Rockin’ The Bus

We just returned home last night from another amazing trip to Ecuador.  I haven't had a chance to download or sort through two cameras and one iPhone filled with photos but I've been thinking alot about the trip and do you know what I've decided I like best about Ecuador?  Do you?  It’s the people.  Well … other than drinking Pilsner and eating plantain chips. Of course that Amazon trip last year was absolutely incredible.  It’s right up there at the top of my favorite things about Ecuador.  But … I don’t know … it wouldn’t have been the same without a cold Pilsner at the end of the day … lying in a hammock, sweating, drinking Pilsner … in the Amazon … how can you beat that?   And this trip – the highlands and volcanoes were breathtaking and Dean was in geology-heaven – but we drank Pilsners and ate chips there too.  Hmm … it doesn’t get much better than sitting outside at the beach, or in the Amazon, or in the Ecuadorian highlands, or in Quito, or Guayaquil, or oh, hell, anywhere, with a cold Pilsner in your hand and a basket of plantain chips in front of you.  But the people are incredible ... Pilsner and chips or people … Pilsner and plantain chips or people ... it's a close call, but I think it's the people.  Yup, the people.  That’s the best thing about Ecuador.

I love the people.  I love how friendly they are and how they go out of their way to help you.  Like the guy working at one of the places we stayed on this trip.  He was dressed in his worker coveralls, walking past the cabin we had stayed in to go do whatever it was he was being paid to do, but when he saw me heading in the opposite direction with my suitcase, he stopped, turned around, came back, took my suitcase and carried it to the car.  Smiling.

Or the man from Ecuador I met on the plane when I went to Ecuador by myself last July who rented a cart for my suitcases and wouldn’t let me pay for it, helped me when there was an issue with my baggage claim form, and made sure Abby & Jorge were there to meet me before he would leave.

Did you know that men actually open doors for women in Ecuador?  Really.  They do.  And they let you go first.  Always.  They stop.  They hold their arm out toward the doorway and they wait, actually wait, for you to go through – before them!  I’m not kidding.  I felt like a queen … an old, wrinkled queen, but still … a queen.

And I love their smiles and joie de vivre.   One day we got caught in road construction and had to wait for one whole hour before we could continue on.  The wait could have been long, boring, and irritating, but instead we were entertained by the folks on a bus just ahead of us.  They cranked up the music and next thing you know the bus was rocking from side to side from the people who were dancing inside.

Other people were dancing alongside the road, and everybody was laughing.

I am not a seasoned traveler but I have never visited any city, state or country where the people are so courteous, so happy, so friendly, and so willing to help.  I don’t know what the secret is but I’m starting to think it must be the Pilsner and plantain chips.  The only way to know for sure, though, is through scientific study.  To that end, I have decided I will make the ultimate sacrifice and offer myself up as a guinea pig test subject.  Once I find a source for dollar Pilsners,  freshly prepared plantain chips, and have completed my research, I will report back.

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Rockin’ The Bus

No Vehicles Were Harmed During My Trip

I set three basic ground rules for myself before I went to Ecuador:

I would not complain or whine or judge.

I would be open to new experiences and foods.

I would try to speak in Spanish.

I don't mean to brag (much) but I followed my own rules to the letter.  Weeeeeeelllll......I did whine a bit about my hair and judged myself to be an idiot with an I.Q. about the same as the humidity in Abby's house.  But otherwise I followed the rules. 

Here's a travel tip for you:  (men need not read this--Dean) if you have any natural curl in your hair, do not have it whacked off and layered before you travel to Ecuador.  Unless, that is, you want to have a puff ball for a head.

So, back to the rules.  Be open to new foods.  Me.  The picky eater.  My first dinner in Ecuador was goat. It was a bit chewy but good. And the rice pudding Jorge and I had for dessert was, as my mom always liked to say, “luscious” even though it was a bit different than any I’d ever had before.

In Guayaquil we climbed a bajillion stairs to walk around a revitalized part of the city,

and walked along the malecon.

I saw my first iguanas up close and personal. They weren’t exactly in the wild but they ranged free in a park in the city. You could get as up close and personal to them as you felt comfortable doing.

I got pretty close, but not as close as the woman who received a gift from one of the tree-lounging iguanas.

We also visited a kind of combination zoo/historic park.

The next morning I had my first traditional Ecuadorian breakfast. Not ceviche (although I did try Abby’s in Manta),but bolon. Yum.

Driving from Guayaquil to and through Quevedo to Abby and Jorge’s house was a bit like being in a bumper car ride….only without the bumps. Here is how the game is played. Mix up a bunch of small cars, medium sized pickups, motorcycles (most of which had two parents with one to two kids mashed in between them), and large farm trucks. Point some of them in one direction and some in the opposite direction. Chunk out parts of the road now and then, add a few invisible speed bumps, don’t waste your time on road signs, throw in a mix of human forms of various sizes and ages walking along the highway, and then tell everybody there is only one rule to the game--they must get to their destination before everybody else around them. If they do not honk frequently, or pass cars three abreast a minimum of 17 times, while at the same time heading straight for the grill of another vehicle heading in the opposite direction, they will be disqualified.

You’d think I might have been a bit nervous during that drive but instead, I was amazed that everybody seemed to just expect that everybody else was going to drive like a maniac so they watched out for each other. I know it sounds crazy, but in a way, it almost felt safer than here at home. In the U.S. we expect the other motorists to follow the rules. I don’t know about you, but when another driver is passing and heading straight for me, I get pretty dang annoyed. I stay in my lane, just like I’m supposed to, and watch him get closer and closer to me. “What the heck is that idiot doing?! Doesn’t he know he doesn’t have room to pass? Who gave him a license to drive? Get back over you idiot…you’re going to hit me!” And then, finally, when I see he just isn’t going to make it, and I HAVE to, I move off to the right, blood pressure skyrocketing, cursing him. If I was in Ecuador, as soon as I saw him begin the pass, I would squeeze over a bit closer to the car (or two) on my right that I’m also trying to pass, and let him go by.

Once safely in Quevedo, I was greeted by Abby and Jorge’s two children.

During our time in Guayaquil, I think the only phrase I heard more often than “I miss Luuuuuuna” from Abby, was “I miss Maaaaaaaggie” from Jorge.

Needless to say, they were all ecstatic to see each other after two lonely days apart.

Later that evening I met also Jorge’s mom, Grace, and older brother, Danilo. Grace fed us pan de yuca which I plan to attempt myself (if I can find the flour) and chocolate soy milk. She had made them both (yes, even the milk) and they were both delicious.

The next day I met Jorge’s father, Manuel, and his girlfriend, Narcissa, and got a quick tour of the farm where he raises oil palm, corn and some teak.

At a family dinner I also got to meet Jorge’s grandma and aunt who were in town from Manta. Phew. I hope I passed the “meet your daughter’s future in-laws test”.

I’ll bet you’re all wondering if I spoke Spanish, aren’t you? You’re probably wondering if all those ½ hour sessions at the computer paid off or if they were a waste of time. Was I able to speak Spanish and make conversation with Jorge’s family? Did we understand each other? Yes I was, and dang right we did! Sorta. Abby just kind of looked at me like, “holy cow, she’s speaking…and they understand some of what she’s saying…” It was awesome. I’m not saying that I didn’t have to ask for some translation on occasion, or ask how to say a word here and there (okay, quite a few words here and there), but we talked about kids, and grandchildren, and religion and gosh, I don’t even remember what. We laughed and we joked and had a great visit. I'm sure I probably said things I didn't mean to say but the only thing I know for a fact I screwed up was when Narcissa asked me something and I answered,  "Yes!  I have two daughters."  She got a quizzical look on her face and Abby said, "Mom, she was asking you how you stay so thin." 

I was so excited that I could “talk” in Spanish, that I vowed to come home and diligently work on those Spanish lessons even more. Let’s see….I’ve been home for 17 days now and I’ve practiced … um … well … none. But I’m going to start again.  Soon.  Any day now...

If you haven't had enough yet, I have more pictures of the malecon, the iguana park, the zoo/historic park, our hostel in Guayaquil, Abby and Jorge's house and "children", the farm, and Luna's favorite snack.

Next time....fish, fish, and more fish.

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No Vehicles Were Harmed During My Trip

One More Before I Go

I don’t know if anybody has noticed, but I haven’t been here for a while. I’m not in blog land as much as most people anyway, but this has been longer than usual even for me. Well, here’s the thing. I’ve been busy. Busy doing all kinds of things.

One whole afternoon I was busy looking at this.  The water is so high that it is gushing over the Pathfinder Dam spillway for the first time since 1984.  It's become a popular thing for the locals to do on a summer afternoon.  People pack up their kids, throw a picnic lunch in the car and go check out the spillway.  Okay, I was there as part of a field trip during work hours so I wouldn't have been able to blog then anyway (at least not if the boss was anywhere nearby), but the sun, the fresh air, the spray of the water and just the thrill of being a field trip threw the thought of blogging right out of my head.

Removing the bathroom countertops at home has taken a lot of time that I could have been blogging. Alright, I didn’t really do any of the actual removing, but I am an awesome GSG (Go-fer Supporter Girl). I have perfected the technique of holding a flashlight while offering commiserating comments. "Ohh… I’ll bet that hurt. Can I get you a pillow for you head?

Sure you don’t want a pillow? How’s it going?

Is the top coming off? What if we can’t get it off?” Intermixed with sweet offers of “can I do anything? Do you need anything? Need me to get a tool? Want me to try?” I did spend a lot of minutes with a vacuum and broom once the counters were removed and I’ve had to spend time comforting Lily who sits on the floor by the bathroom cabinet, sadly meowing as she stares up at an empty hole, wondering how long it’ll be until she can get a nice cool drink from the faucet again.

Then of course somebody had to meet the countertop guys and hang out at home while they installed them.  I didn't do that, but I was in charge of meeting the plumber so he could (NOT---see update) install the sinks and faucets.  And I did coordinate all that counter guys/plumber scheduling, which can consume a fair number of minutes.

Speaking of coordinating I would like to rant a bit here. Wouldn’t you think when your profession is installing granite countertops that you would do the best you could do? Wouldn’t you think when your profession was to install granite countertops you would do a better job than Mr. Homeowner could? Wouldn’t you think you could cut circles that were evenly spaced both left to right

and top to bottom.  Isn't that what a template drawing is for? My six year old granddaughter could have drawn better spaced holes for cutting.

Dean had to spend hours gluing in extra support boards because the original countertop was a crap job (apparently not installed by a professional). He made sure the surface was perfectly level. I vacuumed and wiped down the whole area so the professional granite installer would have a clean work area. Yet when the professional granite countertop installer cut the holes for the sinks and faucets on-site (only the granite God on-high knows




why that wasn’t done in the shop), he didn’t feel the need to lay down a tarp on very nice maple floors. Honestly. That meant I had to mop floors before it was really necessary.  There wasn't even enough dog hair on the floors to knit a sweater yet.

I was worried the faucets wouldn't fit onto the unevenly spaced holes or if they did, they would look as unevenly spaced as the holes did.  Dean told me that the faucets are made to be adjustable over holes. “They don’t have to sit in the center of the hole. The plumber will figure it out. That’s why we’re paying a professional to install the sinks and faucets. It’ll be okay.” Wouldn’t you think if you were a professional granite counter installer you would strive for perfection? Maybe even have some pride in your work? Wouldn’t you think a professional granite countertop installer wouldn’t think “okay” was good enough? Don’t you think if I am paying big bucks for granite countertops to be installed by a professional, I should be able to expect better than just okay? I would even be happy with near-perfection. But just okay? From a professional granite installer? Was it too much to expect more than that?  .........    Boy, that went on longer than I expected, but I feel better now. And I did warn you.

*** Countertop Update.  Beware.  If you thought the last rant was bad, wait'll you read this:  Turns out I do have a good crap sensor because when the plumber came Tuesday morning to install the sinks and faucets, he discovered the faucet holes were too large for the faucets.  The faucets that were In.  My.  House.  When.  The.  Holes.  Were.  Drilled.  So I got to spend my lunch hour plus an hour at Home Depot, on the phone, and e-mailing photos to the contractor.  Then more phone time with woman who schedules the contractors who told me "most plumbers just go buy a larger washer so the faucets will fit," to which I replied, using my sister's tried and true response:  "I am sorry.  That is not acceptable."  And then I reiterated how poorly drilled the holes were and how they were off center and how they'd chipped off a piece of granite, and how it doesn't matter if other plumbers just buy a larger washer.  Those washers were what came with the faucets.  The faucets that Were.  At.  My.  House.  When.  The.  Holes.  Were.  Drilled.  Then she told me she'd take my photos, go talk to her boss and "they will take care of things."  Let's hope so.  Let's hope they bring me new countertops and find somebody who knows how to drill holes in granite.  Because I WILL either get new counters or money back.  And right now I feel like drilling a hole in the hole-driller's head. 

Another update  (That's what I get by trying to work on this over a series of days)...  I met with granite guy at 5:00 p.m..  It's hard to want to drill a hole in a granite guy's head when he's standing in front of you, admitting his job wasn't perfect but willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy.  I was hell-bent to have them rip out those counters and bring new ones but he wanted the chance to "make it right" for me.  So as I type he is "fixing" the holes with epoxy and installing the faucets and sinks.  If the job doesn't look good, isn't secure, or we are not happy, I have the right to have them ripped out and replaced.  He's a local business guy with a bathroom/kitchen business and my gut said "he's basically a good guy, he isn't trying to screw you, he wants to make you happy and he wants to fix this so give him a chance.  Either this works and you will have sinks and faucets or it won't and you'll rip it all out."  Leslie came over to advocate for me in case I backed down and even she felt he really wanted to make things right and look good.  So once he's finished, Dean and I will make the determination as to how happy we are.  And have his card and phone number with no hesitation to call if I have any issues down the line.  Cross your fingers. 


***Three and half hours later, the faucets and sinks are set and the worst of the hole cutting (first photo above) now looks like this.  Whaddya think?

As countertop guy was leaving, there was a fair amount of "I appreciate you being open and letting me try to fix ... I'm sorry if I was snippy but ... you're right, I made a mistake and ... I'm not usually this bitchy but ... I'm a consumer too, I understand ... thank you for staying and ... I value your business ... I spent alot of money and ... thank you for letting me come back and ... tact is not my strong suit ... I understand why ..."   .................kind of like makeup sex but without the sex.
And now, I promise, no more ranting.  I'm too busy self-medicating with a G&T now to rant anyway. ***

We spent a couple of afternoons downtown listening to music, eating food, drinking beer and hanging out which got in the way of blogging.  One of those afternoons we brought the grandkids.   Leslie hadn't had time to give them lunch before we picked them up but we told her not to worry.  We would feed them.  And we did ... cotton candy, smoothies, lemonade, fudge, funnel cake, and ice cream.  In between all the eating

Pierce almost fought a knight,

Dean tried his best to control the kids,

after he'd gotten them all worked up,

and then we took them home.

But what’s really been keeping me from blogging is all my obsessing, stressing, preparing and shopping for my trip to Ecuador so I can take Abby’s wedding dress to her. Any trip preparation normally involves at least a little bit of shopping. But when you’re visiting a country whose daily low temperature averages higher than your daily high temperature, it involves A LOT of shopping. You’d think this would make me happy but I was not born with the shopping gene. I hate shopping. I hate every aspect of shopping. I hate looking through racks. I hate trying things on. I hate trying to find a deal. I hate wondering if I look good in this or that. I hate wearing something new for the first time. I walk around with an armful of things to try on, but before I make it to the dressing room, I talk myself out of them and begin putting them back on the racks, one by one. And more often than not, if I actually do try something on, somehow manage to make myself buy it and bring it home, I talk myself out of it and return it. I'm even more amazed than you may be, because what I hate most about shopping is how much time it takes. Gosh, shopping for hours at the mall yesterday was so much fun; I think I’ll waste even more time today by driving back to the store, waiting in line to return this article of clothing that I haven’t even taken out of the bag. Yeah, that makes no sense…even to me.

The spooky thing is, now that I’ve been forced to do so much of shopping, I’ve begun to feel a magnetic pull toward sale signs. I’m not kidding. I find myself hovering around clothing racks with 60% off signs on top and I don’t remember how I got there. Minutes turn into hours. Dean has called me twice during my “quick” trips wondering if I was ever coming home. I can’t remember the last time I came home from the mall without a bag in my hand. And I never return anything anymore. I don’t know exactly when or how it happened but I think I’ve become one ….....…. a shopper!

All those clothing purchases added to my already mounting ironing. I’d gotten a bit behind because I was spending so much time shopping. Getting though this mountain of ironing took a long, long time.  Time I could have been blogging.

Packing for my trip has taken alot of time too. There’s an art to packing.

Especially when you’re trying to fit in things like insect nets, butterfly spreaders, entomology books, and kitty and puppy toys. And then there’s the issue of one small item……….the purpose of this whole trip ………. the WEDDING DRESS.  I’ve been imagining horror stories about getting this dress to Ecuador.

Stewardess: I’m sorry, that carryon suitcase is too large for the overhead bins. We will need to gate check it.

Me: No. No.  You can not take this bag from me. It’s my daughter’s wedding dress. You can not take it. 

Stewardess: I’m sorry, but you need to give it to me. It will not fit in the carryon area.

Me:  Just try to pry it out of my hands.  Go ahead.  Try.

Stewardess:  I'm sorry.  I really must gate check it.  

Me:  No. If you take the bag, you take me with it.

Stewardess: Did you bring a coat? The baggage hold is cold.

Fortunately I made a new best friend---the space bag.

Yes, not only can you shrink stacks of newly purchased clothing into the size of a cereal box, but you can shrink a heavy wedding dress into a carryon bag.  But I think I'll bring a jacket with me, just in case.

So you see why I’ve been too busy to blog. I’ve been so busy that for the last two weeks I haven’t even put in my 30 minutes per day of Espanol.  I do feel a bit guilty about that, but here’s the deal. Two weeks ago when I watched Buzz Lightyear switched to Buzz Spanish and I only caught about three words of his whole conversation, I felt my Spanish-speaking confidence deflate like one of my space bags when it was accidentally poked by a pin in a piece of clothing I’d missed removing. "Is five more hours of spouting Spanish to a computer really going to make a difference?" I said to myself? "No. Hablo español ahora? Un poco, y no muy bien. Tranquilo.  No se preocupe" I told myself. "Voy a estudiar en el plano." And anyway, I can use those five hours for some last minute shopping!

Hasta luego!◦

One More Before I Go