slowly aided a Russian family with 4 kids who packed, unpacked, and repacked their bags to meet the weight requirements and a little boy who couldn’t fly without his grandmother’s permission. She, however, was not there. After waiting in (the front of) the line for nearly 35 minutes (and being accused of some Miami Hispanic trash that I had skipped in line because the only people he saw in front of him were two old ladies), the man behind the counter told me that my lost article was being delivered to American Airlines, the airline of my connecting flight. I then had fifteen minutes to get through security and board the plane before take-off. Luckily, when I reached security, the guard saw that I was running late and led me through a line with only 2 people. I made it to the gate, but the lady who was boarding told me she had never heard about any wallet.

I was about ready to explode. I couldn’t leave for Quito without my wallet, which had $200 in cash, my ID and my only bank card in it. After barely holding back punching the attendant for American, I was tapped on the shoulder by a beautiful stewardess (who at this point gave off a luminescent glow given her angelic presence) who politely asked if my name was Ryan Reed. I saw my wallet and she said she needed to call my dad, which she had done for me, and reported to him that everything was great and that I was safely on my way. Thank the Lord for Continental Airlines. And fuck the Miami Airport staff.

Anyhow, the plane ride to Quito went smoothly, especially after the fiasco I had experienced, but nobody had warned me the descent into the Quito airport was like being dropped from a skyscraper. Given Ecuador’s mountainous terrain and Quito’s position as a valley entirely surrounded by mountains, the plane has a very limited time to reach a very specific point on the (only) runway if it doesn’t want to plow into the city nestles in the side of Mt. Pichincha. We landed safely, and assumed my luggage to have arrived the previous day given my absence on the connecting flight from Houston, and left to find my host mother and brother, patiently awaiting with an 8.5 x 11” sheet of paper with my name written in bold letters.

We picked up a few necessities at a nearby convenience store and drove home. The plane arrived at 6:30 pm, and the entire city was black. Because of Quito’s elevation, the sun sets here around 6:15 at night, blanketing it with 12 hours of pure darkness. So far it’s pretty cool.

The house is beautiful. It is long and narrow with a patio in the middle. I have a bedroom in the basement with my own private bathroom, which suits me well as I sleep better when it’s a little cooler outside. I stayed up with Magdalena (my host mother) and Gabi (host brother) chatting until nearly eleven when, exhausted, I went to bed.

Today was the day we returned to the airport to retrieve my luggage, which actually was on the flight that I was on, so I could have had it when I needed it. I unpacked, and we took a short ride to Cumbayá where my University is. Because today is Sunday it was closed, but I got to see where it would be. The buildings here are colored with beautiful hues of green and blue, and shades of adobe decorate the luscious green hills. In Quito, it is impossible to turn in any direction and see anything but a mountain or a volcano. In some directions, as was today, the top of the mountains are invisible; they are covered by clouds. The city’s 1.5 million people drive (horribly), and at high speeds often careen around the sides of the mountains. Multiple times today I had to remind myself that I was in the hands of an experienced driver, otherwise I would screamed, fearing that we were going to fly off the side of the road, hundreds of feet below.

After viewing the university, we stopped at a place for lunch called the “Palacio de Friteros” or something like that. It was very strange. The whole place was packed, because it was a weekend. We ordered our food at the cashier, and in order to secure ourselves a table, we sat at a dirty one recently occupied and waited for the busser to clean it. The busser then verifies the order and delivers it. It was odd purposefully sitting at a dirty table, but I’m told the restaurant isn’t as dense during the weekdays. Afterward, we drive home via a tunnel through one of the mountains. If I were a Verizon customer, I would have tried to get reception, and if I did, I would have asked, “Can you hear me now?” It would make the perfect commercial. 

These are some pictures of my room.

And there's some more. Enjoy.