Ten Things I'd Change About You

Breathtaking views every. single. morning.

The first three months adjusting to a new city or new city in a new country are typically the hardest. Sorting out where to live, what to eat, whom to befriend—it can be a challenge. Yet the lucidity that comes after three months, in the triumphs of knowing taxi prices and routes so as not to get cheated or having your go-to lady with the freshest produce at the market, cannot be overstated. There is a sense of accomplishment and elation that comes with those moments that gives you the feeling of having conquered a new world, which in many ways you have. That feeling is only heightened after a brief time away to recharge and return with just a bit more zest for adventure and pep in your step. Being home for the holidays provided not only a period to refresh ahead of the months to come, but also a space to reflect on the months behind me in this new country where I have temporarily made my home.  

If you grew up a kid of the 90's in the U.S. like I did, there’s little chance you didn’t come across the high school comedy-drama 10 Things I Hate About You. Starring Julia Stiles and Heath Ledger, the 1999 teen classic puts a clever spin on Shakespeare’s timeless comedy The Taming of the Shrew, the tale of hot-headed upstart (read: modern–day strong, independent, and unabashedly outspoken female protagonist) Katherine (Katherina) who must first be “tamed” and wed in order for her highly-courted younger sister Bianca to wed one of her many suitors. The 90's adaptation traces the push-pull of teenage romance and the conflicting feelings Kat develops for Patrick, the faux suitor secretly hired to court her. In many ways, the past three months have been a similar tug-of-war, love-hate relationship of adjustment and cultural adaptation, therefore I thought I would welcome the new year with a new post chronicling some of my observations during the transition!

Dinner for the not-faint-of-heart. Cuy (Guinea pig)

Shopping carts are for the weak of arms. As I mentioned, my weekly jaunt to the store involves a somewhat tedious process of shop with little cart, approach narrow-aisled register to transition goods to belt, transfer goods to large cart with bag check boy in tow for the generous sum of fifty cents or whatever change is in your pockets. Ever the spendthrift, however, I just haul the load myself sans cart. On the upside, trips to the grocery store or market or the little shop on the corner always yield an abundance of fresh, delicious, and incredibly cheap produce the likes of which even puts my beloved Trader Joe’s to shame. Bye, bye TV dinners, hello fresh veg stir-fry and biceps!

You've got to get in shape for gas. Most stoves/ovens (and many water heaters) run on natural gas. Natural gas tanks, that is. Though delicious for stovetop recipes, this makes for challenging oven use (see my first post re: billowing smoke and raw chicken), sudden heat outages when tanks run out (conveniently, of course, in the midst of prepping three Thanksgiving chickens, pear tartlet, and oven potatoes for a holiday feast), and mandatory minimum fitness. That is to say, there is a curious system for re-filling said gas tanks, each the weight and size of a small obese child. Any given day of the week, one might sit eagerly at the window throughout the day (mornings are usually a safer bet) for anywhere from two to ten hours, patiently awaiting the familiar squeaky honk, honk of the gas truck as it passes. Living on a high floor you can at least see the truck in the distance (squinting to discern if those are the right blue or green tanks you need), but also must shout?signal to the ground floor guard of the building across the street (Por favor, la comioneta! Please, the truck!) to flag down the passing gas; race down four flights of stairs in case his calls have gone unanswered; and chase the truck for a block until they see your bobbing brown figure in the rearview mirror. On the bright side, it makes for a glorious thigh and calf workout.

Okay, okay so we caved but it's Ecuadorian McDonald's!

Incoming goods means outgoing cash. Imported clothes and products are sold at an exorbitant mark-up in Ecuador, if imported at all. St. Ives lotion (one of the few brands available period): $14 per bottle. Opti-Free contact solution: $17 per bottle. Neutrogena face wash? Any face wash? Don’t get me started. This makes for a limited selection in even the best grocery stores and alarming price tags at the mall. (Blouse: $39.99. Jeans: $59.99, sale.) Even some local goods, produced at higher cost within the country’s borders, fetch higher prices in shops. At the same time, however, the promotion of national products and produce is aimed at jumpstarting the local economy and essentially keeping cash in the country to aid Ecuadorian producers. Okay….fine…fine. Ashy skin never killed anyone anyway.

Buses aren’t just a health risk. Though intercity and inter-provincial bus rides can be horrifying experiences that leave you shaken or worse, even on those mind-bogglingly fast long haul rides (See previous entry “Road Warrior”), if you’re lucky enough to board before the sun goes down, you just might glimpse some incredibly picturesque mountains, valleys, rivers, lakes, and then some. For all the protective measures taken to conserve the marvelous naturaleza throughout the country, there are many well-preserved and breath-taking sights to see all around Ecuador.

Besties.

Hospitality isn’t always a given. For a land of cheek kisses, hugs, and greetings, I was admittedly surprised at what can best be described as the Quito freeze. Cold stares in shops, brusque shoves from passengers on trolley platforms, adult men seizing hailed cabs when a young woman stands laden with heavy groceries. That's not to mention servers, clerks, and professionals who snub noses, roll eyes, and sigh in exasperation if you stumble on a single vocabulary word (camarones for shrimp in Ecuador, not gambas as in Spain) or botch grammar in a phrase, whatever your level of fluency. Though you might expect similar behavior in any large city anywhere in the world, the brazenness contradicts the exceeding generosity and hospitality that otherwise comes from a country of tight-knit families where generations live together and support one another, and colleagues curiously inquire why it’s so frowned upon for adult children to live with their parents in the U.S. (Which naturally leads to a humorous conversation about the taboo of grown children basement-dwelling in America.)

Finally, racism is never right, no need to make excuses for it. For a country built on the admirable sanctity of family values in what is otherwise a land of warmth and welcome, I have been to very few places where I have felt more unwelcome by virtue of an immutable characteristic I cannot and would not change. Though the color of my skin should not give anyone the right to judge the content of my mind, nor as Dr. King so eloquently put it, the content of my character, on numerous occasions professionally and otherwise, I have been talked down to, denied entry into shops, followed in stores, and passed unceremoniously by taxis on the street. There is a poster in one of the UN’s partner offices with a very poignant line roughly stating: ¿Qué hiciera si estos habrían sido sus zapatos? (What would you do if these were your shoes?) above the well-worn pair of shoes of a recently-arrived refugee. As we work with largely Afro-Colombian populations of refugees in Ecuador, perhaps for the first time in my short career I can honestly say that on some level, at least a superficial skin-deep level, I can empathize with how our clients are treated (or rather maltreated) on a daily basis. For all the bounties and beauty of the country, there’s really nothing positive that rights this wrong.

Quality learning: Teaching high schoolers about refugees

So “I’m learning.” That’s what I replied every time a friend, family member, or former colleague inquired about my time in Ecuador while I was home for the holidays. And I am learning. I am learning what is beautiful about this country and what is downright ugly. I am learning what it means to prize your work, even above personal discomfort. I am learning how to navigate a bureaucracy that is at once infuriating and inspiring for the level of change it can affect. I am learning to cope with a different kind of loneliness, the kind that comes in the midst of amazing new friendships and encounters, born of a deeper desire to reconnect with a place that in some ways I thought I had long-since left behind. I have spent years experiencing the world and hope to continue for many years to come, but for the first time in a long time, I have a greater appreciation for the place I call home with all it’s myriad deficiencies, inefficiencies, and ails.

There's something about those sunsets. 

I used to always say I never felt more American than when I was outside of America where you are almost always seen first and foremost as an representative of your country. Now, it’s not just that I feel more American outside of America, but for the first time in a very long time, I’m distinctly proud to be American with all the baggage that entails. Though it is true that there are no fewer than ten times as many things I would change about my own home as what I would change in what have witnessed and experienced here, home still is home in a new and refreshing and ultimately rewarding way that I have never felt before. And that feels good to know.

I also know that the trials and tribulations of living in a new place are all pieces of a greater puzzle of cultural adaptation I have diligently been attempting to piece together these few months past. That is exactly what makes the triumphant moments—when a piece finally falls just so into place—all the more worthwhile, and I wouldn't trade that for all the shopping carts in the Americas ;)