The Christmas spirit is alive in Quito.
This is the first Christmas I have spent away from my family. It was bound to happen eventually and at age 24, it became a reality. Believe it or not, I miss the snow. However, from what I understand, the snow is not around to miss. So, I will take shorts and tee shirts instead. Of course, I miss my family. I was always one who enjoyed the large family getting together at the holidays. Skyping with some of them this morning reinforced what a wonderful family I have and what I am missing by being away. Luckily, my "family" in Quito are kind, welcoming and all around great people.
Most the the celebratory type things happen on Christmas Eve here. Christmas day is reserved for relaxing and I imagine some talk about baby Jesus, not Santa. Yesterday I was overcome with the goodness in these people. At the restaurant, I was waiting on a young couple from Munich, only a few years old than me. They were spending the holidays in Ecuador, heading to Galapagos for Christmas day (so cool). They noticed that our security guard, Cezar, was alone outside doing the same thing he does every night at work, waiting for nothing to happen. From nothing but sheer kindness, they asked me to find out what his favorite dessert on the menu was and then put it on their tab. I was taken aback. They did not know him. Shit, he can not even speak a work of English (or German for that matter). None of that mattered, they just wanted to be nice people and make Christmas for this man a little better.
Arnando Martinez (read about him in the blog titled "Achiote") played a beautiful set last night. A few people came solely to see him. It was an especially wonderful performance. At one time, all the customer were watching, the owners were watching and the other waiter and myself were standing there jaws dropped. Arnando had his eyes closed for the whole song, so I do not know if he even noticed until he had finished and opened them to see everyone clapping with big smiles on their faces. When he left, he gave me his two cds as a gift. I had always intended on purchasing them from him, just waiting. From a man who I have had many broken Spanish-English conversations with, to just give me these cds from the goodness of his heart, I was speechless. I could not get my arms all the way around him when we hugged, but he sure took the air out of my lungs.
While preparing to leave work, getting out of my uniform and into normal clothes, a co-worker and friend, Jose Andres, handed me a gift and said, "I know you are away from all of your family and I just wanted to give you a little something". I big hug followed. Knowing me well, it was a book about walking Quito. This is a person, like me, with little money to his name, but found it important enough to give me something because he knew I would be away from my family.
After work, I was invited to spend Christmas dinner with the family of the restaurant. There were about 20 of us. We sat down to eat dinner at nearly midnight (timing of everything here is a little different). Being the only gringo, there were times when I did not understand what was being said, but each person made an effort to speak one on one with me, often in English while I tried to respond in Spanish. I received two shirts from "The Family". My photograph was taken with the host and I was completely included. One woman, Tia Suzanna, who from the moment she met me has been so kind, gave me a beautiful traditional Ecuadorian necklace. I am wearing it now.
It is strange being without my family. It is strange being in a tee shirt instead of a coat. It is strange hearing Spanish instead of English. Love and kindness are universal. The people who have taken me in here as one of them and shared their holiday with me I will never forget.
Now, I am preparing to leave Quito for a little over a week. What started as 4 friends, turned into 7 and is now at 11... late tonight, we are all going to board a bus bound for the coast. We will follow the Ruta Del Sol for 200km by bicycle. My camera has been waiting for this since I left Yellowstone. I am full of excitement. Write again from the beach. Happy Holidays everyone.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
After an Afternoon
Today, I was a master at bargaining. Well, I think so anyway.
After a visit to La Casa De Cultura, I went on a walk through a near by park. Seeing some tents in the distance, I ventured over, expecting to be solely a window shopper. I made my way into the stands of women selling goods and food, their children running around with soccer balls.
Weaving through arms and voices of the pleading women, I found myself stopped at a place where, at least for a moment, no one seemed to notice me. I was lost in thought, gazing at a painting, noticing nothing else around me. Before too long, a women approached. She was dressed in loose native clothing, a traditional hat, turquoise necklaces and wrinkles that complemented the years in her eyes. It was clear that she spoke no English, so my Spanish would be put to the test. ´
´How much´´, I asked, trying to sound confident in my diction, despite the gringo exterior she was looking at.
´35´, she said.
Before even asking, I had decided to act appalled at whatever the woman said. I gasped. ´No, no´, and started to walk away.
´Wait!´ She decided to ask me what I wanted to pay for it this time around.
´20. It is all I have´.
She offered a smaller painting for 20. ´No, I want this one, but I only have twenty dollars´. She kept throwing offers at me: ´30´, ´28´, ´27´... I said 25 and she looked at me wearily, but I knew I had her.
I leaned in, assuming the position of a catcher in baseball and examined the painting. I was great, there was certainly something dark about it, but I really liked it. I could imagine Mary Lavin hanging it up in her house against a brightly colored wall. She directed for another woman to come over, asking if 25 was would suffice. From the corner of my eye, I watched this new woman painfully agree.
The woman reached to get a bag and I reached for my wallet. I acted so surprised: ´What?!, I only have 20 dollars´. This was the true test, would she still sell me the painting for only 20? I had the crisp 20 dollar bill in my hand, Jackson was looking right at her. She looked me square in the eye and took the money quickly. I do not know if she did not want the other woman to know it was going for less, upset with me for playing her or just taking the money, but she certainly gave me a look before handing me the painting.
I walked away with a smile. A proud accomplishment. I think the painting is beautiful, but the story I now have behind the painting makes it so much better. My first souvenir purchase of the trip. My first true Spanish bargain of the trip. Now, how much will it cost to ship it home?
After a visit to La Casa De Cultura, I went on a walk through a near by park. Seeing some tents in the distance, I ventured over, expecting to be solely a window shopper. I made my way into the stands of women selling goods and food, their children running around with soccer balls.
Weaving through arms and voices of the pleading women, I found myself stopped at a place where, at least for a moment, no one seemed to notice me. I was lost in thought, gazing at a painting, noticing nothing else around me. Before too long, a women approached. She was dressed in loose native clothing, a traditional hat, turquoise necklaces and wrinkles that complemented the years in her eyes. It was clear that she spoke no English, so my Spanish would be put to the test. ´
´How much´´, I asked, trying to sound confident in my diction, despite the gringo exterior she was looking at.
´35´, she said.
Before even asking, I had decided to act appalled at whatever the woman said. I gasped. ´No, no´, and started to walk away.
´Wait!´ She decided to ask me what I wanted to pay for it this time around.
´20. It is all I have´.
She offered a smaller painting for 20. ´No, I want this one, but I only have twenty dollars´. She kept throwing offers at me: ´30´, ´28´, ´27´... I said 25 and she looked at me wearily, but I knew I had her.
I leaned in, assuming the position of a catcher in baseball and examined the painting. I was great, there was certainly something dark about it, but I really liked it. I could imagine Mary Lavin hanging it up in her house against a brightly colored wall. She directed for another woman to come over, asking if 25 was would suffice. From the corner of my eye, I watched this new woman painfully agree.
The woman reached to get a bag and I reached for my wallet. I acted so surprised: ´What?!, I only have 20 dollars´. This was the true test, would she still sell me the painting for only 20? I had the crisp 20 dollar bill in my hand, Jackson was looking right at her. She looked me square in the eye and took the money quickly. I do not know if she did not want the other woman to know it was going for less, upset with me for playing her or just taking the money, but she certainly gave me a look before handing me the painting.
I walked away with a smile. A proud accomplishment. I think the painting is beautiful, but the story I now have behind the painting makes it so much better. My first souvenir purchase of the trip. My first true Spanish bargain of the trip. Now, how much will it cost to ship it home?
Monday, December 19, 2011
Achiote
Carlos was born at Achiote, literally. Before it was the restaurant currently employing me, it was a home, Carlos´s home. This was a time before La Mariscal was the lively, young neighborhood, bursting with excitement and noise, that it is today.
When Carlos was born, his father planted a tree on the corner in front of the house. Over the years, that tree has grown and become much larger than that day many years ago when Carlos was born. When Carlos´s house was changed into a restaurant, the tree had to stay. Cutting down the tree would have been like taking away a part of Carlos. However, with the designs for the restaurant, the tree was in the way. Clever person that his is, Carlos decided to build the building around the tree, leaving it intact and inside.
Now, the tree grows in the South West corner of the restaurant. It is adorned with white Christmas lights and other greenery. It´s thick limbs stretch out through the ceiling of the building, allowing the rain to fall inside when the clouds decide to let go. 4 nights a week, Arnando Martinez and his ovation guitar treat the tree to a wonderful show. Arnando, is a very large man with a heart that is even bigger. Each night, he pours himself out into his songs, sometimes the audience isn´t much larger than Carlos´s tree. If I have a free moment from waiting tables, I hide myself in a corner, to not distract him, and watch Arnando play. Each night is magical.
When I´m not watching Arnando play next to Carlos´s tree, I´m likely talking with the customers from around the world. I have met some of the nicest, most interesting and all around good people. Often, when a table leaves for the night, I am handed a business card and told, "if you´re ever in ____ drop me a line and I will try to help you out". So far, these cities include, but are not limited to, Hong Kong, Sidney, Denver, Santa Monica, Buenos Aries and Villcabamba. I am constantly amazing in the goodness of people.
In between listening to Arnando and waiting tables, I am running back and forth to the kitchen, making drinks (the juices are amazing) or doing some sort of cleaning. The restaurant life, as many of you know, is non stop and often very hectic. However, what a place to learn Spanish. The kitchen is the least fluent in English, but the place where I need to be completely clear about what I am saying. With patience from them and a lot of practicing on my part, we have managed pretty well so far.
Lucy, Carlos´s wife, is the general owner of Achiote and an all around wonderful person. She is the hardest worker in the joint. Running around from the computer to the kitchen constantly, she hardly finds the time to breath, yet does it with a smile and grace. On Sundays, you´re likely to find much more of the family in Achiote. Lucy and Carlos have 3 children who all help out in the restaurant and again, are all great people. Each has helped me on multiple occasions with my Spanish, advice or where to go for a weekend and what I should try and see while there. Achiote prides itself on being a family restaurant and it certainly is.
I feel extremely lucky to be working at Achiote, but even more so, to have the respect and friendship of the family. If any of you should find yourselves in Quito, make sure you take an evening to visit the restaurant, sit under the tree, listen to Arnando play his guitar, enjoy the delicious food and float away for the evening. I do it every day.
Here is a link to the restaurant
Achiote
When Carlos was born, his father planted a tree on the corner in front of the house. Over the years, that tree has grown and become much larger than that day many years ago when Carlos was born. When Carlos´s house was changed into a restaurant, the tree had to stay. Cutting down the tree would have been like taking away a part of Carlos. However, with the designs for the restaurant, the tree was in the way. Clever person that his is, Carlos decided to build the building around the tree, leaving it intact and inside.
Now, the tree grows in the South West corner of the restaurant. It is adorned with white Christmas lights and other greenery. It´s thick limbs stretch out through the ceiling of the building, allowing the rain to fall inside when the clouds decide to let go. 4 nights a week, Arnando Martinez and his ovation guitar treat the tree to a wonderful show. Arnando, is a very large man with a heart that is even bigger. Each night, he pours himself out into his songs, sometimes the audience isn´t much larger than Carlos´s tree. If I have a free moment from waiting tables, I hide myself in a corner, to not distract him, and watch Arnando play. Each night is magical.
When I´m not watching Arnando play next to Carlos´s tree, I´m likely talking with the customers from around the world. I have met some of the nicest, most interesting and all around good people. Often, when a table leaves for the night, I am handed a business card and told, "if you´re ever in ____ drop me a line and I will try to help you out". So far, these cities include, but are not limited to, Hong Kong, Sidney, Denver, Santa Monica, Buenos Aries and Villcabamba. I am constantly amazing in the goodness of people.
In between listening to Arnando and waiting tables, I am running back and forth to the kitchen, making drinks (the juices are amazing) or doing some sort of cleaning. The restaurant life, as many of you know, is non stop and often very hectic. However, what a place to learn Spanish. The kitchen is the least fluent in English, but the place where I need to be completely clear about what I am saying. With patience from them and a lot of practicing on my part, we have managed pretty well so far.
Lucy, Carlos´s wife, is the general owner of Achiote and an all around wonderful person. She is the hardest worker in the joint. Running around from the computer to the kitchen constantly, she hardly finds the time to breath, yet does it with a smile and grace. On Sundays, you´re likely to find much more of the family in Achiote. Lucy and Carlos have 3 children who all help out in the restaurant and again, are all great people. Each has helped me on multiple occasions with my Spanish, advice or where to go for a weekend and what I should try and see while there. Achiote prides itself on being a family restaurant and it certainly is.
I feel extremely lucky to be working at Achiote, but even more so, to have the respect and friendship of the family. If any of you should find yourselves in Quito, make sure you take an evening to visit the restaurant, sit under the tree, listen to Arnando play his guitar, enjoy the delicious food and float away for the evening. I do it every day.
Here is a link to the restaurant
Achiote
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Faces
Being in any new place for an extended period of time, you get to learn the looks. The street names, the graffiti, the buildings, the people. At first, they all blend into one overwhelming bubble of visual stimulation combined with new excitement. However, after a while, things start to make sense. After walking the same street a few days in a row, you come to expect that part of the sidewalk with the giant crack or the plant that fell over and no one has put back up.
When it comes to faces, the first ones that I remember are the stray dogs, wondering the neighborhood streets. For instance, I met Max while he was relieving himself on the corner of La Nina and Riena Victoria. I was waiting for the traffic to let up, so I could cross the street and continue on towards work. Max didn't mind the crazy Ecuadorian drivers and weaved through the cars life a professional, leaving only a pile of green excrement as a sign he was ever there. I wondered what he had found to eat.
Milo only has one eye. I just finished reading Jack London's, 'Call Of The Wild', so when I see Milo, I picture a brutal battle for the rights to a certain section of town. The other dogs looking on, coming to respect Milo for his bravery and strength. I'm sure the loss of his eye was not that dramatic, but it is fun to pretend. The one eye that does work is constantly bloodshot and Milo walks with a pretty severe limp. I can't imagine the life of these dogs to be too long.
These are the faces that greet me everyday as I walk the streets. Never begging or harming, but there, simply surviving.
After a while, you start to remember human faces too. Once again, it starts with the faces that do not have homes. The homeless and the beggars. The people who walk with their eyes rolled back, talking to themselves or come into a restaurant while you're eating lunch, asking for money. You don't forget those faces, but I don't like to give them names.
There is one man who does not ask for money, but has a way of making you feel uncomfortable as you walk by. A very dark skinned black man, with large black pupils in the middle of his beat red bloodshot eyes. He is always wearing loose clothing and always talking to someone, whether there is anyone next to him or not.
On one particular evening while I was waiting on a couple from Vancouver, outside the restaurant's south facing windows, there was the man. Looking as if he was on some kind of drug, he laid on the ground, sweating profusely, stripping off his clothing. In Spanish, he cried for his mother. The man was accompanied by 7 or 8 uniformed police officers. They tried in vain to use their feet in moving him to the sidewalk next to my building. He would not budge. I do not know if it was so much that he would not budge or could not. Occasionally, one officer would attempt to lift the man by his arm, but each time the dead weight and sweat slid through the officers hand, leaving the man to fall to the hard concrete ground. He still screamed. Louder and louder. He still cried for his mother. Tourists and locals alike stopped for a few second to watch and laugh before continuing on to the next bar. I stood in that window of the restaurant for much longer than a few seconds and failed to see the humor of the situation.
At this point I'd just like to say that this is not Quito or Ecuador. This is everywhere in the world. This is a part of life. It is often more visible in large cities, but those people out in the woods have their stories too. For so many, homelessness, mental illness, drug abuse, sadness... it's just a part of the commute to work.
I try to remember the faces of the police officers. I make a point to smile and say 'good day' each time I pass one. I figure if there was ever a time I needed the help of an officer, it couldn't hurt if they recognized me. Luckily there has been no such need and I do not foresee such a circumstance.
I recognize the faces of the short natives wearing those Bolivian style hats that Rob Kelly was telling me about before I left. They walk around the plazas, in between cars stuck at red lights, on the streets and sidewalks, selling gum, cigarettes, fruits. Many of the women have their children working with them. This is their education. The children will often juggle lemons or avocados infront of the cars stuck at the red light. Anything for a few cents. It is hard to remember all of their faces, but there are a few I know for sure.
There are so many faces to a city. My travel book tells me that Quito has 1.5 million people here, but who knows for sure. It is a large city, but doesn't feel so large. Walking helps. Tomorrow I'll travel to a new city with new faces. I will only be there for 2 days. Only long enough to get to know the faces of the stray dogs and maybe the man I buy cafe con leche from. However, this city has a pretty cool secrete to it... there is currently a volcano going off. Tomorrow, I'm going to see what lava looks like. How awestricken is my face going to look then?
When it comes to faces, the first ones that I remember are the stray dogs, wondering the neighborhood streets. For instance, I met Max while he was relieving himself on the corner of La Nina and Riena Victoria. I was waiting for the traffic to let up, so I could cross the street and continue on towards work. Max didn't mind the crazy Ecuadorian drivers and weaved through the cars life a professional, leaving only a pile of green excrement as a sign he was ever there. I wondered what he had found to eat.
Milo only has one eye. I just finished reading Jack London's, 'Call Of The Wild', so when I see Milo, I picture a brutal battle for the rights to a certain section of town. The other dogs looking on, coming to respect Milo for his bravery and strength. I'm sure the loss of his eye was not that dramatic, but it is fun to pretend. The one eye that does work is constantly bloodshot and Milo walks with a pretty severe limp. I can't imagine the life of these dogs to be too long.
These are the faces that greet me everyday as I walk the streets. Never begging or harming, but there, simply surviving.
After a while, you start to remember human faces too. Once again, it starts with the faces that do not have homes. The homeless and the beggars. The people who walk with their eyes rolled back, talking to themselves or come into a restaurant while you're eating lunch, asking for money. You don't forget those faces, but I don't like to give them names.
There is one man who does not ask for money, but has a way of making you feel uncomfortable as you walk by. A very dark skinned black man, with large black pupils in the middle of his beat red bloodshot eyes. He is always wearing loose clothing and always talking to someone, whether there is anyone next to him or not.
On one particular evening while I was waiting on a couple from Vancouver, outside the restaurant's south facing windows, there was the man. Looking as if he was on some kind of drug, he laid on the ground, sweating profusely, stripping off his clothing. In Spanish, he cried for his mother. The man was accompanied by 7 or 8 uniformed police officers. They tried in vain to use their feet in moving him to the sidewalk next to my building. He would not budge. I do not know if it was so much that he would not budge or could not. Occasionally, one officer would attempt to lift the man by his arm, but each time the dead weight and sweat slid through the officers hand, leaving the man to fall to the hard concrete ground. He still screamed. Louder and louder. He still cried for his mother. Tourists and locals alike stopped for a few second to watch and laugh before continuing on to the next bar. I stood in that window of the restaurant for much longer than a few seconds and failed to see the humor of the situation.
At this point I'd just like to say that this is not Quito or Ecuador. This is everywhere in the world. This is a part of life. It is often more visible in large cities, but those people out in the woods have their stories too. For so many, homelessness, mental illness, drug abuse, sadness... it's just a part of the commute to work.
I try to remember the faces of the police officers. I make a point to smile and say 'good day' each time I pass one. I figure if there was ever a time I needed the help of an officer, it couldn't hurt if they recognized me. Luckily there has been no such need and I do not foresee such a circumstance.
I recognize the faces of the short natives wearing those Bolivian style hats that Rob Kelly was telling me about before I left. They walk around the plazas, in between cars stuck at red lights, on the streets and sidewalks, selling gum, cigarettes, fruits. Many of the women have their children working with them. This is their education. The children will often juggle lemons or avocados infront of the cars stuck at the red light. Anything for a few cents. It is hard to remember all of their faces, but there are a few I know for sure.
There are so many faces to a city. My travel book tells me that Quito has 1.5 million people here, but who knows for sure. It is a large city, but doesn't feel so large. Walking helps. Tomorrow I'll travel to a new city with new faces. I will only be there for 2 days. Only long enough to get to know the faces of the stray dogs and maybe the man I buy cafe con leche from. However, this city has a pretty cool secrete to it... there is currently a volcano going off. Tomorrow, I'm going to see what lava looks like. How awestricken is my face going to look then?
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Viva Quito!
Last night was the final day of celebration in Quito. Each year, from December 1 to December 6th, the people of Quito take to the streets for a festival like no other I have ever seen. Each night, I have fallen asleep and woken up to live music and fireworks outside my window. Each park in the city features different attractions and crowds. Vendors with delicious (and inexpensive) food compete for your business, while children play soccer and parents drink candelazo, a traditional Ecuadorian hot beverage full of different spices and a little alcohol. At night, the streets are lined with young Ecuadorians, extremely intoxicated. Large buses have full bands, complete with a horn section and multiple percussionists on the roof, while the people on the lower level dance and drink. From the restaurant I work in, it is likely that I will see fifteen or twenty to these buses roll by in a few hours.
Being the 6th of December (also the name of my street), it is tradition that the people of Quito play a card game called corenta. It is a really fun game, similar to a mix of yuker and canasta. I was invited to play with the family that owns the restaurant. We sat at tables of four, six tables in total. I started out strong, but in the end, experience out weighed beginners luck and I was taken down. Either way, it was a ton of fun and I am excited to bring it back to the states and teach my friends and family. After the game, I went home and fell asleep. I went out with some friends from the restaurant to celebrate on the 5th and had little energy left for the 6th. Here is what I wrote when I got home the night of the 5th. I hope it gives you a bit of an idea of what the festival is really like. Cheers.
I look at the watch my father gave me the day before leaving, 419am. I look at the stage. 'Buienviendas al Poloniazo' bannered over it. I can smell the drinks, the piss, the sweat. Everyone is happy. I am happy. I am in Quito on December 5th, dancing in the streets, celebrating the independence and foundation of this city. Everywhere I look is bright shinning color. My mind is blown.
Being the 6th of December (also the name of my street), it is tradition that the people of Quito play a card game called corenta. It is a really fun game, similar to a mix of yuker and canasta. I was invited to play with the family that owns the restaurant. We sat at tables of four, six tables in total. I started out strong, but in the end, experience out weighed beginners luck and I was taken down. Either way, it was a ton of fun and I am excited to bring it back to the states and teach my friends and family. After the game, I went home and fell asleep. I went out with some friends from the restaurant to celebrate on the 5th and had little energy left for the 6th. Here is what I wrote when I got home the night of the 5th. I hope it gives you a bit of an idea of what the festival is really like. Cheers.
The music was loud.
In my stomach, I could feel the bass drum turning the candelazo over itself. Being the only gringo, I was getting looks from many of the people standing in the crowd, all with darker skin than I. The girls looked at me with mystery, the men with disapprovement. Once or twice, I would feel the weight of too many eyes surrounding me from different sides. Trapped. I would walk away to new eyes.
Broken bottles, some still with the warm yellow alcohol, litter the street like debree after a hurricane. The glass punctured the bottom of my sneekers. It was worse for the people too drunk to walk with out falling.
A man tried to drive a passed out friend home. The motorcycle swayed until it hit the curb, dropping both men into a sidewalk covered in piss. The stench was everywhere.
Short native women walked around selling cigarrettes and gum. many had babies wrapped up and sleeping around their necks. Vendors lined the street. The strong smell of hot spices and alcohol brewing together masked the urine and sweat.
On both sides of the stage, set right in the middle of an intersection of two major streets, people danced, swinging hips and clapping hands to the beat. Even at 4 in the morning, the footwork was impressive. Young couples made out while the gray haired reminissed and danced off to the side of the sea of people.
I sit back, watching. I wonder, who cleans this all up? Do the neighbors sleep at all tonight? How long will these people have the energy to dance and drink? I get my answer when the DJ announces proudly (in Spanish, of course)"We will dance until 7 in the morning!" I guess they still have a few hours to go.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Comida
I could write an entire blog just about the food!
Each morning, I wake up and walk myself down the tile stairs, rubbing the gunk out of my eyes and find Zita, my host, sitting in the same section of the booth around the kitchen table. Carmen, the cleaning lady/ cook/ best friend of Zita, is usually making something smell extremely good in between bites of fresh hot bread and sips of strong coffee.
I'll crawl into the booth opposite Zita and she'll give me a smile and say something like "Andresito, mas consado, si? Necessito Cafe". So, I sit and listen to Zita and Carmen chat away, picking up what I can understand. Occasionally Zita will explain something in English for me when they are laughing to the point of tears and I'll try to respond in Spanish, usually making them laugh more.
Breakfast consists of homemade granola with yogurt, fresh fruit and honey. Like Carmen, I'll also chomp on some fresh bread between sips of coffee. This could be my favorite part of the day. The other people living in the house stop by for 5-10 minutes before taking off for their daily activities. Zita says, "I have one cup of coffee for every time someone comes down for breakfast". She prefers the instant coffee to the delicious stuff that Carmen makes, saying it's stronger (because she adds a ton of coffee) and tastes better with the tablespoon of brown sugar that goes into it. It's always a good morning.
Each day, Carmen starts making lunch during breakfast, so the entire house smells the way I imagine heaven to smell. If I am around for lunch or dinner, it is a true treat. The food is scrumptious and plentiful. All different fruits, veggies and meats, much of it fried. Everything has it's place around the kitchen and nothing is wasted. All different kinds of food are stored in uniquely sized and shaped glass jars in tucked into the dark corners of storage in the kitchen that only Zita and Carmen could know. It's like being in another world, but much of how I imagined my mothers family grew up.
At the restaurant I work (which I found out was voted the best traditional Ecuadorian food in Quito), the food is a tease! I serve people food that smells and looks so, so, so good. I have only tried a few things, mostly extras that don't get served. My favorite thus far is the guinea pig soup. The meat was tender and tasty and the broth was flavorful. Can't go wrong. Every dish they make has achiote in it, a native Ecuadorian plant that is extremely spicy in food. There is so much to try... my taste buds will never get bored. Luckily, the restaurant is aimed at attracting gringos, so I can have conversations in English and the people are always interested in hearing what I am doing. When I'm not taking with the gringos, I'm desperately trying to learn new words and actually retain what I've learned. However, at the same time, I'm trying to learn a menu, learn a computer system and a trade (first time being a server). If you're going to do something, might as well go all out, right?
Each morning, I wake up and walk myself down the tile stairs, rubbing the gunk out of my eyes and find Zita, my host, sitting in the same section of the booth around the kitchen table. Carmen, the cleaning lady/ cook/ best friend of Zita, is usually making something smell extremely good in between bites of fresh hot bread and sips of strong coffee.
I'll crawl into the booth opposite Zita and she'll give me a smile and say something like "Andresito, mas consado, si? Necessito Cafe". So, I sit and listen to Zita and Carmen chat away, picking up what I can understand. Occasionally Zita will explain something in English for me when they are laughing to the point of tears and I'll try to respond in Spanish, usually making them laugh more.
Breakfast consists of homemade granola with yogurt, fresh fruit and honey. Like Carmen, I'll also chomp on some fresh bread between sips of coffee. This could be my favorite part of the day. The other people living in the house stop by for 5-10 minutes before taking off for their daily activities. Zita says, "I have one cup of coffee for every time someone comes down for breakfast". She prefers the instant coffee to the delicious stuff that Carmen makes, saying it's stronger (because she adds a ton of coffee) and tastes better with the tablespoon of brown sugar that goes into it. It's always a good morning.
Each day, Carmen starts making lunch during breakfast, so the entire house smells the way I imagine heaven to smell. If I am around for lunch or dinner, it is a true treat. The food is scrumptious and plentiful. All different fruits, veggies and meats, much of it fried. Everything has it's place around the kitchen and nothing is wasted. All different kinds of food are stored in uniquely sized and shaped glass jars in tucked into the dark corners of storage in the kitchen that only Zita and Carmen could know. It's like being in another world, but much of how I imagined my mothers family grew up.
At the restaurant I work (which I found out was voted the best traditional Ecuadorian food in Quito), the food is a tease! I serve people food that smells and looks so, so, so good. I have only tried a few things, mostly extras that don't get served. My favorite thus far is the guinea pig soup. The meat was tender and tasty and the broth was flavorful. Can't go wrong. Every dish they make has achiote in it, a native Ecuadorian plant that is extremely spicy in food. There is so much to try... my taste buds will never get bored. Luckily, the restaurant is aimed at attracting gringos, so I can have conversations in English and the people are always interested in hearing what I am doing. When I'm not taking with the gringos, I'm desperately trying to learn new words and actually retain what I've learned. However, at the same time, I'm trying to learn a menu, learn a computer system and a trade (first time being a server). If you're going to do something, might as well go all out, right?
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