July 6, 2012: The Day Before
July 7, 2012: Traveling
July 8, 2012: First Day
July 9, 2012: Teleferico, Iglesia de La Compañia de Jesus
July 10, 2012: The Basilica and the Stolen Backpack
July 11, 2012: Last Day in Quito
July 12, 2012: Travel to Loja
July 13, 2012: Catamayo
July 14, 2012: Loja and Alfredo
July 15, 2012: Church at Semilla de Mostaza
July 16, 2012: Back to Quito
July 17, 2012: Traveling
Note: Many of the pictures in this blog series are taken from the internet, because we had our camera stolen halfway through the trip.
The alarm goes off at 3:30 AM and I hate myself for staying up late. My eyes feel like they have sand in them. I pack my toothbrush without brushing my teeth, and my contacts without putting them in. I don't make breakfast, because we have nothing in our fridge except ketchup and hot sauce. I do make Joe coffee with the spoonful of half and half I've reserved for this morning, because if I'm grumpy I need him to be not grumpy.
4:15 AM there's a soft knock at the door, as if Mom and Dad F. are afraid to wake us up. It's a relief to see them: the first of many scheduled points of trip has gone smoothly. Not that I was worried; they are very reliable people and always early. We load the car and it's so nice not to have to drive to the airport.
Check-in and security go off without a hitch, except I earn a full-body scan and a pat-down, despite my faithful adherence to the requirement for 3-ounce liquids in a quart size bag. I get my bags and a TSA officer yells at me for picking them up on the wrong side of the belt. "Ma'am, you can't go on that side. Ma'am. You can't go on that side." Well, I still grab my bags because what am I going to do, put them back and walk to the other side of the belt? I pretty much ignore her because I figure after the scanning and groping, I'm probably considered harmless.
The next priority is coffee. We sip and wait at our gate. The gatekeeper (or whatever you call that person who sits behind the desk at the boarding area) announces: "This flight is extremely full and we request anyone who has a carry-on that can be checked, to check it now for free." I immediately want to help them by checking one of our carry-ons - plus, it'll be nice not to find space for two suitcases in the overhead compartments on the plane, where we both know people place their suitcases in such a way to take up the most space. Joe is less enthusiastic. "Remember Kauai?" he reminds me. "We did the whole 'free checking an extra bag' thing and found it, tagless, off in some corner of the baggage claim." "This isn't Hawaiian," I remind him. "Let's give them a chance." I think maybe he's too tired to protest. We rearrange our bags and I stand in line for about 20 minutes, regretting my decision to be nice as I look longingly across the gate to my coffee and Nook.
The 4-hour flight from Seattle to Houston is full of sleeping and horrible drink service (as in, none). The flight attendant pushes a drink cart up the aisle so quickly that she doesn't hear my "Excuse me." She also doesn't care to take my trash. Maybe she hates me. We're boxed into our row by a quiet lady who sleeps, but we have to wake her up twice to use the bathroom and we feel like jerks with tiny bladders, especially because she's super nice about it.
Reasonable layover in Houston. I buy us sandwiches. We board our 4-hour flight to Panama City. We are again boxed into a row, but this time by an Asian lady who curls herself up in a ball on her seat so we can get past. She is very smiley but not talkative, and spends the whole trip reading a book with her toes hooked into the seat pocket in front of her. She seems very cozy and I like her. We dig out our portable DVD player and watch almost all of The Day After Tomorrow, which I know has a stupid plot but I like the extreme weather it shows. We turn it off when we descend.
Panama City Airport is actually a mall - a mall with the most expensive brands and items, beyond the U.S. malls. Joe theorizes the airport sells its expensive items here, since people who can afford a plane ticket might afford other luxuries. We log on to the airport internet and download Spanish dictionary programs onto our Nooks (which, I might add, we don't use for the rest of the trip.) We realize how slow internet can be - their wi-fi is the speed of dial-up - and even though I hate Comcast as a company, I like instantly gratifying internet. I start trying out my Spanish by listening to the announcements. All I can recognize is our flight number. We're at the right gate so we just keep checking the time and watching other people. I enthusiastically tell Joe every time I understand part of someone else's conversation.
2-hour flight to Quito. I find out how poor my Spanish is when we sit next to Rosa on the plane. She insists she doesn't know any English, but her vocabulary seems pretty good. She also speaks Portuguese and French and asks if I know them. Oh, Rosa dear, I'm from the U.S. where many Caucasians only speak one language: English. I speak 1.5 languages.
We decide to finish our movie. Set it up, untangle the headphones, settle down. We find out there were only 30 seconds left in the movie when we'd stopped watching. I spend the rest of the flight worried for the first time, because I've been told we're being picked up by a man I've never met and driven to the guest house. I have our backup plan in place in case our ride doesn't show up: I have the address of the guest house so we can find a taxi. I'm also paranoid - what if no one hears us at the guest house? City Ecuadorian houses don't have doorbells; they have "gate bells" where you can get buzzed into the gate, then walk to the house and enter the door. So I'm not completely certain I remember how to work the gate bell with its intercom system. I worry to Joe until I'm sure he's as worried as I am, which isn't very nice, I realize now.
Quito! Joe is probably immediately sorry because we're not five minutes in the airport and he has to listen to all the memories that come flooding back when I came here three years ago, like how I remember going through customs last time (pretty boring story since nothing happened). I hope that since we're in the "international immigration" line, we'll get an English speaker, but the man doesn't speak a word. I'm such a Spanish pro, though, we manage to pass through, even though when he asks me if this is my first time to Ecuador, I repeatedly tell him we are going to stay here ten days.
We go pick up our checked luggage. To my relief, the bag we checked at the last minute is nearby, waiting for us. The protocol for baggage claim in Quito is more secure than in SeaTac: you can't leave with your luggage until you show a ticket that matches your bags, proving that you belong to your suitcase.
On to customs baggage inspection - and they wave us through without checking our bags! Suddenly I'm thrust into an area where a roped-off crowd is facing me. Before I have time to worry about finding the man who is supposedly picking us up, I see my name on a sign at the very front of the group! He seems surprised that I'm white, since I have a Spanish last name. I cheek-kiss/hug him because I'm so relieved, then I realize it's probably inappropriate, but I'm so relieved I don't care.
An airport officer approaches us and asks us in Spanish for something, holding out his hand. He doesn't speak any English. Ramiro only knows a few English pleasantries. Joe doesn't speak very much Spanish. ALL THE PRESSURE IS ON ME and I'm freaking out in my head because he keeps asking for my "ticket" and I am showing him my boarding pass, passport, receipt for the coffee I bought in Seattle, but they're all wrong and now we're stuck in the Quito airport forever! Until Joe realizes what the man is asking for and shows him something the customs officer gave us. And poof, we're off the hook.
I practice my Spanish in the van with our new friend Ramiro, and loyally translate for Joe. ("I asked him how he's doing. He said he's doing good. I asked him if he's tired but I think I used the word for 'married.' I asked him if he had to wait for us very long. He didn't understand me so probably his Spanish sucks.") I'm proud at one point; he uses the phrase "you and your friend" in a sentence and I correct him, saying that Joe is my husband. Oh!
I hug and kiss Angelica when we reach the guest house. I vaguely remember her from my last mission trip. She doesn't speak English but we say "gracias" a lot and finally relax into our bedroom. I'm so excited I'm certain I can't sleep, but then, suddenly, I do.
July 7, 2012: Traveling
July 8, 2012: First Day
July 9, 2012: Teleferico, Iglesia de La Compañia de Jesus
July 10, 2012: The Basilica and the Stolen Backpack
July 11, 2012: Last Day in Quito
July 12, 2012: Travel to Loja
July 13, 2012: Catamayo
July 14, 2012: Loja and Alfredo
July 15, 2012: Church at Semilla de Mostaza
July 16, 2012: Back to Quito
July 17, 2012: Traveling
Note: Many of the pictures in this blog series are taken from the internet, because we had our camera stolen halfway through the trip.
The alarm goes off at 3:30 AM and I hate myself for staying up late. My eyes feel like they have sand in them. I pack my toothbrush without brushing my teeth, and my contacts without putting them in. I don't make breakfast, because we have nothing in our fridge except ketchup and hot sauce. I do make Joe coffee with the spoonful of half and half I've reserved for this morning, because if I'm grumpy I need him to be not grumpy.
4:15 AM there's a soft knock at the door, as if Mom and Dad F. are afraid to wake us up. It's a relief to see them: the first of many scheduled points of trip has gone smoothly. Not that I was worried; they are very reliable people and always early. We load the car and it's so nice not to have to drive to the airport.
Check-in and security go off without a hitch, except I earn a full-body scan and a pat-down, despite my faithful adherence to the requirement for 3-ounce liquids in a quart size bag. I get my bags and a TSA officer yells at me for picking them up on the wrong side of the belt. "Ma'am, you can't go on that side. Ma'am. You can't go on that side." Well, I still grab my bags because what am I going to do, put them back and walk to the other side of the belt? I pretty much ignore her because I figure after the scanning and groping, I'm probably considered harmless.
The next priority is coffee. We sip and wait at our gate. The gatekeeper (or whatever you call that person who sits behind the desk at the boarding area) announces: "This flight is extremely full and we request anyone who has a carry-on that can be checked, to check it now for free." I immediately want to help them by checking one of our carry-ons - plus, it'll be nice not to find space for two suitcases in the overhead compartments on the plane, where we both know people place their suitcases in such a way to take up the most space. Joe is less enthusiastic. "Remember Kauai?" he reminds me. "We did the whole 'free checking an extra bag' thing and found it, tagless, off in some corner of the baggage claim." "This isn't Hawaiian," I remind him. "Let's give them a chance." I think maybe he's too tired to protest. We rearrange our bags and I stand in line for about 20 minutes, regretting my decision to be nice as I look longingly across the gate to my coffee and Nook.
The 4-hour flight from Seattle to Houston is full of sleeping and horrible drink service (as in, none). The flight attendant pushes a drink cart up the aisle so quickly that she doesn't hear my "Excuse me." She also doesn't care to take my trash. Maybe she hates me. We're boxed into our row by a quiet lady who sleeps, but we have to wake her up twice to use the bathroom and we feel like jerks with tiny bladders, especially because she's super nice about it.
Reasonable layover in Houston. I buy us sandwiches. We board our 4-hour flight to Panama City. We are again boxed into a row, but this time by an Asian lady who curls herself up in a ball on her seat so we can get past. She is very smiley but not talkative, and spends the whole trip reading a book with her toes hooked into the seat pocket in front of her. She seems very cozy and I like her. We dig out our portable DVD player and watch almost all of The Day After Tomorrow, which I know has a stupid plot but I like the extreme weather it shows. We turn it off when we descend.
Panama City Airport is actually a mall - a mall with the most expensive brands and items, beyond the U.S. malls. Joe theorizes the airport sells its expensive items here, since people who can afford a plane ticket might afford other luxuries. We log on to the airport internet and download Spanish dictionary programs onto our Nooks (which, I might add, we don't use for the rest of the trip.) We realize how slow internet can be - their wi-fi is the speed of dial-up - and even though I hate Comcast as a company, I like instantly gratifying internet. I start trying out my Spanish by listening to the announcements. All I can recognize is our flight number. We're at the right gate so we just keep checking the time and watching other people. I enthusiastically tell Joe every time I understand part of someone else's conversation.
2-hour flight to Quito. I find out how poor my Spanish is when we sit next to Rosa on the plane. She insists she doesn't know any English, but her vocabulary seems pretty good. She also speaks Portuguese and French and asks if I know them. Oh, Rosa dear, I'm from the U.S. where many Caucasians only speak one language: English. I speak 1.5 languages.
We decide to finish our movie. Set it up, untangle the headphones, settle down. We find out there were only 30 seconds left in the movie when we'd stopped watching. I spend the rest of the flight worried for the first time, because I've been told we're being picked up by a man I've never met and driven to the guest house. I have our backup plan in place in case our ride doesn't show up: I have the address of the guest house so we can find a taxi. I'm also paranoid - what if no one hears us at the guest house? City Ecuadorian houses don't have doorbells; they have "gate bells" where you can get buzzed into the gate, then walk to the house and enter the door. So I'm not completely certain I remember how to work the gate bell with its intercom system. I worry to Joe until I'm sure he's as worried as I am, which isn't very nice, I realize now.
Quito! Joe is probably immediately sorry because we're not five minutes in the airport and he has to listen to all the memories that come flooding back when I came here three years ago, like how I remember going through customs last time (pretty boring story since nothing happened). I hope that since we're in the "international immigration" line, we'll get an English speaker, but the man doesn't speak a word. I'm such a Spanish pro, though, we manage to pass through, even though when he asks me if this is my first time to Ecuador, I repeatedly tell him we are going to stay here ten days.
We go pick up our checked luggage. To my relief, the bag we checked at the last minute is nearby, waiting for us. The protocol for baggage claim in Quito is more secure than in SeaTac: you can't leave with your luggage until you show a ticket that matches your bags, proving that you belong to your suitcase.
On to customs baggage inspection - and they wave us through without checking our bags! Suddenly I'm thrust into an area where a roped-off crowd is facing me. Before I have time to worry about finding the man who is supposedly picking us up, I see my name on a sign at the very front of the group! He seems surprised that I'm white, since I have a Spanish last name. I cheek-kiss/hug him because I'm so relieved, then I realize it's probably inappropriate, but I'm so relieved I don't care.
An airport officer approaches us and asks us in Spanish for something, holding out his hand. He doesn't speak any English. Ramiro only knows a few English pleasantries. Joe doesn't speak very much Spanish. ALL THE PRESSURE IS ON ME and I'm freaking out in my head because he keeps asking for my "ticket" and I am showing him my boarding pass, passport, receipt for the coffee I bought in Seattle, but they're all wrong and now we're stuck in the Quito airport forever! Until Joe realizes what the man is asking for and shows him something the customs officer gave us. And poof, we're off the hook.
I practice my Spanish in the van with our new friend Ramiro, and loyally translate for Joe. ("I asked him how he's doing. He said he's doing good. I asked him if he's tired but I think I used the word for 'married.' I asked him if he had to wait for us very long. He didn't understand me so probably his Spanish sucks.") I'm proud at one point; he uses the phrase "you and your friend" in a sentence and I correct him, saying that Joe is my husband. Oh!
I hug and kiss Angelica when we reach the guest house. I vaguely remember her from my last mission trip. She doesn't speak English but we say "gracias" a lot and finally relax into our bedroom. I'm so excited I'm certain I can't sleep, but then, suddenly, I do.
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